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Lost + Found

Lost + Found


I got through 21 days of Whole30 before succumbing to a glass of Pinot Noir last Saturday. I meant to complete the program—which I was also calling Sober October—but found another glass of wine in my hand on Monday night, out to dinner with family, and yet another while out to dinner with colleagues on Tuesday night. And so on. I expressed some self-serving (not to mention wine-serving) thoughts about the ‘magical thinking’ around needing to complete 30 days. And how much I loved Whole30, even while quitting it.

Here’s what I lost: a few pounds, maybe three, but more significantly a narrowness around my waist. I have a pair of pants, purchased this time last year, that had begun to make me feel bad and sad—tight around the waist which caused my stomach to look wide and round.

Here’s what I gained:

  • My attachment to wine in the evenings, as a means of changing my moods. Before Whole30, I felt deprived if I couldn’t pour a glass after work; now I feel slightly repelled by the thought of the wine-induced shift in brain chemistry.
  • My hunger for grains—pizza, pasta, sandwiches, popcorn. I craved those kinds of carbs. But now I don’t.
  • A super-productive run of weeks—a renewed interest in getting things done, as compared to the dulled and restless mood I felt before the program

Here’s what I’m thinking:

  • Continue with moderate drinking. No rules come to mind, but I’m thinking about them, at the very least.
  • Continue with the zero-to-minimal grains. For instance, in the airport very early this morning, I was thrilled to find RxBars, which satisfy so completely.
  • Continue with the focus on protein—was that the key to my improved energy?
  • Continue to avoid entirely sweets and salty snacks, which I’d protest are not a weakness of mine, until I consider the late afternoon candy, pretzels, popcorn and whatever else is being dispensed at the office.

Here’s what I’m still missed: a creative urge, the inspiration to write, this post notwithstanding. I’m writing it but in a workaday way. Same applies for reading. I can’t find the intellectual curiosity to take up ambitious novels, favoring pulpy women’s literature (The girl/woman in the window/on the train/in Cabin 10 and in all sorts of other perilous situations) and murder mysteries. And somehow connected to this is my aversion to yoga. The task of emptying my mind seems impossible; worse, it doesn’t appeal to me. At all. Where have you gone, mind of mine? And when will you return?

self care

Shame on me

Anxiety, anger and discomfort are our teachers. They tell us what is unresolved, what makes us feel insecure. This is where we learn about what we need to work on or understand better. Resolve these things, be at peace with them, and that’s one less demon in your life. Easier said than done (what isn’t, really?), but even thinking about them is helpful.

For instance, I feel resentful when I feel taken advantage of but I like offering help on my own terms. This must confuse people: I offer to give and but when favors are requested I get all pissy pants. I also feel resentful when other people are prideful about their children, their accomplishments, their lives. Like, oh yeah, my life is better, my kids are better, my job is better. Why? Because I think my stuff isn’t actually good enough or because I fear losing it all or because I don’t like to brag, I tend toward self-deprecation, I value humility. Fair enough, but who made me the boss of what others do or don’t say? So here’s what I’m trying: to listen to them but also to listen all those insecure voices in my head. I say hello to those voices, ask them to settle down, breathe, tell them it’s OK, that they don’t have to have an opinion about others and their stuff. Not my circus, not my monkeys.


Yesterday I was thinking about shame. I was feeling shame, because I had people over to watch the Oscars and I didn’t like the dish I made and I had to go to bed early and I woke up feeling tired, even sick, and I skipped my spin class and when I got to work I wanted to hide, to not talk to anyone, to find someplace to take a nap. Turns out many, many people stayed up late to watch the show, drank too much, felt like shit. So be it. It passed. But the thing to dig into is this: shame? Why shame? Instead of moving on so quickly, focus on the feeling — not the party or the dish but the feeling.

Last night, walking home from the train station, I felt better. I was thinking about what I call shadow traits. I think every “good” trait has a shadow side that represents that trait out of control. For me: I have a strong will, determination and completion energy — if I start something I need to finish it. I don’t like loose ends.

All good, except keep an eye on what’s in the shadows. Intractability (once I make a decision, I don’t like to change my mind). Inflexibility (I get stubborn and dug into my way, even when shown a better way). Same thing for punctuality, a near holy virtue in my mind. Its shadow: risk aversion, judgment about lateness, small-mindedness, even pettiness about a minute late here or there. Blameful of myself when I’m a minute or two late (shame, shame, shame).

beauty everywhere self care

Snow day

Oh the quiet and peace and ease of a snow day at home. At 7:45, when I would normally be on a train into the city or on a subway or at the gym near my office, I’m in my jammies with pillows propping me up and a velvet comforter keeping me warm as the year’s first big storm howls outside. Hygge, indeed.

A room with a view
self care what i'm reading

The Four Agreements


The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz

Oliver* bought me The Four Agreements, a book he found helpful in breaking bad habits and moods and reframing how we relate to each other. That’s a lot for such a little book but I read it, because he gave it to me, and I was astonished at how applicable Don Miguel Ruiz‘ “agreements” are to my life and habits and moods and relationships.

{This is the disclaimer paragraph and one I will one day be able to skip, once I become a more evolved human being. I am wary of New Age and Self-Help and this book belongs on those shelves. I tend to shy away from easy appropriations of “ancient wisdoms” — the glib referencing of Buddhist, Mystic, Mayan, Whatever thought promoted as “wisdom” based on the very fact that it’s “ancient,” a tautological argument if I’ve ever heard one. And finally: written 20 years ago, selling 5.2 million copies in the U.S., translated into 38 languages — why I have never heard of it?}

But lately, I have formed the habit of challenging the hard little “truths” that are diverse in their content but share this: they are self-limiting. I ask myself: why do you believe that? what if you’re wrong? wouldn’t it be a relief to be wrong, to not know something, to let someone tell you, help you? isn’t it possible that the answer is not in your head and therefore you have permission to stop ruminating and just experience the world, finding or not finding answers elsewhere?

In a more succinct way, the Four Truths guide seekers (and everyone else) out of the jail-like constructs of habitual thought and out into the wide-open lands I like to call “possibility.” And here they are:

  1. Be impeccable with your word — this is about honesty, but also a caution against toxic judgment and gossip.
  2. Don’t take anything personally — the most salient for me, who assigns meaning to casual words, smiles, even glances, rejecting people because I know how they really feel about me. Put another way, in a Psychology Today article written by John A. Johnson: “Because each person sees the world in a unique way, the way that others treat us says as much about them as it does about us.”
  3. Don’t make assumptions — ties closely to #2 but also my self-challenge, above, and best summed up as: confused? just ask!
  4. Always do your best— this is a hedge against that internal judge and jury that critiques every word and action and finds them lacking. Do your best, whatever that is, and move on (if only to silence Judgey McJudge).

Funny, in the telling of them, they seem so self-evident and exactly the sort of overheated leftovers a skeptic would expect from a long-ago Buddhist/Mystic/Mayan/Whatever meal. But that’s the assumptive way (self-help is garbage), to which the self must ask: what if you’re wrong? *Also, Oliver, what a guy!



self care

Self Care Saturday

Self acre is newish word for something that’s been a subset of “self help” for a long time. But self help seems to have been co-opted by a certain kind of book and talk-show host. By contrast, self care feels more modern, a way for women (or mostly woman) to value the practice as much as they value working hard, working out and doing shit for other people (hey, I’ve just described my life).

Here’s how an Atlantic article rationalizes (and in my mind elevates, because it’s in the Atlantic) the need for self care: “…there’s little about modern society that prioritizes, encourages, or facilitates caring for yourself or treating yourself well. It’s all, ‘Buy more things!’ ‘Work harder and at any hour of the day!’ ‘Click back and forth uselessly between the same five websites and call it leisure!'” (And, hey, that kind of describes my life, too.)

I had a week, let’s just say. A return from Cuba (more to say about Cuba), a 24-hour bout of NoroVirus (the less said about this the better), a farewell to Oliver, whose off to Asia for another year (more on that, too), and a  9-course Southern Food dinner last night. And now it’s Saturday morning and I’ve been to the gym and am sitting by the fire, feeling not at all obligated to go outside again today (it’s 20 degrees). Can’t imagine a better setting for my Self Care Saturday, which, thus far, has included:

  • That gym workout
  • Shopping at Whole Foods which, unto itself, makes me feel virtuous, more so today because I bought Argan Oil for my dry, dry face; coconut oil for my dry and peeling skin; Savannah Bee lotion as a gift for the Southern-Food chef from last night; kale; slaw; honey crisp apples
  • A thorough application of these oils before getting into the bath — which is something I should do all winter long, along with a vigorous loofah scrub
  • That bath
  • More oils to skin
  • This outfit: Madewell’s fancy grey sweatpants, a grey cashmere Grandpa cardigan, a slightly ratty pink camisole, slippers
  • Steve playing something he calls spa music: non-melodic, tonal sounds that wouldn’t be at all out of place in a yoga classself-care

I might have even achieved hygge, an even more modish state of being. We’ll turn to The New Yorker — because we’re all about elevating the act of sitting around the house in sweatpants — for this one. And, by the way, let’s call our sweatpants hyggebukser, shall we, defined by “that shlubby pair of pants you would never wear in public but secretly treasure.”

Like many of the best things from Scandinavia, hygge might seem, to some Americans, to come with a whiff of smugness. The term is often mentioned in the same paragraph that reminds us that Danes (or, depending on the year, Norwegians and Swedes) are the happiest people in the world. Perhaps Scandinavians are better able to appreciate the small, hygge things in life because they already have all the big ones nailed down: free university education, social security, universal health care, efficient infrastructure, paid family leave, and at least a month of vacation a year. With those necessities secured, Danes are free to become “aware of the decoupling between wealth and wellbeing.”