Girl Talk

In a meeting with my boss a few days ago, I caught myself saying things that I would quickly regret. My boss is a man. We have an OK working relationship and can chat about things, as equals, on topics not related to work. Anyway, during this particular conversation, I became aware that I had been prefacing my sentences with, “I feel like…” or “I think that…” and/or ending sentences with “…I think” or “…maybe” as I trailed off. Though I was conscious of it as it happened, it seemed to be reflexive and I had to fight to curtail it.

Any expert or non-expert will tell you that women speak differently than men. There’s the uptalking (drives me nuts). The vocal fry (drives me nuts even more). And the self-effacing “I think” kind of talk that wormed its way into my conversation, the kind that’s the worst, really, because it simply screams self-doubt. In my recent example, I knew what I was talking about and didn’t need to question what I was saying. Didn’t stop me from doing it, though.

So, why? Are these verbal tics (like, “like” and “y’know” and snorting into microphones)? Does every thought have to be validated? Or subject to questioning?

I’ve been in meetings with women who’ve done this. Every time, I’ve wanted to say, stop that, your opinion matters, and you’re right, anyway. And I’ve been in meetings where some big (either in terms of stature or position in the company or both) guy can walk in an hour into it, assess the scene in five seconds, and put forth an edict opinion that changes the entire direction of the conversation. Nobody ever challenges the guy! (Well, I did, once, and all it did was delay the change of direction by about 10 seconds.) As women, are we only supposed to sit there and smile?

Smiling, by the way, is dangerous. I’ve been told, at different times, of course, that I smile too much, that I should smile more, that I laugh too easily, and why the long face. And then, a couple of weeks ago, I smiled at the wrong person, who got all chit-chatty and found me on LinkedIn and started messaging me on LinkedIn and looks at my profile all the time. Nothing more has happened, but it’s creepy somehow and I no longer want to walk the halls of my office building (which poses a problem, since the bathrooms are outside the office). There’s that self-doubt again, as in, did I do something to invite any attention? Did I do something wrong? I felt so gross and uncomfortable about it that I told my boyfriend everything, like a confession, and I didn’t even do anything!

I wonder if this weird encounter (or short series of encounters, really) set the self-doubt in motion. I also wonder if being hyper-aware of it will make the verbal tics stop. That remains to be seen. Meanwhile, if anyone has any ideas on how to appear pleasant, but not attract unwanted attention, I would love to hear them.

 

 

Just Weight – Featherstone Returns

Intro: After a long, long hiatus (or period of forgetfulness, or distractions, or what have you), I am revisiting this project. My original topic (fitness trackers) has long been abandoned. New theme to be determined…soon.

It’s been one hell of a year. Emphasis on hell. Maybe I’ll delve into the hell part at a later time, but today’s focus is on weight and emotional eating and the fallout from terrible grief.

Last year, I embarked on a significant weight loss journey with great success. I mean, really great success. (I did Ideal Protein, which is a fantastic program. You should try it!) I never felt deprived, I was in control, I was powerful. I looked pretty good, too, which is something I haven’t been able to say about myself in, oh, well, over 20 years. Control over what I chose to eat. Control over emotions (hence, emotional eating.) It felt awesome, and boy, was I smug.

The first two months of 2016 weren’t bad. There was promise. New job, big plans for the year. Started the year thin(ish) for the first time in…anyway. Then, I lost my Dad. My brother and I lost our Dad and my mom lost her husband and my kids lost their grandfather and it was sudden and painful and to say that it is sad is understating it immensely and it’s been seven months and it still hurts and sucks and I miss my Daddy so much and I can’t process it and YES, that was the worst run-on sentence ever and it still is, but I don’t care because it is still so painful and raw and I don’t see how I am ever going to be the same. Oh, and that’s the hell part of the year.

But this is about weight and how I absolutely fell apart – or, more accurately, blew up. It shouldn’t matter so much, but we all know it does, and it’s talked about every day in some way or another in some media outlet or another. The mirror doesn’t lie. I now have to face the fact that, aside from a few days or weeks here and there over the past seven months, I channeled my grief into a smorgasbord of carbohydrates. I know better. I’ve done better. If you look at me, though, you don’t see a grieving person. You see Jabba the Hutt.

I started Weight Watchers in August, and had a tiny bit of success for a few weeks. It’s a great program, and I am not here to put it down, but it’s not for me. Too permissive. Too slow. (One week, I lost 0.2 pounds, which I attributed to the fact that I went home and changed into leggings before weigh-in.) What turned me away for good, though, was the first meeting in which I spoke out loud, about six weeks in. I opened up and shared my loss and my struggle with emotional eating and even that I had lost a pound that week despite thinking I’d fallen hard off the wagon. Silence. OK, let’s move on. Then someone announced that they only gained 1/2 a pound that week, but they tracked every day, and the room erupted in applause and I am pretty sure that person got a sticker. That was also my last meeting.

I guess I am saying all this because I have to face it head on and course correct and all sorts of other clichéd expressions. I also need to put it out there because I have been avoiding people like the plague, people I love and care about and miss terribly and need desperately but I don’t want you to see me like this.

Now it’s out there.

We get to erase the slate and reboot soon, and I plan on taking every advantage of that. Stay tuned.

As the New Year Begins

At sundown, we officially enter my favorite time of year. It’s customary fare to take stock of the past year when a new year approaches, and I save that for the calendar new year, sharing highlights of all stripes. For me, I look at this New Year always, always, as a fresh start. And what better timing than right now.

The year of 5776 is not going to start with a bang. No blowy things, no silly hats, no Champagne, no loud parties, no worries about who will kiss me at midnight. This year kicks off with ultrasounds and surgery, with saying goodbye to good friends and facing (brief, I hopefully say) unemployment. In a word: uncertainty. Sure, every day starts with uncertainty, some may argue (I may have even argued this myself). This is different. This is maybe even a little scary. When you don’t know what’s going on inside your own body? When your body, the very one you’ve given extra love and attention over the past six months, the body that’s about 75% of its former size, decides to say, fuck you, you think things are going to be so easy now that you’re smaller? They’re not. NOW pay attention. It’s more like terrifying. And all that makes the thought of having to go out with a sharp new haircut (that’s also coming soon) and a well-tailored new outfit (ditto), flash a winning smile, and tell people why they should hire moi a bit like deciding to become a human impersonator.

Now, it may be scary, but it’s not all bad. Also ahead on the horizon are: a new job (see, I am optimistic and confident!), a new home, a Giants Superbowl win (there’s that optimism again!), and a journey of a lifetime in Poland and Israel. I s’pose slogging through the bad stuff will make all that comes next that much sweeter.

And I am lucky, because I get to celebrate the start of 5776 with the people I love most (though some are miles away). That alone makes the New Year sweet.

I’ll happily be stepping away from the screens for a few days, and looking inward and upward instead. I’ll be starting fresh and doing my best not to repeat stupid mistakes. Most of all, I will let the peaceful, quiet joy that accompanies the start of the New Year take charge and let myself believe, as I take a bite of the apples and honey, that everything really will be all right….’cuz it will.

A sweet, happy, healthy New Year to all.

Second Year, Part One

It’s the end of the summer (I am OK with this) and it’s been a while. I am off the idea of fitness tracker comparisons (I love my Jawbone UP2, anyway, and maybe I’ll talk about it sometime) and I never made it with the recipe integration (I leave this to the experts) so I am just going to go with whatever moves me that day.

Two days ago, I left R Featherstone at school for her second year. (We agree that we prefer “second year” to “sophomore” – the latter of which, when you think about it, does sound sophomoric.) The days before were filled with shopping, not shopping, packing, and, especially, not packing, not to mention reading other people’s Facebook posts about sending their kids off to school for the first time and how (insert powerful emotion here) that felt. Not really me, this year, with the mad posting. We both kind of knew what to expect.

Or did we? We filled the car to the gills, making me take a moment to pat myself on the back yet again for purchasing a monster truck (technically, a midsize, I think, SUV, but to this girl, it’s a monster truck) that would hold almost everything. We had to leave the “micro fridge” at home for the time being as the “micro” portion of it turned out to be a misnomer. Anyway, we’ve packed before, check. And we’ve done the road trip together, check. But what we didn’t pack last year was perspective. Perspective, if not folded neatly, would have filled the entire monster truck. Between the two of us, we had classes, scheduling, finance issues, separation issues (both of us, dare I say), discovering where we needed some extra help, and home and work issues. Layer all this on top of a been there, done that attitude, and some unexpected bubbles emerge.

The three hour drive allowed us time both to talk sans most distractions and get too much coffee. I resisted the urge to lecture on everything (R may disagree) and was able to listen and enjoy hearing from this evolving – gasp – young woman. Not terribly stressful.

What R didn’t know, and maybe won’t until now, is how much I miss her when she’s not around. On occasion, we joke about her staying home, or me camping out in her dorm. It’s great fun. My life sparks when she’s nearby. We’ve got this good thing going, a language of our own, things that make us laugh ’til we’re doubled over. I have fun with her that I simply can’t have with anyone else. All that, I realize, is completely selfish of me. My world may light up when she’s here, but her world blossoms and brims with opportunity when she’s not. Perhaps that’s the most difficult part. Yes, we need each other, but not as much as she needs to grow and explore this crazy, rich world around us. I will always be here, stepping back to let her surge forward, but close enough to grab her hand on this crazy ride – if she’ll let me.

Poking My Toe in the Water Again

A couple months ago, I blurted out, during a “get to know you” exercise, to a colleague that I have a blog (although I didn’t tell him what it was called). Then I remembered I hadn’t written in said blog in quite some time. To give you an idea how long it’s been, when I tried to log in today, I wasn’t even sure I knew the password.

Since this all started with activity trackers, I will pick up where that left off, or would have left off had I left off there. About, oh, like, um, a year ago, I decided that the Next Big Thing for the Featherstone family would be the Lumo Lift. This little device was so tiny and subtle that it would be worn on the – for me, anyway – bra strap. Not only would it track footsteps and all that, but it would – get this – vibrate every time I slouched. (Well, not just me, but the user….anyway.) At last, today, I took mine out of its package (there are two others unopened) and gave it a test run (after I spent about 20 minutes trying to figure out how to attach the thing). I also plugged in my Jawbone UP to see if the two were in synch.

The Jawbone was DOA. Didn’t track a thing, and didn’t respond to my iPhone’s request for data. Fail. The Lumo? Well, it didn’t buzz once unless I set it on “coach” mode, in which case, it didn’t stop buzzing (and I am telling you, I wasn’t slouching that whole time, either). I spent a good part of the time checking to see if it still was attached, or catching it when I fell. Finally, when I was in the mud room getting more paper towels (gotta love this color commentary) it fell off, and it remains there now. It lasted a good, say, seven hours, and I am being generous. Good thing I got it at the advanced sale rate of like $69.

Meanwhile, I had charged up the Fitbit, and found two of the three bands I have for it. Now it’s charged up, tucked into its pink (magenta?) band, and wrapped snugly around my non-dominant wrist. I’ve gotten about 25 steps in before settling into bed and beginning this entry.

Meanwhile, my boyfriend is having an intense Facebook conversation with a woman who found him after 15 or so years. It’s 11:33 pm our time. Whatever.

Anyway, more to the point: I am back on the devices and therefore back here. I’ve also started (four weeks ago, to be exact) a new eating plan, and I am down 17 pounds (insert cheering emoticon here). That feels pretty good. Besides, if I am going to blurt out that I have a blog, I may as well populate said blog. Let’s see what happens.

Second Freshman

I spent a good portion of the day sitting at my desk working, helpfully reminded of that fact (the mostly sitting part) by the buzzing of my Jawbone every 45 minutes (since I have it set to vibrate after 45 minutes of inactivity). Things only got crazy when I parked about a mile away from the high school for Back to School Night, and I had to walk – nay, run, since I was (surprise!) running behind – all the way there. Even so, probably not enough steps to warrant a discussion, and in any case, my phone is all the way over there [points to phone in charger about two feet past arm’s length] so I am not getting up to get it so I can report step count and all that.

Before that (Back to School Night, not not reaching for the phone), I had A Day. Y’know, one of those days that starts off with rain leaking into your car, and is followed up by several unpleasant interactions with someone who is either a major league asshole or – no, wait, there’s no “or” here – which is then followed by the discovery of a flat tire with some sort of hole in it, only to return home and find two trees missing and the lovely aroma of mold wafting its way into the living room. So really, that sprint to the high school was the high point of the day up until that moment.

Anyway, this was my first BTSN in our new town, at the littlest one’s new school. Of course, the littlest one is 14, and his new school is the aforementioned high school, but that doesn’t mean I am not going to call him the littlest one, at least in this particular blog post. Where was I? Oh, right, getting to the topic at hand. First BTSN, first time in the new high school. My second freshman. In all the hubbub over the college freshman, little has been made about the other freshman, the guy who bravely and heartily agreed to move, even though that meant he’d start at a school where he didn’t know a single person. And here we are, two weeks into the new school year, and this child of mine seems to be doing pretty well – and his new school seems pretty terrific, too.

This is what I learned: My son is in a good place. He got lucky with teachers (my favorite one is his favorite one!), he’s in a place conducive to learning, and he has opportunities he never would have had had we stayed in our old school system. Even the cafeteria is nice. It’s a good start, a really good start.

At the end of my crapola work day, when I was ready to scream, my colleague/friend said, go home, go to the people who really matter. At the end of the day, look who I get to come home to (yeah, yeah, the grammar sucks). How lucky am I? And that, dear fan club (AKA people who share either my DNA or my room), is really what it’s all about.

College Girl

Five days ago, I helped my daughter, Miss R, move into her college dorm. She is a freshman this year; I can now say that I have a kid in college. Seeing those words in print made my heart skip and brought tears to my eyes, but also filled me with an incredible sense of pride.

In the weeks preceding the trip up to college (“university,” for my Canadian friends), I planned this blog post. I was going to wax sentimental about how I wept on the way to school, knowing I would be coming home alone, and how I wept when we drove through the campus entrance, and wept again when in her dorm, and, finally, about the hysterical weeping that ensued when we hugged goodbye and lasted for three hours until I got home, exhausted, and curled up on her bed to weep some more.

None of that happened.

We drove up (in a rented Chevy Tahoe that could have seated 10, plus butler hors d’oeuvres service) the night before armed with chai Frappuccinos® and jovial spirits. We laughed about being stopped by campus police during the mandatory dry run (so we could easily locate her dorm in the morning). And we unpacked in the morning with only a soupçon of snark.

When I hugged my daughter goodbye after lunch, I felt that familiar lump in my throat and something in my eye. I also felt as though my heart would burst. Really, just explode into little tiny pink heart-shaped confetti all over campus. Because as emotional as I am, as much as I will miss that beautiful kid, and as much as I wish I had just a few more days to tell her everything I know (including the rather sizable list of what not to do), it was time. This was the precise moment I knew would arrive the instant I held that mushy 9 pound, 14 ounce baby. And it was at that precise moment that I knew for certain that I had done my job – and done it well. (For the record, I am now crying.)

In my world of counting steps, the significance of this one is manifold. My little girl, you rocked it. We rocked it. I cannot wait to see what you do with it.

Taking Paws

A couple of days where I spent less time on my tush than usual, and man, are my feet sore! Today, with minimal intent, I racked up the following stats:

* Jawbone – 9,577 steps, 4.4 miles
* Fitbit – 10,647 steps, 4.74 miles

Seriously, I can’t figure these things out.

Even more seriously, today marks two weeks since Lizzie, my beautiful cat, died. Miss Lizzie was 10, a long-haired calico diva, and, weird to say, a little friend. She joined our family when she was about five weeks old, fluffy and confused. Little R Featherstone (who was about 7 1/2 at the time) named her after Lizzie McGuire (at the time, her favorite TV show).

Lizzie was a loyal cat. She had her favorites, and when someone not on her list came into the house, she let them know about that list with a hiss and a swipe. One snippet of joy I received every day was the sight of her at the top of the stairs when I came home from work. There she sat, lovely and majestic, waiting patiently for her cuddle or scratch behind the ears. When I had sad days – and these were more frequent than I’d like to admit – she snuggled, allowing herself to be held far past the normal limits of a cat’s tolerance.

I think our move did her in, causing her enough stress to stop eating, which in turn messed up her liver. She went from 18 pounds to 13 in a matter of about a month (I never said she was svelte), and she retreated from socializing, preferring instead to hide under R’s desk. It took every ounce of strength she had to try to jump up to sit with us on the couch, and really, she couldn’t do it without my help. She stopped grooming herself, and her silky fur became matted and blotchy.

Two weeks ago, I had had a kick-ass day. Work went well in the morning, and I tackled a bunch of tasks that really needed to get done. Got to spend a little extra time with Bob that day. Things felt terrific. Then, I looked behind the couch, and found her.

In the end, she couldn’t stand the pain, I imagine. It was too exhausting to go on any longer, so she went to her favorite pillow in a quiet spot and simply went to sleep.

Three years ago, during Hurricane Irene, Lizzie and I evacuated to my parents’ house. My two kids were away, safe and dry in another state, so I scooped up Miss Liz and her supplies and camped out with my parents for a couple of days. My parents, who hadn’t had a cat for many years, welcomed her. Ever since, whenever I visit my parents, I see a flicker of Lizzie out of the corner of my eye. Over the past two weeks, I periodically catch a glimpse of her in our house. Gone, but never forgotten.

Farewell to sweet Lizzie. She touched our lives, made us smile, protected us with her bad self, and trusted us to care for her. We loved her and will miss her greatly.

Robin Williams and Me

From the output of my fitness tracking devices, one might perceive that I have spent a little too much time not being active.  With my best day over the past week being 6,077 steps on the Jawbone, and 6,571 steps on the Fitbit, one might be right. (The Jawbone reported 965 steps last Wednesday. Really, 965. I mean, several trips to the bathroom should add up to more than 965 steps, yet here we are. Small consolation, though: the Fitbit logged 4,812 steps. Same wrist.)

What do we think about people who sit around all day? Have we ever looked at someone who was overweight and thought, they’re lazy, they have no self-control, don’t they know what they’re doing? They aren’t even worth looking at; they’re the only still acceptable punch line. We see the outside, but we cannot see what’s happening on the inside. Maybe that person who hasn’t taken any steps just can’t, that day, take another step. Perhaps the act of getting out of bed and putting on a brave face is simply too much. And maybe they already think they aren’t worth looking at.

Yesterday’s passing of Robin Williams brought forth a slew of social media posts along the lines of:

  • Reach out if you need help
  • Don’t give up
  • I’m here for you
  • It’s never that bad

I read these posts with a mixture of heart-swelling gratitude and a scoop of fuck you. Hey, I know these posts are genuine and kind, and I am really not knocking the sentiments. It’s just…well, what would really happen if someone (I) started a conversation like that? Would people laugh derisively? Be repulsed? Would the handful of people who care suddenly not care any longer? On paper, things couldn’t look better. I work in a field I enjoy, and get paid semi-OK for doing so. The man I love and I share a home, and we bring to the party four awesome kids. We’re healthy. We’re reasonably attractive (well, he is, minus the “reasonably”). We appreciate a good pun. My parents and brother are nearby and supportive. So what, Emily, what could possibly be the problem?

Robin Williams is the epitome of a guy who had it all. Smart, successful, funny, adored. Three kids. Money.  Fame. I could go on, but we know, especially now, that these don’t conquer the depression. Underneath a sparkling veneer like his or that woman over there or maybe yours or even mine lives a colony of demons, each one with its own mantra: You’re no good, you’re fat, you’re ugly, you’re stupid, your friends don’t even like you, you’re a terrible person, why bother anymore, you suck in more ways than anyone can ever describe. On a good day, they’re quiet, and you can see the sunshine, and you know you’re loved, but on a bad day, you can’t see beyond the darkness in front of you, and you wish everyone would disappear while simultaneously holding you tight, keeping you safe from yourself. And then on the worst days, you don’t even care that it’s dark or that anyone’s around or not. You’re numb. You can’t see past your own wish not to wake up.

Robin Williams, who brought so much light into people’s lives, couldn’t see beyond the darkness. He will be missed and mourned. He can also be a reminder – you simply don’t know what’s happening underneath, and you don’t know when people need help.  I’ve lost a bunch of people I once held dear because, in large part, I never let on what was happening underneath. What the next step will be will be determined at some future moment of clarity. Right now, I share the grief that the demons’ victory has caused.

My Review of Dansko Dani – Women’s – Shoes – Black

Originally submitted at OnlineShoes.com

Be happy to be strappy in the Dansko Dani sandal. This women's sandal boasts a burnished, full grain leather, patent leather or metallic leather upper with an adjustable ankle strap with buckle closure for a customized fit. Featuring perforated arch support, the leather-covered footbed sits ato…

Chunky Comfort

By PopsGirl from NJ on 8/5/2014

 

4out of 5

Sizing: Feels half size too big

Width: Feels true to width

Pros: Arch Support, Slightly Stylish, Durable, Not Too Frumpy, Lightweight

Cons: Ouch After Long Walk, Slightly loose, Patent Leather

Best Uses: Work, Outdoors, Casual Wear

Describe Yourself: Fun, Flat Feet, Casual

I ordered this sandal after seeing it (in regular black leather) on two women in a taqueria in a cute little town in NY state. When the second woman came in, and I commented on how her sandals looked comfortable and kinda cute, my boyfriend made me ask her what kind of sandals they were. Turns out they were Dansko, and after lots and lots of searching, I learned they were the Dansko Dani model.

Since this isn’t this year’s model, I had a hard time finding my size in black. I could find pewter or black patent leather, so I got the black patent leather. These are nice, but I really would have preferred the plain black leather.

I love the heel/sole on these. Lots of support, even in the place where my arch should be. I could walk around for a while in these and the soles of my feet wouldn’t hurt. The downside? A tad loose in the front of the sandal (maybe not a total half size too big, but perhaps a quarter size too big – which was not an option above), and after walking a LOT in Manhattan, the tops of my feet were a little battered. I would wear these again, but probably not for a ton of walking – at least not any time soon. It’s tough to find comfortable shoes that don’t look orthopedic. These sort of fit the bill. Of course, in a size 11, they aren’t as cute as they were on the women in the taqueria, but for a comfort sandal, they will do the trick. Not sure I would wear with a dress or shirt, but pants – especially a slightly wider ankle (i.e., not skinny) pant – would be perfect.

(legalese)