Tripping the Fat Trap

There's a 5x7 photo stuck to the center of our refrigerator, held up with a magnet that reads, "It's been lovely, but I have to scream now." The photo is of me, circa 2005, wearing a black tank top, a black mini skirt, and about 35 fewer pounds.

That magnet pretty much conveys how I feel every time I see that damned photo.

I've been trying to lose those same 35 pounds since 2009, a few months after having my daughter Lucy. I swore that after my c-section healed, I would be back to my "fighting weight" in less than a year. Lucy's potty trained now, and is old enough to point at the fridge and say, "Mommy looks smaller in this picture."

To be fair -- which is always what I say when I start feeling the need to cut myself some slack -- I gained almost 100 pounds during my pregnancy with Lucy. 100 pounds. Not a typo. 65 of those pounds came off within the first year when I a) stopped eating Carl's Jr. every day, and b) let my exercise regimen expand beyond walking between the kitchen and the couch.

But these other 35 pounds are a different story. At some point in 2011, I had a brief meltdown. I became obsessed with my weight. I would stare in disbelief at the scale when the numbers flashed. Two years post having Lucy, I had the weight of about three 10-pound babies in me. I secretly wondered if there were two more babies still floating around that had been missed during the c-section. Maybe they migrated upwards and were surviving in my breasts, which have remained huge as the years passed since Lucy's birth.

No such luck. It was just fat.

As I've discussed before here, my body battle is long-standing. I've wrestled with weight since I was about 10 years old, so this is nothing new or strange to me; This feeling like my body is a separate entity that I have no control over. And this entity has survived decades of losing and gaining weight, but has learned few lessons along the way about how to do things differently.

So I punish this body. I keep nourishing grains and vegetables from it for hours, only to lose control and give it Hostess cupcakes later that night. I think I'm doing it a favor by staying away from bread and carbs, but later force donuts down its throat when I'm a shaking, anxious mess from a lack of balanced blood sugar.

And no one can be blamed for not teaching me the lessons of nutrition. I know exactly what is "good" and "bad" for this body. There is no confusion regarding healthy choices and unhealthy choices. My logical brain knows this. But, my emotional brain forgets. And so I have 35 pounds still sitting here. If you'd never met me before, you'd probably think voluptuous - big boobs, curvy hips, tall. But, this is not about me not being an attractive person. This is about health. Curvy is good. Hostess cupcakes are bad.

So, what have I done to remedy this, you might ask? Many things, friends. For one, I joined Myfitnesspal, sparkpeople, Weight Watchers, and other assorted "support networks" online. Everything would start so well: I'd scour all the "Before and After" photos and stories, swell with excitement as I envisioned myself up on those message boards. Photos plastered all over the internet of me in a split-screen, my fit and healthy body tanned and toned to inspire the world. I'd get all set with my profile name, photo, and a small blurb about why, after years and years without success, THIS would be THE time I got my shit together and lost the weight for good.

I would religiously journal my "points eaten", calories consumed, and/or exercises accomplished for each day, all day. It felt so diligent and hardcore. It also felt exhausting. Life would creep in. Lucy needs me. I started working again more. I just finished my doctorate. Basically, there's a lot of stuff excuses to do in any 24 hour period that don't involve logging into a website. I started to feel guilty about not checking in with my fitness "friends." I'd make excuses on my profiles, only to realize it was really myself I was making the excuses to. Those people really didn't give a rat's ass about my success. They just wanted to be thin again. I didn't need them to remind me that that was all I really wanted, too.

So I took myself off of those sites, and I started focusing more on nutrition. But, as well-versed as I am in the plant-based diet that I know is best for me, my brain seems to short circuit during the course of any given day. Thus leading to the Hostess cupcake choices and the same 35 pounds I've been alluding to since this blog began.

And then. The article. "The Fat Trap" - Tara Parker-Pope's incredibly depressing and fantastic explanation of why most of us who are overweight are kinda doomed to stay that way. As Parker-Pope sums up, it is "very, very difficult" for people who've gained and lost weight to live lives comparable to those who have never yo-yo dieted. In generalized terms, there are genetic, social, emotional, and biological aspects that all must be taken into account. There are no easy answers anymore. It's not just "calories in - calories out," or a specific diet system, or any other one strategy available for us to commit to. It is, instead, a life-long process of us being 100% aware at all times that our weight will always be a struggle to maintain. As Parker-Pope stated, for some of us who have had on-going weight problems, our bodies may have "set" themselves higher weights. So, we either need to change our goals to become "more realistic," or we need to become "hypervigilant" about making the changes needed to reach goals that are more difficult than ever to achieve.

I now have the 2005 photo of me sitting next to the computer as I type this. I look at it, knowing there are two ways to keep this image in my mind. Given how difficult it appears that losing these 35 pounds will be, 2005 Julie can either be a goal or ghost. Either way, I've got a journey in store.

If 2005 Julie is my goal, I can't use the Parker-Pope article as an excuse for giving up. So what if I'm biologically, socially, and genetically pegged to keep these 35 pounds on since I gained the weight being pregnant? That doesn't mean I can't meet that challenge. I don't want the excess poundage, so I'll need to stay on track to get what I want.

If 2005 Julie is a ghost, I have to let that dead, thinner version of me rest. 2005 was over about seven years ago, and my body then is not the same body I'm in now. The Julie then was post-bad breakup, pre-awesome marriage, pre-incredible baby, and pre-intense beyond belief doctorate. I like the 2012 Julie a whole lot more than the 2005 Julie, if for nothing else the wisdom and life experience she's gained in addition to the pounds.

So, yeah. Goal or ghost. I'll letcha know how it goes. Until then...


Boo.

The Desperate Lives of Sister Wives

Ok. I can't hold it in any longer. I've been bottling up my anger about the TLC show "Sister Wives" going on several months now. Is it the fact that the first three wives (Meri, Janelle, and Christine, respectively) are brimming with passive aggressive rage toward the newest "Sister" that is joining the fray? Perhaps it's the way that their polygamist hubby, Kody, seems to have a perpetual dumb-ass grin that I can tangibly feel oozing with smug delight at having a harem of buxom women at his beck-and-effing-call. Or maybe it's Robyn, the 4th wife, who cries at um, EVERYTHING, and who isn't fooling anyone with her ignorance about being the hot wife. Yes, it's all these things and more which make me scrutinize this little love-fest like the judgmental beeyotch I am. So let's get started, shall we?

As a disclaimer, I'm a bisexual woman who appreciates sex and/or romantic love between people of the same gender. That is NOT the issue here. In fact, I was especially tickled when, upon being asked if the wives ever engaged in sex with each other, they shooed away the question with, "No, no. We don't get into that weird stuff."

All righty, then. First off, the jealousy thing. I really appreciate that, as the show has progressed, the first three wives have revealed their increasing levels of resentment and green-eyed fury about Robyn and Kody's unbridled passion. At first, it was, "Oh, when I first met Robyn, there was something about her that made me feel she would be a great new wife for Kody." This turned into, "Yes, I'll admit it. There is some jealousy there." In the latest episode, Kody takes Robyn on an 11-day honeymoon while (ahem) Meri, Christine, and Janelle have to watch Robyn's three kids. While waxing philosophical about the different "needs" of each wife regarding their weddings to Kody Brown, the women slowly begin to crumble under the realization that yes, in fact, they are being played big time: their man is banging a hotter, younger woman 11 days in a row while they martyrifically clean up after her rugrats. Big Time Played.

But would they admit that? Nah. Kody's learning, they say. Kody's getting better at finding time to meet all of their needs, they say. Kody apparently has a really big schlong, is really rich, or was able to sweet-talk all these women enough to wrangle them into a four-way relationship that is based primarily on him inserting his penis into a rotating 'gina so he can have some variety and the wives can have more kids.

Speaking of kids, Meri seems to be the most crestfallen of the brood about her lot in life. She was the first wife, and recently celebrated her 20th anniversary with Kody. Upon reflection, Meri realizes that while Kody and Robyn partied away 11 days in San Diego for their honeymoon, Kody and Meri only had 3 days to celebrate two decades together (well, at least one of those decades included two other wives, but who's counting?) Apparently, breeding is very important in the polygamist community, and it's an unspoken concensus that the more kids a woman has, the more well-regarded she will be. Meri laments her inability to have more than her one daughter, Mariah, several times throughout the series.

Everytime Meri begins to visibly hate-on herself for not being able to conceive more children with Kody, I want to shake her and say, "For goddess sake, woman! You're beautiful, you're smart (I think), you're a great mom! You have a beautiful daughter who seems surprisingly well-adjusted and loved! Some people can't have ANY kids, so appreciate what you have and get the hell out of this marriage if it makes you so damned jealous---you deserve a man who will devote himself to YOU and you alone, if that's what you want!" And anyone who watches the show knows that devotion is what Meri wants, what she really, really wants.

So, why would a woman enter into a marriage, knowing that her man is going to take at least one other wife at some point, if she has gnarly jealousy issues? Take me for example. If Glenn had divulged that he was going to be living a polygamist lifestyle, by the time he finished his sentence he would have been talking to the gust of air that was once Julie, sprinting out the door. No. There is NO WAY that I could handle the pain, rage, confusion, rage, insecurity, and mad rage that would always be gurgling in my gut. It's enough for me to simply think about Glenn sleeping with another woman to get me twisted in psycho knots. To see the romance blossom right in front of me; to witness my husband falling head-over-heels for another woman; to sit in the crowd as he lifts her veil and plants a deep, passionate kiss on her lips as man and wife; to hear her say, "I'm pregnant!", knowing that pregnancy can only be a consequence of sex---sweaty, lusty, monkey sex---that they had on their 11-day honeymoon. Yes, envisioning a life in which I would have to wrestle with all of those aspects not once, but in Meri's case, three times---would likely lead to a series of quite unfortunate, quite homicidal, events.

And yet, this is the lifestyle they all volunteered for. So why should it bother me so much? Different strokes for different folks...to each his or her own...whatever floats yer boat...right? Well, I think it's the therapist in me that has the biggest problem with this show. These women are in pain. They have fooled themselves into thinking that what they really wanted was a big family in lieu of a husband devoted to only them. I can't argue that having such a large, close-knit family looks wonderful; live-in care 'round the clock, bonding galore between kids of all ages, having three other women to support you all the time. But hold the phone. Those three other women are actually your competition. Sure, they're great to vent with about Kody's follies (which I can imagine are plentiful), but what usually happens when a wife meets "the other woman" who has been sleeping with her man in non-polygamist-world?

The two figuratively circle each other like hungry tigers, desperate for information about the others' weaknesses, and worse: picturing her in bed with him. Thought bubbles shoot up over the womens' heads, "Look at those boobs, they're huge! He must have loved her boobs." "She's got gorgeous hair, the bitch. But her teeth are crooked." "She has amazing legs, I bet she wraps those around him in bed." The insecurity-fueled silent grudge-match goes on.

With the sister wives, they have a constant reminder of the fact that they'll never be "The One"; their love, their bed, their marriage is not sacred but shared with three other women. I just cannot wrap my mind around the amount of insecurity these women must have to believe they deserve a husband who can tell them how special they are one minute, and then turn around and say the exact same words to three other women. How is that special?

What I want to know: what happened to these women to make them think this is what they deserve? Let's not take the "big family" thing into consideration; desiring a huge family is great and I'm not judging that. I'm talking strictly about the marriage; the quality of romantic relationship each of these women experiences. In the first episode I was impressed at how well the first three wives got along; although I didn't understand how they got past the jealousy issue, it really seemed as though they'd all found a way to make it work. They genuinely seemed content. And then, Robyn.

Robyn seems to me the epitome of why I could NEVER be in a polygamist relationship. All was hunky-dory in The-Sister-Wives-of-Kody-Brown-Land when, suddenly, Robyn came into focus. Several years younger, lither, more energetic, and more giggly than the other wives, Robyn yanked Kody's love, time, and attention away faster than you can say "home-wrecker." Like a kid in a candy store, Kody just couldn't wait to get his hands on Robyn, and actually broke a rule amongst the sanctity (??) of the polygamist world: do not kiss a woman until she is your wife. And so, when she found out Kody smooched cute little Robyn before they were married, Christine hoisted herself up from the couch (I think she was pretty preggo at the time) and left in a huff. Returning moments later, she asked Kody to be "patient" with her. Patience? Really, that's all you need?


When it comes down to it, I think (heterosexual) women just have the crappy deal in general. Instinctively, a woman wants to keep her man (husband, father of her children) to protect their babies; Men want to bang as many hot women as possible to spread their seed. Being that polygamy rests on the man collecting wives, there is an obvious bias on the side of men gaining their biological desire: more women, more poon, more babies.

The "Sisters" on the other hand, have resolved to tolerate the other women in order to keep their husband close and their children safe. The only trade off? Fidelity. But at least it's out in the open. If nothing else, Kody Brown can be appreciated for his honesty about sleeping with several women at the same time while being married. But, even though he might not technically be stepping out of his marriage to have sexual affairs, what kind of emotional harm is Kody doing to these women (and the children who are being raised by them), when the real damage stems from his affairs of the heart?


ROXY SHOCKS' RX OF THE DAY: Take a moment to enjoy that photo of Kody Brown having his cake and eating it too. Watch "Sister Wives" on TLC-On Demand and write me your thoughts/opinions. I really like to have my mind opened to different viewpoints (as long as that viewpoint doesn't involve taking on a sister wife).


ROXY SHOCKS' RADIO RX OF THE DAY: "I Only Have Eyes For You" (THE FLAMINGOS)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=63nlhoda2MY&feature=fvw

"Bikini Season" and other Hateful Things

It started today when my c-section scar talked to me. It said, "Now Julie, think about it. You're 32 years old. Katy Perry is only 25. She hasn't had any children. She is a pop star. She is allowed to wear bikinis and Daisy Dukes. Your days of bikinis and Daisy Dukes are long gone, my friend."

So I hit my c-section scar really, really hard for saying that. Which only ended up hurting me, but what vengeful act doesn't eventually end up hurting us, anyway?

Yep. It started with that mean ol' c-section scar and carried on into my commute. I was listening to throwback Summer Jamz on some old skool radio station, and began reminiscing about what those three lovely, freedom-soaked months used to mean when I was a kid.

In childhood, it meant losing track of day, time, hour because we were just living. Unless you were one of an unfortunate breed of child who was left responsible for adult tasks (and you're probably in therapy about that now), summers in childhood meant no bills, no taxes, no work, no nothin' but playing and the occasional sunburn or street fight that could mess up your mojo for a night. I can still smell the crackling hay bales of county fairs, hear the crickets slow fade-up in the bushes while we played games with strange and sometimes twisted rules in the streets, and feel that satisfying burn of pool chlorine sizzling under my raw eyelids upon the 5th straight hour of summer swimming.

The early teen years brought with them a new excitement altogether to look forward to: BOYS. As I got older and curvier, losing my baby fat and gaining various insecurities at lightning fast speed, the whole summer soon became one massive game of "Who can be the most obsessed with a guy and least present in the moment with your friends all summer?" Unfortunately, my summer crushes usually consisted of nothing more than lots of themed mix tapes about the Boy and late-night crank calls.

I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize for the sudden increase of high-pitched giggling hang-ups received by parents of teen boys in central Marin County, CA. in the late-80's and early 90's. That was my bad.

And then came MTV Spring Break. It was my junior year, 1994. Something in my brain short-circuited and imprinted this warped belief that in order to enjoy summer, I had to have a "bikini-ready body." The US media (and the majority of Americans who imbibe in various forms of media) have almost uniformly decided that women are GROSS unless they look like some variation on Jessica Alba, Halle Berry or Angelina Jolie.

American women torture themselves to whip their bodies into shape in incredibly limited time frames. Those celebs all "got their bodies back" (where did those bodies go for pete's sake?) in a few short weeks after having their babies. They're also incredibly rich, famous, and get paid to be in crazy good shape with personal trainers and chefs. Thus, they soooooo don't count as representin' the average American woman's body and journey with keeping in shape. But my teenage brain didn't want to hear that staying thin and lean would require discipline, time, and fortitude. I was too busy thinking about how I could binge and purge my way through adolescence and young adulthood to keep lookin' good.

Yes, since that momentous Spring/Summer of '94, wading through "bikini season" with some semblance of joy has proven to be an annual game of Russian Roulette:

"Did I count carbs enough this winter? Clock in enough hours on the elliptical? Do I have a muffin top or (gods, no) the dreaded FUPA?? OMFG, I have cellulite this year! Ok, I look somewhat normal this year. Wait, if I put spanx under the suit, will that look weird? (yes) Wow! I actually look presentable this year! Ok, that lasted 5 minutes, now I look disgusting again. Uggggh, I HATE my body. I HATE MYSELF!"

And so, here we are. Years of therapy. Years of getting support and love from friends, family, and an amazing husband. Going through the life-changing experience of motherhood. Training and working ad nauseum on self-improvement programs and degrees galore. Swearing off US, InTouch, and OK! magazines with their vicious photo spreads baring BEST AND WORST SUMMER BEACH BODIES for me to compare and contrast my fluctuating figure with. And all for what? To see a commercial for adorable bathing suits, or worse, see the adorable bathing suits right in front of me at Forever 21 (yes, I shop there, so laugh and get it over with already) and despise myself for not being hot enough to wear one?

"I've looked good before. I can do it again. I used to look great in a bikini. Yeah, that was 2005, Julie. But, but, I'm working out again and eating "clean"! I should already look good enough! But, remember when you gained all that weight during pregnancy, darling? You couldn't get the food in your mouth fast enough...and now you wanna fit into the same bathing suit that super sexy 22-year-old is trying on? Good luck, sister. I'll see you in the sarong isle."

Cruel, cruel summer indeed.

I see stories about people who've lost control of their bodies to paralysis or accidents, and I think "Julie, you selfish, selfish ass. Look at this person. They would give anything to have your working body. And you're disrespecting it everyday." Basically, I punish myself for having the body I have, then I punish myself for not loving the body I have. I'm into masochism, I guess.

I know this all started before my teens, with warped and mixed messages my mother directly and indirectly told me about body image: "Thin is acceptable, overweight is not; sexiness will get you in trouble with men, fatness will keep you safe; being skinny will make people say nice things to you, being heavy will make people tease you." For me to wade through life thus far and not have done more destruction to my body is actually pretty cool. But, my constant barrage of insults and criticism is not something I'm willing to pass on to Lucy.


AND SO...for no other reason than to prove that our bodies are amazing, magical, beautiful things, and if we keep them healthy they will often last very long...I will wear a bathing suit this summer. And not bitch, moan, ask Glenn if I look gross, or start quietly whipping myself emotionally for daring to bare my legs in public. No, I will wear the freakin' suit because Lucy deserves to have a mommy who loves her body and isn't afraid to let it see the light of day.



TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: PLEASE. If you identified at all with this post, read Geneen Roth's "Women Food and God"! It is literally the best book I've ever read to counter all these self-defeating things we say to ourselves and our bodies.

TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RADIO RX: "Bootylicious" (Destiny's Child)

The Ultimate Gift - and Guilt - of Parenthood

After taking a 2+ month hiatus from this here blog (due to obsessively writing a dissertation proposal), I'm delighted to declare myself back in the blogosphere saddle again. And what better topic to start back with than feeling like a crappy parent?

After all, I've been working on my degree, teaching preschool part-time, and training for a 1/2 marathon (none of which seemed nearly as boastful or annoying as they do right now as I read them)...there's been no lack of 'tsk-tsk's and knowing glances to clue me in on the possibility I show some neglectful parenting trends. But, I swear, I spend as much time with Lucy as possible. I make time for Lucy; I work to balance my personal goals with putting her needs as my priority, Said the woman who obliviously sat typing, whilst her one-year-old daughter stuffed germ-coated, dirt-covered dog toys in her mouth.

Ok, so maybe I have moments of not being totally present with Lucy. But, I'm beginning to think that no matter what I do, no matter how nurturing and diligent a parent I can be to Lucy, at some point in her future, I will discover that Glenn and I did it ALL WRONG.

My mother-in-law came to me the other day, an article out-stretched in her hands. There was bright pink highlighter emblazened on the pages, but I wasn't sure if the emphasized phrases were for my benefit or hers. She gave me the papers with a frustrated sigh, her head hung noticeably lower, and asked me to read the contents. I realized quickly that the highlighted points of interest were each a parenting "tip" she hadn't been privy to during her early parenting years, and she had outlined each phrase with the hope that I could learn from her "mistakes".

The story was basically a cautionary tale for present-day parents, warning them not to call their children "smart," lest they wanted them to become under-achieving worry-warts, labeled as "intelligent" throughout their childhood, and perpetually petrified as adults that any undertakings ventured outside their bubble of familiarity could prove everyone wrong: that they were actually not so brilliant all along.

After giving my terrific mother-in-law a life-experience-based pep talk I hadn't nearly yet earned about how parenting was difficult, I thought about other "findings" related to child-rearing I've heard, many of which contradict each other in ways that make my paranoid head spin. I also recalled my adventures into the on-line world of anonymous parenting patrol, where people suddenly become arm-chair quarterbacks about the dos and don'ts of parenting. Recent "research" and "articles" they've read become fodder for panicking parents and freaking out stay-at-home-moms who were simply going on-line for some information about whether their kid's green poop was an age-appropriate hue:

"Don't EVER let your child watch TV! It will most definitely rot their brains! Well, actually, a little TV might stimulate certain parts of their brain. But, not a lot, or that whole brain rot thing could happen! And while we're at it, NO video games! Except the ones that help eye-hand coordination, those are ok. But, anything with fast edit cuts WILL cause your child to develop ADHD. As for food, no milk until they're a year old, but don't give them soy because there are findings that prove it causes cancer in some men. So, give them breast milk, and NOT formula. And if you've had trouble breast-feeding, KEEP TRYING, because you're clearly not wanting it badly enough. A breast-fed baby is a healthy, happy baby. Oh, you didn't breast feed? Oh, ok. Well, I'm sure she'll be fine. And you took allergy pills during pregnancy? Well, you're screwed. Oh, it was just Tylenol? That's fine, as long as it wasn't ADVIL. God forbid it was Advil, or you really are screwed. And you're putting her in a rear-facing seat, right?! Also, make sure she's not sleeping in your bed. She IS!? Well, good luck getting her to potty train, because she'll have so much separation anxiety from sleeping with you, that she'll be permanently anally retentive now. Oh, and if you're smart, you'll start enrolling her in pre-school immediately. If she's not enrolled by three months old, you'll be stuck on a waiting list until she's 5 years old, for sure!"

Now, I understand there are many on-line advice givers who are absolutely there to help others. Many have been through tragic, perhaps even fatal accidents or mishaps with their children, and they use their experiences to help others prevent the same fate. But, the fact is, as much as we try to prevent any and all accidents from happening, or do our damnedest to follow all these studies and recent findings to a "t", something we do with our kids at some point might just land them in therapy. If we coddle our kids, they'll become clingy, dependent 35-year-olds still living at home; If we spank our kids they'll develop attachment disorders and become soulless sociopaths who just needed momma's love. What is that "happy medium" everyone talks about? How can I find it? I know, I know, I'm talking in extremes here, but, if we can't tell our kids that they're "smart" what can we tell them?

According to this article, we should praise their effort, not their inherent intelligence or worth. Ok, fair enough. "Honey, you're working so hard!" versus "Honey, you're so smart!" is not too much to ask. But, I remember teaching at a school a few years ago where the program manager insisted we not tell the kids they were "doing a good job," or praising them for their "effort," and instead we needed to focus on "being objective." So, rather than saying, "Timmy, you are working so hard! Great job!" I could say, "Timmy, I see that you're drawing a goat." Well, la dee freakin' da. What does that do for a kid? We can't relate any judgments or subjective thoughts to him about his experience or efforts? Is he going to thrive in the world by stating the obvious to everyone?

Timmy as an adult to a girl he likes: So, I see you're wearing a low-cut dress.
Girl: Yes.
Timmy: That's a very low-cut dress.
Girl: Uh, ok.
Timmy: And I see that you're not wearing a ring.
Girl: You're starting to weird me out.
Timmy: It appears that I'm starting to worry you. I wanted to ask you on a date.
Girl: No.
Timmy: I hear that you just said "No."
Girl: No SHIT. GO AWAY.

Poor Timmy, maybe if his mom had just just focused on praising his "effort" more, he could've worked harder to draw better goats, thus preparing him to put more successful effort into snagging chicks (or dudes, no prejudice here).

TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: Do the best you can to teach your kids resilience, respect, pride, concern for others, kindness, and help them reach as much of their "potential" as they can at school, socially, etc. Feel a healthy amount of guilt if you didn't say all that you meant to say, if you scolded more than you should have, and then give yourself a break for being an imperfect, loving parent.

TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RADIO RX: "Mama Didn't Raise No Fool" - PRIMUS
http://popup.lala.com/popup/432627073624051758

Will You Accept This Rose... and Maybe Some Self-Worth While We're At It?

The Bachelor. Has it really been on TV for eight years? At one point, I can remember actually being entertained by the show in an earnest way. Of course, I was a mere 23 years oldish. A train wreck of a girl. I identified with the same desperate obsession--to find the man of my dreams, marry, baby-make, and settle down into timeless bliss and related fantasies--it seemed many of the "Bachelorettes" competing on the show appeared to have.

Now being the ripe old age of 32, while setting up the DVR to tape The Bachelor Finale (On the Wings of Love edition, for you thankfully unaware folk out there), I felt a sense of melancholy. Is it because I'm almost a decade older? I found a new wrinkle yesterday. No, I realized that the entire concept of this seemingly innocent show, guised as a vehicle to help people "find" true love, is actually a contest to determine how worthy each woman (or man) is to be loved.

TRIVIAL DISCLAIMER: Since the first show premise was based on women (and honestly, the only seasons I've watched are the ones with the women competing...blame it on the same-sex schadenfreude I must revel in), I'll comment only on those seasons.

Now, back to that Finale. While watching Jake the Pilot "choose" the black sheep Vienna to be his soul-mate, over the much more audience-friendly Tenley, I became sick to my stomach. If I were in Tenley's position (at the age she was...early 20's), at the moment Jake the Pilot started vaguely referring to "not knowing" what was "missing" from their connection, I would have felt my entire sense of lovability quickly melting into nothingness. To reflect on all the previous seasons, that's pretty much what most of the rejected, deflated women who didn't get the rose, or more tragically, the ring, reported feeling.

And then there was the spectacle of beautiful, young, lithe women stacked up as if on bleachers in front of the Bachelor, just primed for the pickin'. The sacred opportunity to find your ultimate romantic love connection: trivialized into a process that chooses teams for volleyball. Except, instead of being picked for a team, these women are picked to be A LIFELONG MATE. The preposterousness is only hitting me now: at an age and life-point when I'm finally able to have a sense of myself that isn't precariously hinged on approval, being desired, or being liked.

The "chosen" women seemed to be on a perpetual Sally Field Oscar "you like me...you really like me" speech high after they received that damn rose. And for those unlucky enough to stand there empty-handed, after all the American Beauties have been doled out? Well, I guess you just didn't float his boat, toots. You didn't rock his world. You didn't cut the mustard. Maybe you should try a different means of looking for love, say...in reality? Maybe there you'll have a little more equality on the playing field, perhaps even get to have a say in whether a man is suitable for YOU (not just whether you're rose-worthy to him).

Now comes the part that's even more absurd. The scenarios this show sets up for the potential lovebirds are painstakingly false. Who "gets to know" the "real" you whilst hang-gliding in Tahiti? Or on a gondola ride in Florence? Or, in Jake the Pilot's case: realizing his passionate, undeniable connection with Vienna while almost pissing his pants on a bungee cord jump? Are you kidding me? These are the tests of relationship mettle that the Bachelor needs to have put in place to make sure he'll be set for life with The One? These people have been voluntarily thrown into a pressured, fabricated situation for a short period of time. When the hoopla, intensity and competition ends, what actual footing does the couple have to stand on? Though there are a handful of "lasting" Bachelor/Bachelorette couples (Trista being the only one who seems like she might be settled in for the long-haul), I'm interested to note that a huge majority of the relationships met their makers not too long after the cameras ceased rolling.

And then there's good ol' Jason and Molly. Aren't they so cute with their on-air nuptials? I'm sure the rain was a good omen. The fact that he ORIGINALLY ASKED THE OTHER WOMAN TO MARRY HIM really doesn't have any significance anymore, right? I mean, if only we all had that option: to propose marriage, or actually get married, and then suddenly have it dawn on us that someone we've rejected was actually The One. That, I believe, might be the essence of selfishness. Now, let's say Jason married Melissa, had children with her, and then left her for Molly. Yes, that would be way worse. But, let's say Jason, um, didn't ask her to marry him in the first place? That would have been awesome. Again, the pressure to get engaged during the finale is such bunk! Ratings are more important than listening to your gut, I suppose. Especially when it comes to things like making a lifelong commitment to someone else's trusting heart.

And yet, here I am. Watching these shows over the past eight years. Something in the makeup of this show reels me in. Is it the game-show thrill factor? Is it the voyeuristic factor? Maybe. But, I think the biggest reason---and the reason I continue to watch other shows like this---is because there is something enthralling about watching someone getting their sense of worth denied. It resonates with the terror most humans have of being rejected, of not being approved of.

Being rejected instinctually resonates with humans as not surviving; If we're rejected by our parents as babies, we're pretty much screwed. If we're rejected as adults, who will love us when we grow old? These people aren't getting their hearts broken, they're getting their sense of self smashed. And who among us doesn't know and/or fear that feeling? Watching it happen to someone else is strangely cathartic...and also strangely comforting. "Ah, ok. It's not just me who has tried to gain love, approval, acceptance...and had their ego demolished into smithereens." Even if the person who did the demolishing is no more than a random dude you're on a TV show with, the damage stays in your psyche, and that feeling of core-rejection doesn't just disappear. YOU were rejected. Not your talent, not your clothing. You.

Sitting on the couch, watching someone else grapple with that face-flushing, rock-in-the-pit-of-your-stomach, uncontrollable-tears-welling-up rejection makes everything (maybe just for that moment) seem fair in the world among us survival-seeking humans.

TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: Do the unthinkable, and purposely do things you anticipate will be rejected. I like to call these things "self experiments." Getting used to being rejected not only takes the sting out a little with every rebuff, but it also helps prove false a gnawing fear that we need others to prove our worth. We're not helpless infants anymore, dependent on our parents for survival; our worth is inherent. And it's definitely nowhere to be found in the (often transient) opinions of others.

TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RADIO RX: "Save Me" (AIMEE MANN)

Life is Just a Bowl of Cherry Flavored Anti-Depressants!

Never in my skeptical Julie brain did I ever think I would be called "Pollyanna." And yet, I was. Twice just this past weekend.

I grew up with two incredibly worried and catastrophizing folks. As in "Chicken Little, the sky is not only falling, it's going to be comprised of razor sharp teeth when it falls and will chew you into shreds of human carnitas for the gods to make mortal burritos out of." Indeed, their paranoia and fear had a macabre and often, um, crazy feeling to it. My mom even showed me their wills when I was seven. She explained that ANYTHING HORRIBLE could happen to either of them AT ANY MOMENT, and I needed to BE PREPARED to fend for myself. The fact that they're still alive and kicking seems a cruel joke, considering the defense mechanisms I had to create in order to try and steel myself for their deaths. I was convinced that the pain I was in store for would be unsurmountable, when they would surely die prematurely at some point in the late-1980's.

The defense in question was OCD. Not pop-psychology "OCD," as in when someone likes to be super-organized or really punctual, and suddenly everyone in the office refers to them as "OCD Dave" or whatever. I had OCD because I would do things like count objects or patterns in strange ways; I would have to knock on things thirty-seven times fearing someone important (or everyone important) to me would die if I didn't. Then, I bought these worry dolls when I was eight; I would place them under my pillow every night. But, not until after I had performed a monologue that went something like this, "Dear whomever is in charge of things: Please let no one in my family or any of my friends die, get any diseases, get hurt, get kidnapped, get tortured, or suddenly go blind or deaf (I had to cover all bases)." Then I would have to say ALL of their names, for fear that if I wasn't specific enough, they wouldn't be covered by my magical thinking life-insurance dolls.

It didn't help that my parents allowed me to read Stephen King every night before bed, and watch endless horror and action movies to my latency-age heart's content. Sleeping with one eye open, convinced a monster who looks like Linda Blair in the Exorcist was secretly living in my closet--waiting to slowly devour me with her shiny, chiseled teeth after spider-walking towards me in the dark--was no way to live.

Along with my fears of death and associated horrors, my parents discussed "the world" in frightening terms. They referred to other people in society with "us and them" values, and convinced me that anyone trying to befriend or --gasp-- date me would absolutely be "using me," and privately wringing their hands in Mua-ha-ha! glee.

Yep, this is just the tip of my neurotic iceberg when it comes to being skeptical, negative, pessimistic, a worrywart...whatever word describes it best. I couldn't enjoy a party without thinking, in the back of my mind, "everyone at this party is going to die one day." Yeah, I had some pretty sweet twisted thoughts invading my brain. Like the Maria Bamford joke goes,
"My friends say I should get out and go to a movie with them. I tell them I'm filthy, and they're like 'Why don't you just take a shower,' and I say, NO, IT'S ON THE INSIDE!" Intrusive thoughts. That's what they're called. Anyone who's had them knows how they work. They're always self-destructive and get in the way of everyday life. Not necessarily to the point where you can't function, but in a way that prevents you from ever feeling "all right." They're a symptom of OCD and they fully bite.

Somewhere along the line of several years of therapy and training in psychology, along with some big life experiences and a few traumas, I've managed to nearly free myself from OCD's Debbie Downer clutches. I actually see the drain that thinking negatively causes. Even if it takes extra effort to be positive, I know that it will pay off. Taking the additional minutes, usually seconds, to see my part in a crisis (usually of small-turned-hysterical proportions), and my part in exacerbating the crisis works to nip those stirrings of pissing and moaning in the proverbial buds.

The famous therapist and psychologist Albert Ellis coined "Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy," and I highly recommend it for you fellow negaholics out there. I was a life-long pessismist, and I can say I approach situations with a much more open mind, with more patience, hope, and less attachment to outcomes. Yes, things in life can still suck ferociously...but assuming the worst really does make it much worse. Self-fulfilling prophecies, if you will.

Yes, I'm still cautious. I don't throw my arms open and thrust myself into the world with reckless abandon...I'm not one of those people, and I don't think I'll ever be. But, I'd rather be called foolishly optimistic than smartly skeptical in most areas of life. I've wasted far too many years of my short life worrying about what I'll say, what I'll do, what others will say or do, and what a fool I'll look like if I'm not prepared for catastrophe to strike. So I look naive if I have a positive attitude towards life and other people. Through a combination of Buddhism, therapy, and being married to a perpetually positive person, I've found my constant cynicism and concern does little other than bring others in to my funk, keep me jittery, and never allow me to just "be" in the moment.

Yeah. I might look like a dork being positive; especially since I grew up with skepticism and snarkiness being way cooler than Stuart Smalley-ness. But hey, I am good enough and smart enough, whether people like me or not.




TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: Here's a relatively quick and painless exercise you can do for stopping your negative and irrationally crappy moods and reactions. For more info, Google "ALBERT ELLIS and REBT". Here's an example of "The ABC's of REBT," using my issue of jealousy for this demo:

HOW I CREATE MY OWN DISTURBANCE

A. ACTIVATING EVENT
My husband was flirting (being charming) with the attractive female cashier at the grocery store today. Although it was a very brief moment, it immediately made me rageful (obviously stemming from leftover issues in the past I've been holding on to), jealous and angry at him.

BR. RATIONAL BELIEF
1) I don't like it when my husband is even remotely flirtatious with other women!
2) It's too bad that I often perceive him as flirting when he is actually just being friendly and charming.
3) I wish he wasn't so charming with certain women who threaten my confidence.

BI. IRRATIONAL BELIEF
1) He shouldn't ever be attracted to or flirt with other women!
2) It's awful that he would ever flirt with another woman!
3) I can't stand it when women give him attention in a flirtatious way in front of me!
4) He's a disrespectful jerk for flirting with her for even an instant; he should pretend to wear blinders around other women!

C. CONSEQUENCES
Feeling ? MAD/SAD/SCARED (threatened/jealous/rejected) Behavior ? I became passive aggressive, and stopped talking to him for about ten minutes until he asked what was wrong several times. When I finally told him what was wrong, I was still bitchy, and I exaggerated when recounting actions with the cashier so as to make him seem disrespectful of me. (I couldn't take responsibility for how I was projecting my insecurities on the situation.)

D. DISPUTING
1) It's disappointing that, because he is a generally charming and very friendly person to everyone, he might inadvertently flirt with other women.
2) I can stand to see him being charming and friendly with other people, even if it means other attractive women sometimes.

E. EFFECT
Feeling? Annoyance; Understanding of his personality; Acceptance of my insecurities
Behavior? Focus on my being social and friendly instead of on who he is talking with/him being flirtatious; Be able to separate innocent from disrespectful flirting (which he has never done); Focus on being confident instead of creating drama stemming from insecurities.



Oh, and I'll be adding a new feature onto this blog! I'll be prescribing a song to go along with the homework. By the end of each month, there should be a pretty good mix formed...

TODAY FROM ROXY SHOCKS' RX RADIO: "Powder Your Face With Sunshine" - Dean Martin

Ashley Madison, Have You No Shame?

Actually, we all have SUITCASES of shame, and that's the problem. We usually bring all of it to our relationships, and then create more with each new love. Which is likely the reason that---at some point---there will be conflict.

Ashley Madison is simply the fall-out from a Western society based on bigger-better-faster-stronger, perfectionism, shame-based judgments, fears of mortality, and a general refusal to accept when our demands are not immediately met. So your wife or husband isn't fulfilling you sexually? Or say they're just generally being a pain in the ass? Who needs to WASTE TIME working on that relationship!? Who knows--it could take weeks, months, YEARS to heal that relationship! Who has that kind of time to spend mending the "love of our life"? Pshaw, I say!!

INSTEAD...why don't you just FIX your intimacy problem, get your sexual and emotional needs INSTANTLY met with some STRANGE ASS!!? It's exciting, it's taboo, and best of all: it's OUR SECRET!!! Your partner will NEVER find out, and hey--what they don't know can't hurt them, right?! Okay, so maybe they eventually find out; Say they discover some weird number on the cell phone bill, or you forget to erase the history cache of your computer, or perhaps they start to wonder why you've been going out with "your friends" increasingly more often these days.

Ok, so maybe they DO find out. Here's the thing: Ashley Madison HELPS your relationship!! That's right! By meeting your sexual "exploration" needs, you'll be HAPPIER at home! You'll have more ENERGY for your partner, and you'll be more emotionally available to meet your partners needs now that YOUR NEEDS are being fulfilled! (Granted, by someone outside your relationship...but technicalities, schmechnicalities! You're GETTING LAID!!!)

All right, so cheap shots at the "dating" service aside, does ANYONE actually believe that being granted "permission" to cheat on your spouse is going to, in fact, improve your relationship with them? Because that's the premise that the founder of A.M. based his service on. I happened to catch him on the Tyra Show a few months ago, and he insisted that "people are going to cheat anyway," so why not give them a "safe" place to score their tail? Riiiight, so let me get this straight: Since people are going to cheat on their taxes anyway, maybe I should create a service that allows to you withhold money from the IRS, safely, without anyone finding out...and that will be totally kosher with all parties involved? Cool beans.

I'm sickened and saddened that this is a for-real service; and to make matters worse, this dude is married. WITH KIDS. Two little girls, in fact. And the grossy-grossest part? The Ashley Madison site is named after the "two most popular little girl's names of 2001" (the year the site was founded.)

America, we have met an all-time morality low. Congratulations.


TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: Make the effort to work on your romantic, monogamous relationship, and it can and will be fulfilling. If you don't want that kind of responsibility, MORE POWER TO YA! Stay single! Live it up! BUT, if you've chosen to get married or partner-up, you have to put in the work to stay fulfilled!

So it doesn't take much effort to chat up some hottie on IM; think about the effort and time it will take when you get divorced, are in custody disputes, or look someone in the eyes that you've been cheating on. You've made promises (maybe even vows) to your partner. Respect them. Better yet, respect yourself in the morning, and always. As my awesome father-in-law says, "Peace of mind is better than a piece of ass."

Brilliant.