The Diet Diva has moved and can now be accessed at www.kathleenkurlin.com
Thank you to all my loyal readers (all six of you). I hope you will wander over to my newly created Web page (which is still currently under construction), and continue to read my weekly posts. I'll continue to dole out wisdom in small bites, and share my dieting and menopausal woes with laughter and a smile.
Sincerely,
The Diet Diva
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Saturday, October 20, 2007
A Two Cent Solution
“Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist …”
Ephesians 6:11-14 (NIV)
I’ve had my fair share of spiritual warfare throughout my lifetime. And while the above scripture proclaims our struggles are not against flesh and blood, I’ve had a week that begs to differ. It’s that time of year when the cooler weather signals a time of transition in my wardrobe. All this transition really means is moving a few hangers around in my closet. For me, the only thing that really changes with the cooler temperatures is the length of my pants and my choice of footwear. In spring and summer it means Capri pants and sandals; fall and winter heralds the official start of the denim season and close-toed shoes and socks.
Each year I dread this change. Some years I push the envelope and wear the shorter pants and sandals far longer than I should, risking hypothermia to my exposed digits. Well, okay – it is Arizona, so maybe not hypothermia, exactly. But it is definitely cold enough for goose bumps. I’m resistant to change for fear I’ve porked up just enough to warrant a size change in my jeans. Since I’ve been dating menopause, I’ve added two new sizes in my closet. I’ve barely recovered from the trauma. In anticipation of this year’s transition, I started cutting back on my Oreos in August. I increased the incline on my morning treadmill walks and added extra sit-ups three times a week.
To my shock and horror, my changes were a sad case of too little, too late. As I squeezed into my jeans last week, complete with the requisite jumping up and down on my tree stump legs to aid gravity in easing the pants up over my ample bottom (the size of Nebraska) and stuffing in my sidecar saddlebags … it was still necessary to lay down on the bed to ease the zipper up over my menopausal midriff and my fleshy freeloaders that were pigbacking on my pudgy back fat. (Oprah says I’m wearing the wrong jeans. Oprah’s experts say we should be able to find cool, low-slung hipster jeans in every size. Hah! Fat chance! Because of all of my aforementioned fleshy anomalies, I’m forced to wear my mom jeans.) To add insult to injury, once I managed to manipulate my mom jeans in place and get them properly zipped, I quickly lost the ability to breathe. My eyes were dangerously close to popping out of my head from the lack of oxygen. I found it necessary to enlist the aid of a sure-fire, two-cent solution, my best friend, Debbie, turned me on to. The rubber-band, jean expander. After fashioning a fat, sturdy rubber band through the loop of my button hole, I was able to secure the other end of the loop around the metal button, thereby giving me an extra inch of breathing space. It was magic! I wonder why I never thought of that before?
I’ve been in denial for some time and have been reluctant to put on the belt of truth before now. It’s time to admit that I’m teetering on the brink of being a plus-size woman. Ouch! That belt of truth stings! All this battling against my flesh has made it significantly harder to have my feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace (vs. 14). Peace? What peace? I’m in the middle of a battle, for gosh sakes! It’s time I hoisted the shield of faith to extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one (vs.16). So take that, menopause! No weapon formed against me will prosper … not even excess body fat!
Thanks Lord for the wake up call and reminding me that I’m fighting against outside spiritual forces that seek to rob me of my peace and joy. I’ll try to put on the full armor of God and fight harder this week and not let insignificant things like a little weight gain be my undoing. Amen.
Ephesians 6:11-14 (NIV)
I’ve had my fair share of spiritual warfare throughout my lifetime. And while the above scripture proclaims our struggles are not against flesh and blood, I’ve had a week that begs to differ. It’s that time of year when the cooler weather signals a time of transition in my wardrobe. All this transition really means is moving a few hangers around in my closet. For me, the only thing that really changes with the cooler temperatures is the length of my pants and my choice of footwear. In spring and summer it means Capri pants and sandals; fall and winter heralds the official start of the denim season and close-toed shoes and socks.
Each year I dread this change. Some years I push the envelope and wear the shorter pants and sandals far longer than I should, risking hypothermia to my exposed digits. Well, okay – it is Arizona, so maybe not hypothermia, exactly. But it is definitely cold enough for goose bumps. I’m resistant to change for fear I’ve porked up just enough to warrant a size change in my jeans. Since I’ve been dating menopause, I’ve added two new sizes in my closet. I’ve barely recovered from the trauma. In anticipation of this year’s transition, I started cutting back on my Oreos in August. I increased the incline on my morning treadmill walks and added extra sit-ups three times a week.
To my shock and horror, my changes were a sad case of too little, too late. As I squeezed into my jeans last week, complete with the requisite jumping up and down on my tree stump legs to aid gravity in easing the pants up over my ample bottom (the size of Nebraska) and stuffing in my sidecar saddlebags … it was still necessary to lay down on the bed to ease the zipper up over my menopausal midriff and my fleshy freeloaders that were pigbacking on my pudgy back fat. (Oprah says I’m wearing the wrong jeans. Oprah’s experts say we should be able to find cool, low-slung hipster jeans in every size. Hah! Fat chance! Because of all of my aforementioned fleshy anomalies, I’m forced to wear my mom jeans.) To add insult to injury, once I managed to manipulate my mom jeans in place and get them properly zipped, I quickly lost the ability to breathe. My eyes were dangerously close to popping out of my head from the lack of oxygen. I found it necessary to enlist the aid of a sure-fire, two-cent solution, my best friend, Debbie, turned me on to. The rubber-band, jean expander. After fashioning a fat, sturdy rubber band through the loop of my button hole, I was able to secure the other end of the loop around the metal button, thereby giving me an extra inch of breathing space. It was magic! I wonder why I never thought of that before?
I’ve been in denial for some time and have been reluctant to put on the belt of truth before now. It’s time to admit that I’m teetering on the brink of being a plus-size woman. Ouch! That belt of truth stings! All this battling against my flesh has made it significantly harder to have my feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace (vs. 14). Peace? What peace? I’m in the middle of a battle, for gosh sakes! It’s time I hoisted the shield of faith to extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one (vs.16). So take that, menopause! No weapon formed against me will prosper … not even excess body fat!
Thanks Lord for the wake up call and reminding me that I’m fighting against outside spiritual forces that seek to rob me of my peace and joy. I’ll try to put on the full armor of God and fight harder this week and not let insignificant things like a little weight gain be my undoing. Amen.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Do you know PAMMI?
"Fear God and obey his commands, for this is the duty of every person. God will judge us for everything we do, including every secret thing, whether good or bad." Ecclesiastes 12:13-14
I usually seek out Pammi's advice first thing every morning. It's my own fault, really. I should know better than to ask, "Do you think I look fat in this?" Pammi is the only one brave enough to give me an honest answer ... at least about my weight issues. Pammi never lies to me ... not even when lying would be preferable to the harsh reality of the truth. Pammi's blatant honesty cuts me to the core and can send me into a fit of uncontrolled weeping. With the onset of such emotions, I sometimes find it best to put some distance between me and Pammi. The distance is necessary for Pammi's personal safety. I've been tempted to pummel poor Pammi at times. Occasionally there are those rare days when Pammi is sweet and tells me what my flesh wants to hear. On those days, Pammi is my new best friend. Our relationship is turbulent and unpredictable at best. I wait to see how my day will pan out based on Pammi's opinion of me. I know I'm not being fair to Pammi. After all, I'm the one who put Pammi in the position of power over me. But still, it would be nice if Pammi wasn't so dad gum honest all the time.
Who is this Pammi person and why have I let her control my life, you may ask? Pammi isn't actually a person, but an inanimate object I've willingly brought into my home that has controlled me for years - no, make that, decades! Pammi is an acronym for my bathroom scale. Pammi stands for: Personality Altering Mood Monitoring Instrument. That's my PAMMI.
The perfect Pammi pose finds me perched precariously on tippy toes, tummy sucked in, buttocks squeezed taut, breath held to within an inch of unconsciousness. I stand tall in all my glory, dressed in my birthday suit. (I don't like to complain, but my birthday suit doesn't suit me as well as it once did. It's no longer wrinkle free or a one-size-fits-all suit. I really should think about sending it out to have it altered.) My Pammi gives me an accurate digital accounting of my recent food indiscretions and pinpoints my total body fat to an exact percentage point. Technology has removed all possibility for error. Darn it! I miss the days when by merely shifting my weight from one foot to the other, the little needle could magically jump back a good two pounds. Those were the days.
Technology has invented bathroom scales that can talk to us now. They say smarmy little things like, "Have a nice day!" after they've announced loud and clear to your entire household, your exact weight. Which of course is followed by the amount of poundage you've gained since your last weigh in. Puh-lease. Who invented this torture device? If I had a talking scale, I would at least like to be able to program in my own responses - the same way I select my personal ring tones on my cell phone. For example, I could ask my talking scale, "Do I look fat in this?" It could answer me in a voice that I know will be an exact imitation of Jack Nicholson: "You want the truth? You can't handle the truth!" No, it's probably better if I steer clear from a scale that can talk back to me. I already heap enough verbal abuse upon my person as it is without inviting Jack into my boudoir.
I recently made the decision to go "cold turkey" from my morning weigh-ins. I started by weaning myself to only one weigh-in per week, then one per month. Which is considerably less than my previous neurotic thrice daily weigh-ins. It used to be: eat, weigh, exercise; eat, weigh, exercise; eat, weigh, exercise, cry uncontrollably. Are you seeing the pattern? I let my daily weigh-ins determine the mood for the day. Weight goes up - temper skyrocketed with it. Weight goes down - and all was right with my world. I'm not entirely sure at what point I started bowing down to this plastic/metal rectangular idol - but bow down and worship, I did! Flooded with guilt and shame, I made a decision to bury Pammi in my closet and not let her out, no matter how much she begged.
It's been months since I've consulted Pammi. When I feel myself tempted to backslide and seek Pammi's counsel, I stop and remind myself, "thou shalt have no other God before me, and thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image." If I maintain a healthy balance of proper eating and "normal" exercise, it would stand to reason, the way my clothes fit should be a proper gauge for my current weight. Isaiah 54:17 says, No weapon formed against you will prosper. I invited Satan into my house everyday and let him control me through my bathroom scale for a long time. But no more. I've kicked the devil out and finally put Pammi in her place. Everybody seems to have a PAMMI of some sort, at one time or another in life. What's your PAMMI?
Thank you Lord for removing the blinders from my eyes and helping me to see the tool Satan was using for my emotional destruction. I pray you will give me strength to resist the devil's temptations. Help me to keep everything in balance, including my weight-loss efforts and issues. I know that the thief comes only to steal, kill and destroy; but you have come so that I may have life to the full in abundance. Amen
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Fleshy Freeloaders
"Set a guard over my mouth, O Lord; keep watch over the door of my lips."
Psalm 141:3 (NIV)
When King David wrote these words, he most likely was asking God's help in monitoring the words he was speaking out of his mouth. When I recite these words, I'm enlisting God's help monitoring me from the things that are going into my mouth. I've adopted this Scripture as one of my most important Dieting Commandments. I've relied on this Scripture time and time again to keep me on the straight and narrow path of weight management, which is not always easy in today's world of fast food and 30 minute delivery guarantees. Some days I experience more success than others.
As fall approaches, I find myself fingering my sweatpants with longing. I look forward to those cold days when my wardrobe will include layers of clothing to protect me against the elements. It's so much easier to camouflage one's food indiscretions under yards of fabric than it is in capri pants and tank tops. Once the temperatures dip below 75, look out! It's cold enough for me a, "desert dweller," to don the fleece!
Several decades ago when I lived in Alaska, we bandied about the expression, "Porking up for the winter." It was more a state of mind rather than a way of life. Although if memory serves me, the winter of 1980, I did actually manage to eat my weight in Oreo's. But then, I was with child, so that doesn't really count. Now that I'm the age that I am, however, I've noticed the "porking up" thing is no longer just a state of mind, but quickly becoming my harsh reality. Especially since I've been dating Menopause.
Recently, I can't seem to escape the feeling that I'm being followed. When I turn around, there's no one there. Only me. A lot more of me. For all these years that I've been commanding Satan to "get thee behind me," it appears as though he took me literally. I've got these little pudgy piggy-backers hanging over and under my bra straps now. I've never had those before! Dare I say it? Yes ... it's an attack of the dreaded back fat. It's like I have these little fleshy freeloaders following my every move. And it gets worse. The back fat is only the beginning. Did I mention the tushie tail gaters? And of course, the previously mentioned spare tire around my mid-section encircles the entire circumference of middle half. Front and back! Although, here's a practical tip. If you pull your pants up high enough you can actually stuff that extra epidermis under your waistband, thereby making it disappear entirely. Out of sight - out of mind.
Apparently there comes a time in every mature woman's life when regardless of how many miles are logged on the treadmill or how carefully calories, carbs or points are counted ... we all can expect a visit from fleshing freeloaders. To some it shows up as back fat or a tushie tail gater. For others, it's a toad sack under the chin, an apple belly or muffin tops in their "C" cups. What's a girl to do?
I know I'm long past the age when a wolf whistle will be directed my way. (Unless of course I'm golfing in Sun City. From a distance and with that age crowd ... I'm quite something!) It's only recently ... very recently ... that I've come to grips with the harsh reality that this is as good as I'm going to get. I will continue to work out until Jesus comes. And I will attempt to watch what I eat ... as best as I'm able. But life is only getting shorter for me. I don't want to keep obsessing over rock hard abs and buns of steel. It's just not in the cards for me. If I can make it through this last half of my life with a cholesterol level under 150 and 120/80 blood pressure - then life is good! I've heard it said, "Life Begins at 50," and "50 is the new 40." Well I say, bring it on, Father Time! By the time I reach 60, maybe that will be the new ... 30? With today's technology, who knows? Anything is possible!
Father God, thank you that I want to continue to be the best that I can be. Thank you that I don't take for granted the life you have blessed me with. I know this is the only body I'll ever have and really do want to take care of it as best I can. Help me to watch what's going into my mouth ... but more importantly, help me to guard the words that are coming out of my mouth. Help me to weigh and measure my words so as not to inflict harm. And help me always to edify and glorify my Lord and Savior.
Psalm 141:3 (NIV)
When King David wrote these words, he most likely was asking God's help in monitoring the words he was speaking out of his mouth. When I recite these words, I'm enlisting God's help monitoring me from the things that are going into my mouth. I've adopted this Scripture as one of my most important Dieting Commandments. I've relied on this Scripture time and time again to keep me on the straight and narrow path of weight management, which is not always easy in today's world of fast food and 30 minute delivery guarantees. Some days I experience more success than others.
As fall approaches, I find myself fingering my sweatpants with longing. I look forward to those cold days when my wardrobe will include layers of clothing to protect me against the elements. It's so much easier to camouflage one's food indiscretions under yards of fabric than it is in capri pants and tank tops. Once the temperatures dip below 75, look out! It's cold enough for me a, "desert dweller," to don the fleece!
Several decades ago when I lived in Alaska, we bandied about the expression, "Porking up for the winter." It was more a state of mind rather than a way of life. Although if memory serves me, the winter of 1980, I did actually manage to eat my weight in Oreo's. But then, I was with child, so that doesn't really count. Now that I'm the age that I am, however, I've noticed the "porking up" thing is no longer just a state of mind, but quickly becoming my harsh reality. Especially since I've been dating Menopause.
Recently, I can't seem to escape the feeling that I'm being followed. When I turn around, there's no one there. Only me. A lot more of me. For all these years that I've been commanding Satan to "get thee behind me," it appears as though he took me literally. I've got these little pudgy piggy-backers hanging over and under my bra straps now. I've never had those before! Dare I say it? Yes ... it's an attack of the dreaded back fat. It's like I have these little fleshy freeloaders following my every move. And it gets worse. The back fat is only the beginning. Did I mention the tushie tail gaters? And of course, the previously mentioned spare tire around my mid-section encircles the entire circumference of middle half. Front and back! Although, here's a practical tip. If you pull your pants up high enough you can actually stuff that extra epidermis under your waistband, thereby making it disappear entirely. Out of sight - out of mind.
Apparently there comes a time in every mature woman's life when regardless of how many miles are logged on the treadmill or how carefully calories, carbs or points are counted ... we all can expect a visit from fleshing freeloaders. To some it shows up as back fat or a tushie tail gater. For others, it's a toad sack under the chin, an apple belly or muffin tops in their "C" cups. What's a girl to do?
I know I'm long past the age when a wolf whistle will be directed my way. (Unless of course I'm golfing in Sun City. From a distance and with that age crowd ... I'm quite something!) It's only recently ... very recently ... that I've come to grips with the harsh reality that this is as good as I'm going to get. I will continue to work out until Jesus comes. And I will attempt to watch what I eat ... as best as I'm able. But life is only getting shorter for me. I don't want to keep obsessing over rock hard abs and buns of steel. It's just not in the cards for me. If I can make it through this last half of my life with a cholesterol level under 150 and 120/80 blood pressure - then life is good! I've heard it said, "Life Begins at 50," and "50 is the new 40." Well I say, bring it on, Father Time! By the time I reach 60, maybe that will be the new ... 30? With today's technology, who knows? Anything is possible!
Father God, thank you that I want to continue to be the best that I can be. Thank you that I don't take for granted the life you have blessed me with. I know this is the only body I'll ever have and really do want to take care of it as best I can. Help me to watch what's going into my mouth ... but more importantly, help me to guard the words that are coming out of my mouth. Help me to weigh and measure my words so as not to inflict harm. And help me always to edify and glorify my Lord and Savior.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
You want a Peace of me!
"You will keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you because he trusts in you." Isaiah 26:3 (CEV)
I've found lately I've had to work much harder at achieving that internal peace I so desire. I blame the unrest in my spirit on a certain clandestine dating relationship I've been involved in over the last ten months. My suitor? Menopause. Even though I'm certain I'm much too young to be involved in such a torrid affair, Menopause has been pursuing me relentlessly. I'm a long way from being married to Menopause, but I suspect by the end of next year we will at least make a long-term engagement commitment.
In the beginning, our relationship was quite casual. Menopause started waking me in the middle of the night and like an annoying relative who refuses to leave at the end of a party, Menopause would not let me be. It's nearly impossible for me to meet my necessary nightly requirement of eight hours of sleep since Menopause has been courting me. The sleep deprivation has made it so much easier for Menopause to attack me in the area where I tend to be the most vulnerable ... my emotional state of being.
Menopause has me experiencing a full spectrum of mood swings and meltdowns like a giant emotional pendulum wreaking havoc on my hormones and otherwise stable personality. In a matter of seconds I can go from crying over a sappy email to screaming at whoever forgot to load the dishwasher properly. There is no rhyme or reason and no logical explanation for my hormonal power surges. Life was simpler when I could blame my occasional lapses in my sunny disposition on a PMS outburst.
And what about that five pounds of "water weight" I accused PMS of causing each month? Menopause has attacked me where it can do the greateast amount of damage to my already unstable pysche ... the scale! That unwanted five pounds of "water weight"has taken up permanent residence around my midriff and refuses to leave. What's that all about??? I feel like I have a spare tire around my mid-section. Not quite a 4x4 spare tire, exactly. It's more like one of those little donut tires made for compact cars that are always noticeably smaller than factory tires. You know the one that makes you cringe in embarrassment because it rolls down the street screaming, "I don't belong here! I'm a spare!" That's what the fleshy roll around my waistline is screaming ... "I don't belong here! I'm a spare tire of fatty deposits!"
I've really grown tired of this bothersome relationship, but yet I know Menopause could realistically stalk me for an indeterminate amount of time. Is there a point at which I can throw in the towel and gracefully accept the cosmic joke Mother Nature and Father Time are playing on my body? I admit, there are days it would be so much easier to stay and bed and hide until I feel like myself again. Thankfully, wisdom tells me, this too shall pass, and this Menopause phase, is just that. A phase. Another season of life that I and my sisters must all endure. I'm sure I must have experienced similar emotions when I "dated" puberty all those decades ago - and I obviously survived that ordeal. The difference between dating puberty and Menopause however, was that when puberty was through with me, I was left with a new pair of perky breasts as a consolation prize. I'm concerned about what lovely parting gifts Menopause will leave me ... liver spots, spider veins, saggy breasts??? H'mmm, I wonder if I could get an upgrade on those breasts, please!
Maybe I just need to set Menopause on the trail of a fresh victim and take the focus off of myself. A dear friend of mine is turning 40 later this year. I wonder if it's too soon for her to start dating my bothersome suitor? You never know!
Oh Lord, I pray you will not leave me or forsake me in the middle of this difficult season in my life. Help to balance my out of control hormones and be to able deal with things in a rational manner. Help me not to fly off the handle unnecessarily. Help me not to stress out about the "normal" changes in my body and my weight. I pray for the peace necessary to go through this phase in my life for however long it takes. Amen
I've found lately I've had to work much harder at achieving that internal peace I so desire. I blame the unrest in my spirit on a certain clandestine dating relationship I've been involved in over the last ten months. My suitor? Menopause. Even though I'm certain I'm much too young to be involved in such a torrid affair, Menopause has been pursuing me relentlessly. I'm a long way from being married to Menopause, but I suspect by the end of next year we will at least make a long-term engagement commitment.
In the beginning, our relationship was quite casual. Menopause started waking me in the middle of the night and like an annoying relative who refuses to leave at the end of a party, Menopause would not let me be. It's nearly impossible for me to meet my necessary nightly requirement of eight hours of sleep since Menopause has been courting me. The sleep deprivation has made it so much easier for Menopause to attack me in the area where I tend to be the most vulnerable ... my emotional state of being.
Menopause has me experiencing a full spectrum of mood swings and meltdowns like a giant emotional pendulum wreaking havoc on my hormones and otherwise stable personality. In a matter of seconds I can go from crying over a sappy email to screaming at whoever forgot to load the dishwasher properly. There is no rhyme or reason and no logical explanation for my hormonal power surges. Life was simpler when I could blame my occasional lapses in my sunny disposition on a PMS outburst.
And what about that five pounds of "water weight" I accused PMS of causing each month? Menopause has attacked me where it can do the greateast amount of damage to my already unstable pysche ... the scale! That unwanted five pounds of "water weight"has taken up permanent residence around my midriff and refuses to leave. What's that all about??? I feel like I have a spare tire around my mid-section. Not quite a 4x4 spare tire, exactly. It's more like one of those little donut tires made for compact cars that are always noticeably smaller than factory tires. You know the one that makes you cringe in embarrassment because it rolls down the street screaming, "I don't belong here! I'm a spare!" That's what the fleshy roll around my waistline is screaming ... "I don't belong here! I'm a spare tire of fatty deposits!"
I've really grown tired of this bothersome relationship, but yet I know Menopause could realistically stalk me for an indeterminate amount of time. Is there a point at which I can throw in the towel and gracefully accept the cosmic joke Mother Nature and Father Time are playing on my body? I admit, there are days it would be so much easier to stay and bed and hide until I feel like myself again. Thankfully, wisdom tells me, this too shall pass, and this Menopause phase, is just that. A phase. Another season of life that I and my sisters must all endure. I'm sure I must have experienced similar emotions when I "dated" puberty all those decades ago - and I obviously survived that ordeal. The difference between dating puberty and Menopause however, was that when puberty was through with me, I was left with a new pair of perky breasts as a consolation prize. I'm concerned about what lovely parting gifts Menopause will leave me ... liver spots, spider veins, saggy breasts??? H'mmm, I wonder if I could get an upgrade on those breasts, please!
Maybe I just need to set Menopause on the trail of a fresh victim and take the focus off of myself. A dear friend of mine is turning 40 later this year. I wonder if it's too soon for her to start dating my bothersome suitor? You never know!
Oh Lord, I pray you will not leave me or forsake me in the middle of this difficult season in my life. Help to balance my out of control hormones and be to able deal with things in a rational manner. Help me not to fly off the handle unnecessarily. Help me not to stress out about the "normal" changes in my body and my weight. I pray for the peace necessary to go through this phase in my life for however long it takes. Amen
Friday, September 21, 2007
Gotta love the Jiggle Temple
"... 'You must love him [the Lord your God] with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength.' The second most important commandment says: ' Love others as much as you love yurself.' No other commandment is more important than these." Mark 12:30-31
The directions on the vial of liquid eyeliner read, "Shake well before application." I shook that little container for all I was worth. Much to my horror, the flesh on my upper arm continued to wiggle, jiggle and vibrate for some time after I was finished shaking the eye liner. I was hypnotized by the untethered gyrations. I was grateful not to have been blinded by the quaking of my flesh. A girl could lose an eye that way!
The Word of God tells me that our bodies are the temple of the Holy Spirit (1Cor. 3:16). For the life of me, I don't remember at what point my body turned into the Temple of Jiggle. When exactly did I become a walking adverstisement for Jello gelatin? I know for a fact that Father Time and Mr. Gravity will eventually pay us all a visit. After a certain age a girl has to expect a normal amount of epidermal elasticity, but the stuff hanging on the backside of my arms has enough fatty deposits to qualify for its own zip code.
The above scripture commands me to love my neighbor as myself and on normal (non-PMS days), I have little or no problem heeding that word. It's the second half of that command that I struggle with. How's a girl supposed to love herself when she is so dissatisfied with her outward appearance? I know ... we're not supposed to concentrate on the outer shell, but hey ... I'm only human. Everywhere I go - there I am - in the flesh! Not only am I not happy with my current body weight, but there's a whole lot of other stuff about me, myself and I that I am less than thrilled with. So how can I be obedient to God's Word and learn to love myself?
EVERY DAY I have to get out of bed and MAKE A CHOICE to love myself exactly as I am. EVERY DAY, I must forgive myself for my shortcomings and physical imperfections and grasp the concept that I am not perfect, nor will I ever be perfect in this lifetime. I am encouraged by the fact that even though I'm not exactly where I wish to be physically, spiritually or emotionally, I have made great strides from where I was last week, last month ... last year, etc. I accept that I may never reach my ideal body weight this side of Heaven (that's the number that appears on my drivers license), but that's not a requirement for salvation and the love of Christ. God loves every inch of me and my Temple of Jiggle!
Thank you, Lord for this imperfect body of flesh because it reminds me daily, that I need you to sustain my life. Were it not for you, I couldn't even draw my next breath. Help me to love those people you put in my path today. Help me to be able to love myself, forgive myself and accept myself for who you have created me to be. I am unique in the body of Christ. Help me always to love you with my whole heart, soul, mind and BODY! Amen.
The directions on the vial of liquid eyeliner read, "Shake well before application." I shook that little container for all I was worth. Much to my horror, the flesh on my upper arm continued to wiggle, jiggle and vibrate for some time after I was finished shaking the eye liner. I was hypnotized by the untethered gyrations. I was grateful not to have been blinded by the quaking of my flesh. A girl could lose an eye that way!
The Word of God tells me that our bodies are the temple of the Holy Spirit (1Cor. 3:16). For the life of me, I don't remember at what point my body turned into the Temple of Jiggle. When exactly did I become a walking adverstisement for Jello gelatin? I know for a fact that Father Time and Mr. Gravity will eventually pay us all a visit. After a certain age a girl has to expect a normal amount of epidermal elasticity, but the stuff hanging on the backside of my arms has enough fatty deposits to qualify for its own zip code.
The above scripture commands me to love my neighbor as myself and on normal (non-PMS days), I have little or no problem heeding that word. It's the second half of that command that I struggle with. How's a girl supposed to love herself when she is so dissatisfied with her outward appearance? I know ... we're not supposed to concentrate on the outer shell, but hey ... I'm only human. Everywhere I go - there I am - in the flesh! Not only am I not happy with my current body weight, but there's a whole lot of other stuff about me, myself and I that I am less than thrilled with. So how can I be obedient to God's Word and learn to love myself?
EVERY DAY I have to get out of bed and MAKE A CHOICE to love myself exactly as I am. EVERY DAY, I must forgive myself for my shortcomings and physical imperfections and grasp the concept that I am not perfect, nor will I ever be perfect in this lifetime. I am encouraged by the fact that even though I'm not exactly where I wish to be physically, spiritually or emotionally, I have made great strides from where I was last week, last month ... last year, etc. I accept that I may never reach my ideal body weight this side of Heaven (that's the number that appears on my drivers license), but that's not a requirement for salvation and the love of Christ. God loves every inch of me and my Temple of Jiggle!
Thank you, Lord for this imperfect body of flesh because it reminds me daily, that I need you to sustain my life. Were it not for you, I couldn't even draw my next breath. Help me to love those people you put in my path today. Help me to be able to love myself, forgive myself and accept myself for who you have created me to be. I am unique in the body of Christ. Help me always to love you with my whole heart, soul, mind and BODY! Amen.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Butt for the Grace of God
"But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace to me was not without effect." (I Cor. 15:12 NIV)
I am what I consider to be a Career Dieter. Over the course of the past 30 years, I have tried just about every fad diet and several legitimate weight loss programs known to man (and woman). During those years I have lost about 350 pounds. Startling, I know. That weight loss is not a result of being morbidly obese. No, I'm a fairly "normal" size, middle-age woman. That weight loss is a direct result of yo-yo dieting. I have lost and gained the same 30 pounds at least 10 or more times over the last three decades. I've also owned just about every piece of exercise equipment available on the open market hoping to sculpt those buns of steel, yet I've never actually achieved steel bun success. I struggle daily with weight issues.
Even at my ideal weight, (which I only achieved for a total of two days in my entire life. Once in 1976 and once again in 1987), I've never been satisfied with my bottom half. I have legs like tree stumps and I'm convinced I'm the first person to sport "saddle bag thighs." Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating, but I'm a writer - that's what we do! I'm firmly convinced however, the mirrors installed in any clothing/department store fitting room are really the same mirrors used in carnival fun houses. Rarely have I had the occasion to try on a pair of jeans and been totally satisfied with the way my backside looks. It always looks somewhat distorted and slightly magnified - usually times three, since most stores have that triple mirror thing going so you can see what you're trying on from every possible angle. Yuck! I stand there conversing with myself, "Is my butt really that big? Dear Lord, when did that happen? I'm convinced my behind is the size of Nebraska. (Okay - maybe not the whole state, just a small rural township.) In reality it's more in the normal to slightly above average category. It's a genetic thing. I swam in the wrong gene pool consisting of a long line of round, Sicilian woman. I was doomed from the womb?
Why are we a generation of people (not just women, either) so consumed with the size of our butts? The age old question has always been, "Does my butt look fat in this?" I tell myself that if I spent half as much time studying the Word of God or praying for others, I would be eligible for sainthood. Logically, I know that God loves me regardless of the size of my butt. He doesn't love me less based on the amount of jiggle hanging from my underarms. And He certainly wouldn't stop caring about me if my waistline was proportionate to the circumference of say a Beluga Whale. So why do I beat myself up if my butt looks larger than normal in a pair of jeans? Why am I so obsessed? I hope I'm not the only person whose tried to find the answer to this dilemma. As a Christian I know I shouldn't fixate on the external, but as a woman, that's easier said than done! I live in a body of flesh who wants to look like the women I see on TV, even though I know that's unrealistic.
For today, I will remind myself of the words found in 1 Samuel 16:7 that reads: "Do not look at his appearance or at the height of his stature, because I have refused him. For the Lord does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart."
Please Lord, help me to remember that when I shop for new jeans this week. It's not the size of my buttocks that really matters to you, but the size of my heart! And I really want a heart the size of Nebraska! Amen.
I am what I consider to be a Career Dieter. Over the course of the past 30 years, I have tried just about every fad diet and several legitimate weight loss programs known to man (and woman). During those years I have lost about 350 pounds. Startling, I know. That weight loss is not a result of being morbidly obese. No, I'm a fairly "normal" size, middle-age woman. That weight loss is a direct result of yo-yo dieting. I have lost and gained the same 30 pounds at least 10 or more times over the last three decades. I've also owned just about every piece of exercise equipment available on the open market hoping to sculpt those buns of steel, yet I've never actually achieved steel bun success. I struggle daily with weight issues.
Even at my ideal weight, (which I only achieved for a total of two days in my entire life. Once in 1976 and once again in 1987), I've never been satisfied with my bottom half. I have legs like tree stumps and I'm convinced I'm the first person to sport "saddle bag thighs." Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating, but I'm a writer - that's what we do! I'm firmly convinced however, the mirrors installed in any clothing/department store fitting room are really the same mirrors used in carnival fun houses. Rarely have I had the occasion to try on a pair of jeans and been totally satisfied with the way my backside looks. It always looks somewhat distorted and slightly magnified - usually times three, since most stores have that triple mirror thing going so you can see what you're trying on from every possible angle. Yuck! I stand there conversing with myself, "Is my butt really that big? Dear Lord, when did that happen? I'm convinced my behind is the size of Nebraska. (Okay - maybe not the whole state, just a small rural township.) In reality it's more in the normal to slightly above average category. It's a genetic thing. I swam in the wrong gene pool consisting of a long line of round, Sicilian woman. I was doomed from the womb?
Why are we a generation of people (not just women, either) so consumed with the size of our butts? The age old question has always been, "Does my butt look fat in this?" I tell myself that if I spent half as much time studying the Word of God or praying for others, I would be eligible for sainthood. Logically, I know that God loves me regardless of the size of my butt. He doesn't love me less based on the amount of jiggle hanging from my underarms. And He certainly wouldn't stop caring about me if my waistline was proportionate to the circumference of say a Beluga Whale. So why do I beat myself up if my butt looks larger than normal in a pair of jeans? Why am I so obsessed? I hope I'm not the only person whose tried to find the answer to this dilemma. As a Christian I know I shouldn't fixate on the external, but as a woman, that's easier said than done! I live in a body of flesh who wants to look like the women I see on TV, even though I know that's unrealistic.
For today, I will remind myself of the words found in 1 Samuel 16:7 that reads: "Do not look at his appearance or at the height of his stature, because I have refused him. For the Lord does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart."
Please Lord, help me to remember that when I shop for new jeans this week. It's not the size of my buttocks that really matters to you, but the size of my heart! And I really want a heart the size of Nebraska! Amen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
