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.
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