Ironing Out the Details

Today we had a potluck at work. Brisket, ribs, and pulled pork from Rudy's BBQ on Hwy 24 and 31st Street. Greg and I tried to go to dinner there back in March when they opened, but couldn't find parking. It can't really be THAT good, I thought. I was wrong. It really is THAT good!

So was everything else at the potluck. Greg made his famous potato salad (everyone loved it!), and everyone else brought chocolate chip cookies, brownies, chips & salsa, mac & cheese, White Devil Bars, soda, veggie tray, dinner rolls, macaroni salad, etc. I could not stop eating. I had 2 brownies, two bars, seconds of the BBQ and mac & cheese ... ugh! I haven't been that full in MONTHS!

I went into panic mode when I thought about my Weigh-In on Thursday. I mean, just last week I earned my 50-lb. medal at my Weight Watchers meeting, and today I probably put on 2 lbs. in just one sitting. Okay, TWO sittings, since I had a plate during my morning break and another on my real lunch break. What's worse, when I got home, I polished off the box of Whoppers and had a tall glass of chocolate milk.

What's gotten into me? I haven't had a gain or a binge since I started Weight Watchers on April 10th.

I can hear Janet now as I show up on Thursday to houseclean. "Where's your book?" It's like that with her every week. She doesn't ask how I'm doing or how my week has been, she gets straight to the point as soon as I walk in and before I can even get my shoes off: Where's your book? She demands to see my Weigh-In book from Weight Watchers because she keeps track of my weight loss on her little stationery pad. She keeps insisting she's going to weigh me on her scale, but I want to tell her, "Over my dead body!" Seeing my weight on my little Official Stickers from my WW meetings is MORE THAN SUFFICIENT to prove to her what I weigh. I honestly think it's a control issue with her, especially considering how OCD she is. The woman drives me batty. All the rules I have to follow when I clean her house: put the beer steins just so on the buffet; use this cleaner on the tub, this cleaner on the toilet, this cleaner on the floor, this cleaner on the tile; line up the fireplace tools on the tile square just like this; don't use the traschcan under the kitchen sink, walk your trash to the can in the garage ... the list in endless. But my patience sure isn't.

I mean, this is a woman who irons everything. And I mean EVERYTHING! I have to admit, for being in her late 80's, she's on top of everything, never misses a detail, but I wonder if that's such a good thing? She had me iron her husband's shirts when she was sick, and I'm surprised she didn't re-do them after I left. She had me iron her cloth napkins, fold them in thirds, iron the seams, fold them again, and iron the seams again. Same with the tablecloth. And she put them away in the buffet drawers "just so." Nothing can be out of place, and I mean NOTHING. She irons her knit turtlenecks and sweatshirts. She even irons her husband's boxers. His BOXERS, for crying out loud! Who irons their underwear? The woman is OCD to the Nth degree.

The other week, I entered the kitchen as she was ironing and she asked, "So, Steffie (I hate when she calls me that!), does it take you less time to iron your clothes now that there's not so much material?" Surely I didn't hear her correctly, so I said, "Pardon me?" She repeated her question. Yup, I heard her correctly the first time--what a jab right into my heart! I was so offended that all I could do was laugh nervously and say "Yes." Which is a joke because I don't iron any of my clothes. I take that back, there's one shirt in my entire closet that requires ironing and I only wear it once a year for the 4th of July. If my husband wants any of his clothes ironed, he can do them himself because I don't iron. Period.

As I went about my housecleaning duties the rest of the time I was there, I kept replaying her question in my head. One of these days, I'm going to lose it when she asks me a question like that, and I'm going to tell her off, and quit on the spot. One of these days, I'm going to speak my mind and tell her that her insensitive remarks really hurt my feelings. One of these days, I'm going to tell her how much of a bully she is and ask her if she has any idea how much her flippant comments offend me. One of these days ....

But not until I get that bathing suit out of her. And you better believe I'm going to the most expensive department store in town to buy it!

Sweeping Away the Crumbs

"We usually don't eat at the table since it's just the two of us," Janet informed me soon after I started housecleaning for her. "Bill eats in his recliner and I sit on my end of the couch, so you need to use the Dust Buster to sweep out the crumbs under the cushions every week."

One week, the Dust Buster didn't work, so she blamed me for not plugging it in all the way the week before. I guess I'm the only person who uses it. When I vacuumed the following week, I was surprised at the amount of crumbs that had accumulated under Bill's cushion.

"It's pretty crummy, isn't it?" Janet asked when I finished. As neat and orderly as this couple was, I didn't think Bill could generate that many crumbs in two weeks' time.

"Yes," I admitted.

Seeing how many crumbs were under his cushion made me wonder how crummy my own couch and chair were. How many times a month do I lift the cushions to clean underneath? More like how many times a year?

I viewed my weightloss in a similar fashion. I didn't clean out the junk in my life, I simply let it pile up week after week, turning to food to make me feel better. Just like covering up the crumbs with a couch cushion, I covered up my fat with layers of clothes and pretended I didn't see it. I hated clothes shopping because I always had to shop in the Plus Departments and it seemed every time I tried something on, I had to get a bigger size. Exposing myself, admitting I had a food addiction, was difficult. I didn't want to implement any self-discipline over what or how much I ate, nor did I know how to sweep the junk out of my life, so instead of dealing with all my issues, I ate to numb myself to my problems.

Which explains the mountain of crumbs in my life.

It's been a year since I started cleaning for Janet and Bill. This past week, she called me over to the hearth to instruct me on where she wanted the fireplace instruments placed. "I'm such a fussbudget," she laughed. I rolled my eyes as I followed her into the living room. You have no idea! I thought. She pointed to the square tiles on the floor. "It's the square that's catty-corner from the corner. Put it exactly like this," she said, setting the base of the tool holder perfectly inside the square to demonstrate how she wanted it. "That way, when I want to scoot through there to get to the other side, I can fit. Just think, maybe one day you'll fit through there, too!"

Wow. I didn't mind having to put up with her obsessive compulsive disorder, but when she took jabs at my weight, that was too much! No matter how perfectly I tried to set her antique beer steins from Germany back on her buffet table, she always corrected their placements. I can't even imagine what is was like to be one of her children. Or her husband, for that matter! I sympathized with them, to say the least.

My weight loss to this point was acceptable to me, but it seemed like my efforts were never good enough for her. Granted, we had a financial agreement: she'd pay me $5/more per hour if I lost 6 lbs. a month. She insisted on seeing my journal from Weight Watchers before I got started cleaning, and wrote down the numbers on a piece of stationery every week. That kind of control was a sign of some serious issues going on in her head, but I have to admit, they served to intimidate me into following Program more than the numbers on the scale every Thursday morning when I weighed in. One week in July I didn't clean because I was out of town for my high school reunion. I was thrilled that I lost 1.4 lbs. the week after, considering I had a crab feast while I was there and that the appetizers I had at the reunion weren't the healthiest choices. But when she said, "You've been a naughty girl," the smile quickly disappeared from my face and I despised her.

My "Love Language," according to Gary Chapman's book, "The Five Love Languages," is Words of Affirmation, so when someone tells me I've done a good job, affirms, or encourages me in some way, I'm on Cloud 9. Contrariwise, if someone criticizes me or tells me I'm bad, I shrink into myself, pull away from others, and cry. So when Janet told me I had been naughty, I was tempted to tell her to shove my diet journal where the sun doesn't shine, but I simply bit my tongue, fought back the tears, and said, "I'm doing the best I can!" Whether she believed me or not, I have no idea, nor do I care. But I sure don't need her criticizing me.

I try to remind myself how crummy HER life is. I mean, look at all that stuff under her couch cushions! But then I bring it back to me, and tell myself I have to pull off the layers, put the fork down, and sweep the crumbs away if I'm going to be successful at this weight loss thing.

You Have Such a Lovely Face ...

"You have such a lovely face ..."

How many of us pleasantly plump women have heard these opening remarks? Whether it's Pretty Face, Lovely Face, Nice Features, whatever...

The bigger question is, How many heartless people have been cruel enough to finish the sentence? Yeah, yeah, I'm so pretty, if only I'd lose weight! I've heard it too many times to count, but I do have to admit, no one has had the audacity to finish the sentence.

Yet.

When Janet (not her real name), the woman for whom I houseclean, started this sentence one day, I cringed. Then when she asked my weight on another day, I became mad at myself for not telling her off and quitting on the spot. Several months prior, while walking past the sturdy oak secretary that her husband built, I caused it to rattle and she commented, "It doesn't rattle when Bill (not his real name either) or I walk past it ...." Her unfinished sentence hung in the air like a stale fish odor, implying that the desk shook because I was so fat.

Her other off-handed, insensitive comments about my fluffy self made me feel offended, upset, crushed, pissed. My excess weight didn't affect my ability to clean her house, so what difference did it make if I was 225 or 125? Skinny people have no idea what it's like, so they should just keep their pie holes shut.

I didn't want to admit that I was overweight by 100 lbs. At my heaviest, I weighed 237 in January 2000. I joined Weight Watchers and 24-Hour Fitness and lost 70 lbs. in 9 months. I slimmed down from a size 26 (on good days) to a size 10, but I was hit with a family crisis and slowly put the weight back on over the next 5 years.

The other time I lost a large amount of weight was in 1991, when my daughter was a baby. I met a man who was interested in me, but only if I lost weight. At the time, I weighed 206. After joining Nutrisystem, I got down to 139 within 8 months, a weight I hadn't seen since I was 19. I hadn't worn a size 8 since elementary school, but it wasn't good enough for him--he insisted I have liposuction done.

So I ditched him.

Looking back, I realized I lost the weight for all the wrong reasons. I had to do it for ME, not for a man. I wanted to set a good example for my kids, but I didn't have the discipline to stay on track. Fast forward to 2007, I wanted to slim down before I got married on July 7th, so I joined Weight Watchers again (for about the 34th time) and was able to wear a size 14 dress on my wedding day. Before I gave up yet again after my father passed away, I was down to 161 and a size 12.

This time, after hearing the "You have such a lovely face" from Janet, I was bound and determined to gain even more. "I'll show her!" I told myself. Besides, my husband loved me for WHO I was, not for the NUMBER ON THE SCALE. It was THEIR problem, whomever it was complaining about my weight at the time, not mine!

Things changed when I got a call from my mother in March inviting me to go on a cruise in December--on her dime. Now what? I couldn't face my family as a size 26! I wouldn't dare set a bare foot on that Bahama beach in a bathing suit, not when someone could scream, "Look at that beached whale!"

Once again, I turned to my beloved Weight Watchers. "Just for the cruise," I told myself. Then I can go back to being fat.

I don't know what possessed me to tell Janet I joined. Was that a sneer on her face or was it a genuine smile from a woman who was happy to hear that I was turning my life around? Whatever the case, I desperately needed her support and approval.

"I tell you what," she bargained. "I'll raise you to $25 an hour if you can lose 6 lbs. a month." Her eyes gleamed as I considered her offer. Money has never been a motivator for me. "And I'll throw in a new bathing suit as a bonus if you reach your goal weight by Christmas."

Nope, that wasn't tempting me either. I just wanted to lose the weight to prove to her I could do it. And so that she'd stop complaining about her rattling secretary. And so that she'd let me sit on the very sturdy bench, also made by Bill, in their foyer. And so that I could squeeze past her in the kitchen while she was ironing without having her comment. And so that ...

See what I mean by insensitive remarks? My mother always taught me, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all."

This especially applies to remarks directed at fat people.

It Started Way Before Today

"Stephanie, come here into the garage. I have some things I want to give you."

I obediently heeded Janet's summons, wiping the dust from my frumpy, baby blue sweat pants after kneeling on her bathroom floor where I was scrubbing.

As I approached her 4'11" frame, I noticed a scowl on her face as she eyed me from pony-tailed head to my white-stockinged feet. She didn't allow me to wear shoes or go barefoot in her immaculate condo, and I didn't have a suitable pair of slippers, so I simply wore my socks. At least this week I didn't have any holes in them. The smile disappeared from my face as her scowl deepened.

"I'm going to put you on a diet!" she announced.

The air in my lungs caught in my chest and tears immediately stung my eyes. I blinked them back, refusing to show any emotion toward this cold, heartless woman.

"You'll feel so much better if you lose weight!" she continued, shaking her head in disgust while her top lip curled into an Elvis impersonation.

Yes, I know I'm fat. I don't need some 87-year-old biddy to point out the obvious. Wait a minute, I was the cleaning servant! But she sure was ornery! And mean, and insensitive, and heartless, and ...

In the ten steps it took to cross her spotless living room, I became a child again, cowering beneath my mother's cricisms: "You're too chubby to wear pleats." "You're too fat to wear searsucker." "You're too heavy to wear big prints like that!" Then my mother's endearment for me echoed in my brain: Chunky Wunky. She thought it was cute. I hated it with a passion.

Still blinking back tears and trying to swallow the lump in my throat, I followed Janet to the garage off the west side of her home. As I stared at the back of her head, I fantasized about wrapping my hands around her neck and cutting off her windpipe. Nah, I wouldn't harm a single gray hair on her narcissistic head. But I wondered if she had any idea of how much her words stabbed me in the heart.

Probably not.

She opened a box on the table to display all her throwaways from Christmas. It was only two weeks ago and she was already trying to unload her unwanted junk on me. I was too spineless to tell her I didn't want it. I would simply pack everything into the trunk of my Saturn and throw it in the Dumpster when I got home. Except for that wreath--I'll keep that. And that gold garland might come in handy. Ooh, that red candle would look lovely on my antique steamer trunk. Who was I fooling? Her junk was my treasure! I'm sure one of these days she'd pawn something off on me that was best tossed in her trashcan. She thought she was doing me a favor letting me take her junk. I thought it was because she didn't want to deal with hauling it down to Goodwill.

I agreed to take everything simply because I didn't want to have to come up with excuses as to why I couldn't use it. I would be too tempted to lie, and I sure didn't want to do that. As she went back to her ironing in the kitchen (who irons their husband's boxers?), I returned to the guest bathroom to continue cleaning.

Pulling my cell phone out, I keyed in the following message: "Janet just told me she's putting me on a diet." I programmed my husband's number in, clicked "send," and let the tears flow, being careful not to sob out loud for fear she would hear me.

"What?" came the reply.

I hurriedly keyed in further details.

"Are you angry?" he asked after reading my message.

"Yes, but I'm more hurt than anything."

"I'm sorry," he responded. "I love you just the way you are."

I smiled. "Thank you, Honey. I needed to hear that. I love you too."

I tucked the phone away and finished the bathroom. For the next three hours as I cleaned a house that didn't need cleaning, her words kept replaying in my mind, and each time I told myself I was no good, I was fat, no one loved me, I hated myself.

I had been dealing with compulsive overeating for as long as I can remember. I remember stealing cookies from the cupboards in fourth grade, so I imagine my food issues started before that, but I can't remember exactly when. When I look at my elementary school pictures, I was always chubby, but when your mother cooks for a family of seven, there are never any leftovers so it's not like I ever had seconds. Were the portions she served way too big for my tiny body? We were admonished to clear our plates before being excused from the table ... starving children in Africa, ya' know. Was my mother to blame or was it me? Just how many potato chips did I steal, exactly?

When did the nasty looks start? When did the condescending remarks begin? When did people start judging me for being fat? Whenever it was, it started way before today.