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.