Hips

I’ve bought my clothes at Talbot’s Woman shop for years. They are a little pricey, but well constructed and designed for real women’s figure. I could get professional looking stuff there to wear at work and look like I cared.

Now that I’ve lost almost 30 pounds my size 18W and 16W pants were just hanging on me. People at work were saying, “You’ve lost a lot of weight and your pants are too big.”

So today I went to the mall and walked into the Talbot’s where the ladies sizes are, rather than the women’s. I told the sales clerk, a friendly woman about my age, that I’d lost 30 pounds and wasn’t sure what size I needed, but I reached for a size 18 jeans, the largest size they sell in ladies. I was amazed to find they were too big! The ladies size 16 actually fit me, and in one style of pants the size 14 was the best fit. I ended up with 4 new pairs of pants for work and the jeans. I was so excited by the size 14 fitting me, and the sales clerk, who probably wore a size 6 or 8, was just as excited as I was. She asked me how I lost 30 pounds, so of course I explained to her all about Spark People. She said she wanted to lose weight around her middle. (I guess nobody is satisfied with their figure.) The other sales clerk was a bigger woman, with a nice big booty. She got involved, too, and wrote down the name of the website.

I’m trying hard to enjoy the size I am without worrying too much about what size I may be 6 months from now. I know there are people wearing a size 6 who can’t wait to get into a size 4 or a size 2, but for me a size 14 was a real thrill.


Here is a poem for all those lovely, big-hipped women who are happy and proud of what they are. It’s by Lucille Clifton. She’s an African American woman who has written a number of books of poetry, as well as books for children.


Homage to My Hips


these hips are big hips
they need space to
move around in.
they don’t fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don’t like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top!

Safe Snacks

I read a great Spark Article recently about creating good snacks to have on hand when the urge to eat strikes. The idea is to keep cut up fruits or carrot sticks in the fridge or small servings of nuts or cheese ready to go. This is really important for me. My diabetic diet calls for 3 meals and 3 snacks a day to keep my blood sugar level. It is much better for me to have a banana with me at work for a late afternoon snack than for me to get a bag of peanut M&M's from the vending machine. I'm making a good effort to snack healthy as well as eat healthy meals.

Some where along the way I ran across the following poem by Mandy Coe and the pun at the end cracked me up.

Mandy Coe is a prize winning British poet. (I guessed she was British by the title. A cheese and pickle sandwich just sounds like something the Brits would eat.) To me the poem also addresses one of the reasons people snack - it's easier than a relationship. Tell me what you think.

Go To Bed With A Cheese And Pickle Sandwich

by Mandy Coe

Go to bed with a cheese and pickle sandwich.

It is life enhancing.
It doesn't chat you up.
You have to make it.

A cheese and pickle sandwich
is never disappointing.
You don't lie there thinking:
Am I too fat?
Too fertile?
Too insecure?

Your thoughts are clear,
your choices simple:
to cut it in half
or not to cut it in half,
how thin to slice the cheese
and where you should place the pickle.

From a cheese and pickle sandwich
you do not expect flowers,
poems and acts of adoration.
You expect what you get:
cheese... and pickle.

You want, you eat,
and afterwards you have eaten.
No lying awake resentful,
listening to it snore.

Safe snacks.
It comes recommended.

Music Like the Curve of Gold

I listened to "Highlights from the Marriage of Figaro" while on the treadmill this morning. I like all kinds of music, but the perfection of Mozart gives me goose bumps every time.

Yesterday I woke up to find it had snowed over night, only an inch or so, and the pine trees in the back yard were lightly frosted. What a magical sight!

I'm not going to die wishing I'd spent more time at the office, or wishing I'd spent more time cleaning house. We need to remember that life is full of loveliness for us to enjoy. Take the time to enjoy it.

Here is another poem by Sara Teasdale that is, well, lovely.

Barter

Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up,
Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like the curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstasy
Give all you have been, or could be.

Work

I broke my ankle at the end of September, and didn't go back to work full time until yesterday. I enjoy my job and I'm not ready to retire, but I have to admit that my work poses challenges to healthy living.

First challenge is lunch. I have three choices for lunch. I can bring something from home. That's the best choice, but boring. There is a cafeteria on the first floor of our building. Their food is full of fat and salt, and not even that good. Then there is a Chinese restaurant next door to the office where the food is excellent, the prices are reasonable, and the staff is friendly. My first day back at work I went to the Chinese restaurant where I had my usual order of hot and sour soup and chicken cashew. Great food. Not so great to track it later, even though I brought home half of the chicken cashew.

I packed a lunch today.

Second challenge is finding time for exercise. I work what's called a 5/4/9 schedule. I work 9 hour days (or more) and get every other Friday off. With a half hour commute each way in traffic I don't usually get home until almost 6:30 pm. By the time I change clothes I am starving and my blood sugar is low. My husband is certainly ready to eat. But, if I eat dinner first, it's almost 8 pm. before I can get on my treadmill, and I go to bed at 10. Last night I gave up exercising in favor of sitting with my daughter as it was her last night before flying back to the west coast. Tonight I did the treadmill before dinner, but that made dinner time even later.

I don't want to change my work schedule, because I love having every other Friday off.

Does anyone have any suggestions on how to fit regular exercise into my day?

While you think about it read the following poem by Langston Hughes, which is a real favorite of mine.

Necessity

Work?
I don’t have to work.
I don’t have to do nothing
but eat, drink, stay black, and die.
This little old furnished room’s
so small I can’t whip a cat
without getting fur in my mouth
and my landlady’s so old
her features is all run together
and God knows she sure can overcharge—
Which is why I reckon I does
Have to work after all.

Painting a Room

My father could paint a window frame without masking tape and not leave a spot of paint on the glass. He had steady hands, and incredible patience.

My painting is more reckless, and I use lots of masking tape, but I am generally satisfied with the results. I painted a small room over the Christmas holidays to house my treadmill and it looks pretty good. I’m having bamboo flooring installed now that the painting is done, and I will be ready to start my new exercise program.

The woman in the following poem is painting a space that she has lived in for 10 years and is leaving. She is already feeling the loss of the life she leaves behind. In a way she is painting over that life in preparation for starting over somewhere else. I was thinking of this poem as I painted my new exercise room, and thinking of my father, who recently moved to a VA home. At 96 he is starting over.

I found the poem on the Poetry 180 website, one of my favorite places to find new poetry.


Painting a Room

Katia Kapovich

Here on a March day in ‘89
I blanch the ceiling and walls with bluish lime.
Drop cloths and old newspapers hide
the hardwood floors. All my furniture has been sold,
or given away to bohemian friends.
There is nothing to eat but bread and wine.

An immigration visa in my pocket, I paint
the small apartment where I’ve lived for ten years.
Taking a break around 4 p.m.,
I sit on the last chair in the empty kitchen,
smoke a cigarette and wipe my tears
with the sleeve of my old pullover.
I am free from regrets but not from pain.

Ten years of fears, unrequited loves, odd jobs,
of night phone calls. Now they’ve disconnected the line.
I drop the ashes in the sink, pour turpentine
into a jar, stirring with a spatula. My heart throbs
in my right palm when I pick up the brush again.

For ten years the window’s turquoise square
has held my eyes in its simple frame.
Now, face to face with the darkening sky,
what more can I say to the glass but thanks
for being transparent, seamless, wide
and stretching perspective across the size
of the visible.

Then I wash the brushes and turn off the light.
This is my last night before moving abroad.
I lie down on the floor, a rolled-up coat
under my head. This is the last night.
Freedom smells of a freshly painted room,
of wooden floors swept with a willow broom,
and of stale raisin bread.