When I was a kid, every New Year I had that familiar feeling of hopefulness, the buzz of excitement. This year could be different. This year could be better. I could be better.
My resolutions were always the same. Every year. “Lose 5 pounds.” “Read the newspaper.” “Toe out.” The “toe out” resolution was because I was pigeon-toed, and I could just hear my internal critic saying, “Toe out.” “Read the newspaper” was because I felt pressure from my Mom and brother to “know what was going on in the world.” And third, “lose five pounds…” because I thought I was fat. I wasn’t, though. (Not that it should matter.)
As I got older, I realized that two of “my” resolutions had very little to do with me. They were the internalized critical voices I’d adopted from my family, especially my siblings. (Sorry, sibs. True, but I still love you!). When Jackie Joyner-Kersee, who is also pigeon-toed, won a silver medal in the heptathlon in the 1984 Olympics, I figured, hey, maybe pigeon-toed ain’t so bad after all.
The Los Angeles Olympics were Jackie’s first Olympics, and at the time, I was but an impressionable 14 year old. A woman’s heptathlon is madness: a seven-event competition that includes the 200-meter run, 800-meter run and 100-meter hurdles. I was no runner, whether 200 or 800 meters. I was no runner of any kind, actually.
Even though I’m neither a runner nor an Olympic hurdler, I sure as hell have overcome some pretty impressive hurdles in my life! Big hurdles, too, like epilepsy. Being left-handed. Pigeon-toed. The amazing athlete bad-ass and fellow pigeon foot, Joyner-Kersee, helped me let go of that stupid resolution. Pigeon-toed. Ha! So, in 1984, “Toe-out” was struck from my three part New Year’s resolution list forever.
My second New Year’s resolution, also from an internalized critical voice, was “read the newspaper.” The truth is, as a sensitive kid, reading the newspaper really stressed me out. It still does, especially now in Corona and even more during Trump’s presidency. There’s usually no good news in there. I was always much more a comics reader than headline reader, because, let’s be honest, it’s all crap. Eventually, I started peeking into the paper-o-news and found “Hints from Heloise,” along with “Dear Abby.” Those I loved reading.
One day, I caught a relevant “Dear Abby” column. The advice-seeker explained she was too stressed when she read a newspaper, but she felt pressured to do so by society. Hey, I could relate! (I wasn’t the writer-in-er, but it sure rang true for me!) Dear Abby (or maybe it was Heloise) assured her advice-seeker that she shouldn’t impact her own emotional well-being trying to follow the pressure from her friends, family, or society. Some of us are just more sensitive, and it might not even be good for us. It seems so obvious to me now, but it really is okay to opt out of reading the stressful newspaper sometimes (or even most of the time.) I know it must be okay. I read it in the paper!
Finally, my third resolution (and this one really was “mine,” because I adopted it deeply and held onto it for years) was to lose that perpetual, impossible “last five pounds.” If only I could do that, my life would be perfect, right?
The problem was, I didn’t need to lose five pounds. Around 6th grade I was actually a stick. My brother teased me and called me “bacon,” which was mean, but I forgive him, especially if he reads this. I always envied the thin (yet also perfectly voluptuous) figure of my sister, who was four years older than I. My cousin said I had “baby fat,” which, at some point, I guess I did, because apparently that is the regular course of childhood growth. At some point, a lot of little kids get “baby fat…” but then they also grow out of it. Unfortunately, nobody ever told me that, and I never did update my self-image once the baby fat I had in my teens had peeled off. (At least not for a long time).
Years later, when I had actually gotten really fat, then lost 60 pounds, I reported to the same cousin that I was now 130 pounds. He said, “wow, you must be a stick.” Yep, now I was a stick again, just like in 6th grade, when I was sporting my baby fat and developing “disordered eating.” A friend told me that it is called “disordered eating,” when you are on the verge of having an eating disorder but not fully immersed in one. Yet.
In the fifth and sixth grade, I used to keep track of my eating and punish myself with exercise. Everything I ate had to be charted; then I would have to do some form of exercise to compensate. One sandwich equaled 25 sit-ups. One apple, 10 pushups, and so on. For a long time as an adult, I hated exercise. (No wonder). I still love eating, but now I don’t hate to exercise anymore. I realize it’s not meant to be punishment, and it never was. I just didn’t learn that until I was older. Sad, huh?
Also, a brief shout out here to “Team Body Project,” because they are awesome. Just awesome. My husband and I started to work out with Team Body when Covid quarantine started, and it’s been a great habit in our lives.There’s something really satisfying about working out. Punching, especially. Maybe it’s the demons from the past that I punch in order to let go of them. (Obviously, I still need to do plenty of punching, but that’s okay. I am human, after all–even though I’m pigeon-toed). There’s nothing quite as satisfying as a good ole piston punch, upper cut, or jab. It feels good to feel powerful; it feels good to feel strong, and I like it. (I’m going to work out right after I finish this entry, in fact).
Even though I don’t need to lose five pounds anymore, I know I still want to work out, for my health’s sake. It seems even more important than ever now with our buddy Corona hanging out, and its latest variant, Omicron. I sure as hell wish I could punch it away and knock its ugly ass out. Then I might eat a sandwich. And an apple. I wouldn’t write it down, either. Take that!
