A Stripped Phillips Head is Never Functional

On Sunday, I found myself rooting through the junk drawer in the kitchen looking for a Phillips head screwdriver. The hinge on the pantry was missing a wood screw and I finally had a day off to fix it. There were usually screwdrivers, and other random small tools in there like a regular or needle nose pliers, intermixed with the old cell phone charging cords, random paper clips, old pens and a variety of things I probably really didn’t need anymore but don’t have the heart to throw out. I did locate said screwdriver, three of them as a matter of fact. Unfortunately, none of them would work. Kids and tools. It’s a thing. All three of them were nearly flat at the tip. I am guessing they were used to stab holes in concrete or a tree branch or whatever thing kids want use a Phillips head for that does not involve screws.  Even the previously mentioned pliers are sadly stripped from gripping God knows what, and not functional.

It would appear the hinge situation would require a trip upstairs to the secret tool box hidden in my closet. The fact is, I am kind of a tool nerd. Yes, I like to fix things around the house. I am the woman who went to the local home improvement store looking for an 18V cordless screwdriver because the 6v I had was not going to do it for the job I was doing. Besides, who doesn’t need a high volt cordless screwdriver? That visit was frustrating as three different male employees walked me to the pink screwdriver that took double A’s.  I think they thought I had some dainty little Pintrest project to do instead of changing out bathroom hardware.  Anyway, as I headed toward the stairs toward my secret tool stash, I happened to glance at the calendar. August 19. It was my granddaughter’s second birthday. I had gotten so wrapped up in that I had forgotten it was another very important anniversary for me.

Fourteen years. Fourteen years ago that day. I laid in a hospital bed 296 pounds, waking up from anesthesia from my roux-en-y gastric bypass. That was the day I just knew I would never be fat again. The answer. The fix. Here it was in a magical four hour surgery. Just follow the rules and surgery would take care of the rest and all the horrors of a lifetime of obesity would be gone. Well..... That assumption would prove to not be entirely accurate. Yes, I lost weight. Yes, I hit my goal, even dipped below it for a time losing 135 pounds. I even did a commercial for the group that did my surgery. Yes. My 15 mins of fame in the greater Dayton, OH area. The two days of filming was like my swan song as someone did my hair and makeup and right there under the lights, I had triumphed over my previous demons.

Years would pass. As with most things the “rules” would get a bit looser. I would start getting away with more food wise. Old habits crept in. It was ok. Some regain happened. Besides, I assumed it was part of the deal. Twenty pounds came back. Well, I figured I was not 296. So it was ok. Still a huge success. After a decade of gradual misuse of food, I found myself up 85 pounds and once again, obese. I was starting all over. Maybe not my lifetime maximum but starting all over again. Suddenly, facing a huge number. As I embarked on this journey three and a half years ago I had to really look at the surgery. Did it “not work” as so many like to say about it? 

Well, I wouldn’t say that. I was told  on day one this was a “tool”. Not really the miracle or the final answer. It was a tool. I suppose in the end, like those dull Phillips heads that plague my junk drawer if I used the tool other than the way it was intended it probably was not going to work well for me. For someone who loves tools and even spent one full day in complete nerded bliss over my new mitre saw, how is it I could use a tool so improperly? 

Maybe the answer was to realize that really no single tool will get us to good health.  I had ignored intentional exercise to use my body as an efficient machine to control the intake.  I had ignored the self care activities that now feed my spirit like a badass mani, coffee with a good friend or a new pair of running shoes.  What I was left with was 85 pounds of fat and a proverbial junk drawer of useless crap. 

I am happy to report on Sunday, I got my sharp, well cared for Phillips head out of it's padded metal box, installed a new wood screw, and the pantry door once again closes properly.  Said Phillips head is now safely back in its home, still sharp and ready to be used effectively on a moment's notice. As for my gastric bypass?  I have once again made my peace with the "rules" and am using them effectively for nutrition, however, I have come to learn that good health, much like big projects,  always need more than one tool.  I guess that's why my badass tool box has the coolest pair of needle nose pliers you have ever seen and a complete socket set.  I may not be perfect at using all of my tools, but one thing is for sure, I protect them like precious gold and try to keep others from dulling their purpose. 

I think I still have a long way to go to learn how to master all of my health tools, but am  grateful for being at my goal weight for two and a half years, the ability to take on new challenges and knowing in my heart of hearts the best is yet to come.

Learning to Live Again

This morning after Orangetheory, I found myself on the Mohawk Hudson Bike trail doing my normal half marathon training run.  For someone who used to hate every single thing about running, I am coming to covet this time a bit as I am alone with my own thoughts for a change.  Today, I found myself reviewing the week.  Monday.  Yeah.  That was a day.  I did what most people in their late forties do, I had a "procedure."  Really it was an upper endoscopy to try to find an answer to my god awful acid reflux.  Yes, I know.  I drink a ton of coffee, but no, I am sure that plays no part in this.   I had spent that morning extremely pissed off.  I finally got a day off and I got to waste it being sedated with a camera shoved down my throat.  I didn't get to work out. I didn't get to go get the grocery shopping done, pay the bills or deal with the mountain of laundry in the corner.  I had to do this instead. Well, I had it in my mind I may not be able to drive after due to the drugs, but I still could deal with the house stuff.  Yes, I would be done in an hour, go home and hit the ground running.

There was an issue with that notion.  I couldn't.  I was tired.  The drugs had left me tired.  OK, I'll take a little nap, and then I will get things done.  I found myself in my adult son's room, as it is separate from the rest of the house.  If I walled myself off from the kids, I could power nap without interruption and then get busy.  Only, the bed was warm.   Like a cozy cocoon.  The Netflix was good, and suddenly I was more tired than I remember being in a very long time.  I had slept two hours Sunday morning after my overnight shift to make it to Goat Yoga on time (more on that experience later), and stayed up until midnight after that taking care of household things.  The six hours of fitful sleep that followed that as I had anxiety over the procedure, did not prove restorative.  Suddenly, my post procedure "power nap" was four hours long.  I was warm and cozy and slept like the dead.  I woke up feeling better, put dinner on the table and spent the rest of the evening continuing my Netflix binge watch and moving very little.    My step counter for the day read .37 miles.  Certainly a low for me. 

When I got up on Tuesday, I felt energized and ready to go.  I began to wonder why it was I am so oppositional to giving myself the rest I so clearly need.  I used to think it was more about not wanting to slide backwards by missing a workout, but as I chugged along on the trail today, I began to think that this may not be totally the case.  My "procedure" had forced me to a place I realize now, I have learned to avoid.  Years of being cocooned in my basement, with carb laden salty snacks and Netflix night after night had produced a shield of fat that kept me perfectly isolated and unhappy.  I had convinced myself at the time, that this was my reward for working all day, and moming all night.  However, a certain amount of guilt always followed this, and  I would go to bed each night, promising myself that I would start again the next day, only to fail time and time again.    Now, that I have emerged from that place, fit and healthy, with the badass butterfly tattoo on my left ankle signifying my escape from the cocoon of misery, I think maybe it isn't the fear of going backwards that has me push back on rest day, but the resentment of the years when rest and unhealthy snacks had become my primary activity. 

What happened after my day of rest?  I went to Orangetheory for class, and after had the best training run I have ever had for my half marathon training.  Thirty minutes of intervals all run at a sub 9:30 pace.  Granted it was on the treadmill, making control a lot easier, it was still a win for me.  That proved two things to me, I need rest and I need to trust I can run faster outside if I just get out of my own way.  As these things came into focus today, I would find sudden wisdom in my running playlist.   The Foo Fighters.  "Times Like These" would come on in my third mile.  "It's times like these you learn to live again..."  Three and a half years of learning to live again outside of the cocoon of my basement, under a sea of salty snacks, maybe had a steeper learning curve than I originally anticipated.  In fact, I am quite sure I have quite a bit left to discover about learning to live again.

 I would end my run today at Lock 7, admiring the massive amount of lily pads, watching a cardinal fly by suddenly knowing in my heart of hearts my mom was right here with me urging me to keep learning how to live again.  I may never get good at rest day, but I can try.  Regardless, though, one thing is for sure, the best is yet to come.