What a Difference a Year Makes

It's been an interesting year. 

Just about this time a year ago, I had a phone screen for a job that felt and sounded interesting. It would be a slight pay increase, but carry a nice title bump, and OMG the fringe benefits.

And, as I'd eventually find out, I'd move from a place where I felt like my concerns and ideas were constantly dismissed, to a place where I was seen as the National Treasure Princess who obviously knew all in the world of communications, and for the most part, was to be valued, and trusted, and never ever dismissed. 

So I've spent the past almost year in a pretty fantastic place job-wise, and being grateful every day that I moved to a place where I am truly valued, and all I have to do is voice an opinion for that opinion to be heard. And listened to.

But, I've also spent most of that past year feeling dismissed. 

One of my friends put it best when she said she suspected that former Dietitian was weirded out by the fact that I actually, you know, ate.

Because it's true. I do eat. But there are rules. And guidelines. And what I need from a dietitian is for someone to throw the data and the science at me, and help me to see how those rules and guidelines can change -- and to challenge me to do it without making me feel either like a failure, or like my concerns are simply not valid. 

And that wasn't happening. To the contrary, it was more of fluff than even art, and certainly no science. (I once asked how she knew that this was the right amount of calories. She told me I hadn't gained weight. That's ... not what I needed to hear, especially when I did start holding on to every ounce of water weight like some sort of morphing jellyfish.) When I told her what my big triggers were, at the very first session, she listened at first ... and then implemented them anyway -- only stopping when Therapist 3.0 had a Come to Jesus talk with her and explained why these were legit issues, and that I wasn't just being difficult.

I don't suffer fools gladly. And more importantly, I don't tolerate someone not listening to my voice when I actually raise my opinion. 

And I hit a point that when I realized that going to see her was actually serving as more of a trigger -- both because she wasn't listening, and was dismissing my concerns, and because I was leaving hating myself more for feeling like a failure. 

So I did what any rational person would do and fired her via email the morning after our last session.

I have choices. And I can make them.

And my life is too valuable to spend it feeling dismissed. 

The Mythical Ten

It's almost embarrassing the number of times I've tried to get in my 10-mile run since the beginning of August.

There was the weather. It would rain. Or it would be miserable. And while I'll suck it up and push through if either of those conditions crops up while I'm running, I'm not going to *start* a 10-mile run in the rain.

Or there was my body. I'd go out, and my blood sugar would drop. Or I'd not even get out because I couldn't get stable. Or, even more frustrating, was going out, and getting either dizzy, or more frighteningly, starting to grey out. For the former, I'll push myself another mile to see if a snack and water clears things up, but for the latter, it's an instant Go to Jail Do Not Collect $200 card. 

So I've been going out and getting all of these 5 mile runs in, and a nice number of 3-5 miles, but not actually hitting my 10 miles. 

All the while, getting more and more frustrated and angry with myself that OMG I'm a failure because I can't do this mileage that I've done all these times before. And OMG I have a 10K coming up in September and WTF is wrong with me.

And then I got hit with the Death Cold. 

First day of Death Cold, Labor Day, was the day I intended to go out for real and do that 10 miles. It was supposed to be perfect weather (which it was) and I was looking forward to it. 

I ate breakfast (see, I try!) and after my two hours were up, tried to motivate myself into moving from the couch. Except that every time I stood up, I felt like I was going to hit the floor. 

Crazy, but not stupid. Also: See previous rule of "If I am greying out, I do not run." 

I kept hoping it would get better, but it didn't. So come 3:30 on Labor Day, when I still felt horrible, I called it done. And sat and sulked and cried and went to my sewing room.

And then woke up that Tuesday morning with a sore throat. Which progressed into full-fledged cold by Wednesday, and a sick day 

And as much as I hate not working out, I also recognize that when I have exercise and illness-induced asthma on a good day, trying to combine the two together with Death Cold was just going to be a bad idea. 

So. 10 miles. Still need to happen before Sept. 24, because I really don't want to do a 10K without covering the six miles recently first. And since I've done two half marathons, I know I *can* do 6.2 miles -- but more importantly, I want to do them well.

The Economics of It All

"You're not going to like what I'm going to say," Therapist 3.0 dropped on me shortly before she went on vacation. 

She was recommending that I think about going to a treatment center, because there were concerns, and she described recovery as being a full-time job. 

Which. Um, no. For myriad reasons, but also largely for economic reasons. Because I am not made of money, and I'm going through this world without a partner providing financial backup (and, really, at this point, because I'm also not FMLA eligible for another four months). I have good insurance and a good job, but there is no money tree in the garden, and I quite literally cannot afford this hit on my finances. 

It doesn't matter what her justification (or anyone's justification) might be. The stark reality of the situation is that I literally cannot afford anything that has me leaving work (even on a leave of absence) for an extended time. 

Which made me wonder. How on earth do people afford it all? Is this why eating issues are largely perceived as a Caucasian upper class problem? (And, it also made me wonder about how really, this would have been so much easier during that summer I was unemployed when a psychologist I saw strongly recommended inpatient. I had horrible insurance, but at least I had no financial obligations.)

That question reminded me of a link that someone in a Facebook group I read posted about the new Netflix series "To the Bone." (FWIW, no, I'm not watching it. Therapist 3.0 and I agreed that it likely wouldn't be the best idea, and instead, I'm waiting to see what other people think of it, and what she thinks of it if and when she sees it.)

One of the points that the article brought up in criticism of the series was the affordability factor -- largely, that dealing and treating this is expensive. Apparently the series makes it seem like this is all accessible, and the burden comes down on the patient for wanting to make it work.

But you know what? That's not the case.

Fun example time: I have good insurance and a fantastic job that pays me well, all things considering -- although I came to this job after almost a decade of being woefully underpaid. Supposedly, said insurance would cover 10 percent of a short-term (so less than 30 days ... ignoring the fact that the average residential length of stay is between 30 and 90) stay. OK, that's fine. I'd hit my out of pocket max pretty quickly. 

But then, you have a situation where for an adult, or a young adult/someone living on their own who is working, you're supposed to magically make do without a salary. Sure, I've got short-term disability coverage. But the reality? That kicks in after 30 days. If you're new at a job, and you don't have 30 vacation or sick days banked, you're starting out not only dealing with that 10 percent OOP cost, but then having to make it work on whatever salary you can scrape to come in. 

After the STD kicks in, it would cover 60 percent of my salary. Which. Sure, in an ideal world, I'd have the savings neatly tucked away to cover that 40 percent. But even that is to the ballpark of thousands a month, and heaven help me if a larger emergency came up. And if I don't have that emergency savings? Time to live off of credit cards and hope that all the bills get paid. 

Sure, that's fantastic while dealing with a serious health issue. 

Yes, I suppose if I wanted to, I could raid my IRA to cover it all. But then, the IRS will tax me, and because it's not a direct medical expense, I wouldn't be able to get the penalty waived. And then I'm in the hole come retirement. 

And that's not even talking about the side economic costs that aren't direct medical expenses. 

One outcomes study I read said that even people in a "normal"/healthy weight range gained weight during the course of IOP, inpatient, and other treatment programs. And inevitably, if you gain the weight to the level that they showed in the outcomes study, that involves going up a clothing size or three. 

Eating disorder thoughts aside, that then means having to replace a wardrobe so that you're not dealing with clothes that you are quite literally too big to wear. 

I've been through the wardrobe replacing time. The low end of the ballpark cost was in the $3,000 range. Sure, maybe I could do cheaper clothes by buying at thrift stores, but then you're compounding the issues of "nothing fits me anymore" with "I can't even afford clothes that are like the image I like to present." I have a professional job, and when you consider the number of sales and coupons that I stack, buying used clothes at a consignment store would actually be on par with waiting for sales and coupons. I can't just wear khakis and polos and figure it's all good. So then you're taking the patient, and in addition to having the weight gain, there's a situation where the clothes remain a painful and expensive situation that is either addressed shoddily, expensively (yay credit card debt), or not at all. 

And I don't see how any of that is better than the current situation. Because I don't see how either having no clothes, or having so much credit card debt (because don't forget, I'm trying to then live off the credit cards while I have only 60 percent of my salary coming in) is going to improve any situation. It simply doesn't. 

Talk about a load of barriers that would make anyone say, "No, this isn't worth it." 

The Girl and the Perfect Peach

One of the magical things I love about living in the suburbs is the peach tree.

I credit my realtor with pointing it out when we first looked at the property back in 2013. At that point, my agriculture knowledge was basically "Vegetables grow outside and that's best." So when we walked outside, he made a comment along the lines of oh, there's a peach tree.

I figured it was ornamental. Because really, who on earth has their very own peach tree and lives just 20 minutes from the city?

That first year, I went away for a conference (to Atlanta, ironically) and came back to find a decent number of cute little peaches. 

The second year was the year of the Polar Vortex. Whomp whomp. The poor buds froze before they even had a chance. 

The third year, a handful again. Nothing substantial, but hey, I couldn't complain. 

Nothing last year. I realized that maybe I was just going to get a harvest every other year. Cool. I could live with that. 

This year? OMG. So many peaches. 

It is by far the best harvest I've ever had. And indeed, this is the first year that I've seen the branches of the tree actually bend under the weight of all the fruit. 

The first Peach Day this year? I picked 50 pounds worth of peaches. In one day, I picked more peaches than I've ever gotten from that tree. 

These peaches will basically become my main source of fruit and fruit-related items over the fall and winter (the apple tree isn't quite up to snuff yet). Jam, ice cream, cobbler, and of course, regular frozen peaches. 

The new few weekends will be loads of work for sure, but it's worth it. 

Food as Concept

I feel like what surprises people is the extent to which I am into gardening. 

Especially when it's compounded with my usual concerns about summer, and then all of those concerns about food. 

But what gardening has been successful in doing is getting be to be interested more in food as a concept. 

I don't keep it a secret that yes, I do do food. But for me, the conflict comes in that I need to actually be interested in the food. 

And if I don't buy in to something, or I'm not inspired by it, or it's not part of my normal-as-safe routine? Well, that's when part of the challenge comes in. Compounded by the fact that there are all of those complicated rules on top. 

Including that whole "I don't like to eat out of season food" thing. 

Like, it turns out that prosciutto and honeydew? It really is as fantastic a combination as Pinterest would have you believe. Which I probably wouldn't have discovered if I hadn't grown honeydew this year. 

I've only eaten it before in my adult-on-my-own-food-buying-life as a fruit cup, and never would have thought to just buy a whole one in a store. 

But picking it from the garden? That makes it harmless. I grew it from seed, and I know what it's been through, and I know that nothing's been added to it or sprayed on it beyond my usual maintenance. 

The blackberries have been a fun experiment this year that actually provided me with breakfast throughout the year. 

Because you've got to do something with 2.5 pounds of blackberries, so scones it is! Especially when I like baked goods. I know what's in these, and I know how many calories. They're safe.

Ditto with the peaches. I rarely bought them before when I lived in New York, since it's hard to get locally grown peaches up there. And when I did, I'd can and preserve them. 

Now that I have a peach tree? Peach Day -- that day in the middle of August when the peaches are ready to go -- is one of the best times of the year. And then there's jam, and ice cream, and cobbler, and peaches to actually eat. 

Gardening not only helps with the fruit consumption. It also means that throughout the year, I know there's stuff in my freezer that I can trust. 

The eggplants and peppers are doing their things, and so are the tomatoes. Soon, it'll be at the point where I can prep stewed tomatoes and eggplant parm. 

Food to keep me good through the winter, and until the season starts again next spring. 

And thus I've upped the odds that if nothing else, there is at least something in my freezer that my garden has made brave and safe enough to eat. 

Of Course I Have Opinions on Swimsuits

Really, who doesn't? 

Spending the day at the beach got me thinking about it again. How other people carry and wear suits. What their comfort level is. What styles are coming back. What styles really should go away. 

In many ways, I thank my size as child and teen for making me likely less paranoid and less cautious about wearing a swimsuit in public. 

I was never anything resembling petite. Not fat, by clinical standards, but not petite. I carry my weight in my torso. Bikinis were never a thing that could happen for me. And, when you're a not-petite person doing varsity swim, you quickly accept that OK, everyone's going to stare at the fat girl in the pool, so wear the damn suit and get over it. 

Even after high school, it wasn't that I didn't care, as much as I accepted the reality. I was fat. But I liked to swim. So a swimsuit had to happen. 

I switched to tankinis when I went on the pump. I'm cool with showing the pump and its tubing when I'm in the pool, but I don't want to be an on-display diabetic when I'm at the beach, or generally just relaxing.

And that's when a difference started happening.

For some reason, in my head, a one-piece racing suit is different. It's going to cling, and you're going to see lumps, and that's just the nature of a suit. 

But tankinis by nature are tanks. They've got leeway to cover and drape, and thus, I had always bought them on the larger side.

Fast forward to this January. I knew that new tankinis needed to happen (so did new Speedos, but that's a different ball of drama and wax, since Speedo sizing is inconsistent ... but at least you know that going into it, and they do online returns easily). So I bought a few from Lands End during a sale, and figured that OK, lots of sizes, and return to Sears what didn't work.

Oy. For the first time in my life, I was confronted with the reality that OK, the hips are a 4, but the waist is an 8. And that the pictures on sale sites show people wearing suits that are much closer to their actual size than what I'd been wearing.

So I picked out a few, kept them, and promptly shoved them in a drawer.

Until the weekend of the Presque Isle Half Marathon. I went with what at the time felt like the best option, and tossed it in my bag. 

Pro tip: When you try to wear a swimsuit after a half marathon with an upset stomach, where there is endless boob sweat, and everything hurts, no suit will ever feel sexy. 

I came home and sulked.

And resolved to try it again.

So last Sunday, before going to the beach, I tried the options again. This time, I realized that OH, right, boob sweat. And found a combination that worked, and I happily put it on and went to the beach.

Where I proceeded to people watch. And saw that even though I feel like my torso must always be covered, there were lots of people with worse abs than I wearing bikinis, and seeming perfectly happy with it. None of them with pumps, of course, but with all of those lumps and bumps that I always feel are a public indicator of how fat I am. 

And there were people who were bigger than I was wearing bikinis, and seeming to give absolute zero fucks. 

Do I think I'll ever be comfortable in a bikini? No. 

But I am envious of the people who can be. 

Admitting My Biases

The news drama -- well, drama lite, I suppose -- about "cosmopolitan bias" got me thinking again about that trip to Ohiopyle last month.

(And I'll put it out here: I detest the current administration. I'm not defending the use of the phrase or the tactic.)

I was on my way to a Venture Outdoors trip, and passed a sign on a realtor's office about buying a second home in that region. 

The Laurel Highlands/Ohiopyle region is gorgeous. Honestly, having a home in the middle of that gorgeousness wouldn't be hard on the eyes.

But the thought that crossed my head?

"Yeah, but then I'd have to live here, and UGH."

The more I drove, the angrier I got. I kept thinking about how it's such a beautiful area, and it's currently so well protected, and OMG the people who live there surely can't appreciate it because OMG they voted for that idiot who wants to see the entire country go to a polluted wasteland again.

Well, there's my cosmopolitan bias for you.

You know something? I'll own it. 

In certain areas of this state, I give some serious side eye and distrust to those who aren't from the metropolitan areas. It's not that I think they don't know any better, and I'm not saying that everyone is provincially minded. But I have a hard time grasping how you can live in a natural, gorgeous area ... and want to do absolutely nothing to protect it. 

Which then eventually leads to me just getting grumpier and grumpier, knowing how those areas tend to vote, and then vowing and declaring that I may go there to hike and sunbathe, but only in small amounts, and I certainly would never live there. 

I think it's the years of living in northern New York, coupled with the intense bullying in middle school, junior high school, and high school, that built this bias. When you're made to feel like it's a horrible outcast to be smart and want more, then you start harboring some serious distrust and downward looking at those who come from that background who treat you that way. Which eventually colors into how you interact with others from similar backgrounds. 

AKA: How bias forms. 

And really? I should know better. I should do better. 

I can do better. 

In Which I Continue Being Happy with Mediocracy

The funny thing, I suppose, is that I initially hadn't planned on doing this race Friday night. 

I'd gotten entrance to the Liberty Mile as part of a triple-registration deal when I signed up for the Pittsburgh half marathon, and the EQT 10-miler. I figured I didn't necessarily care about this short little race, but it made the registrations for the other two races price out to be super cheap. And I got a free pint glass when I did the "megaticket" at the marathon's expo in May. 

So the plan was to bail on this one, since it wasn't that far after Presque Isle, and really, why bother. 

But then they said there would be free beer. 

And, well, I like beer. 

Of course, it was threatening rain before the race. And it was humid. And then it started sprinkling. But there was a Starbucks by the start line, so I grabbed an iced coffee, and then waited. 

The official story was that I didn't really have a time goal. But of course, me being me, I had my secret goals. 

The realistic? To do sub-11, since I was hitting that sometimes in training runs. 

The stretch? To do sub-10, since I didn't think I could actually run a mile in less than 10 minutes. 

I felt bad for any of the kids in my vicinity when I passed the timing signal at the 1/4 mile mark. 

2:45

My response? "Holy shit." 

Because me? I'm not a runner. And in my head, even without looking at my Apple Watch and Runkeeper, I knew that that time was something I'd never hit before. 

And then I just kept going. 

Much to my amazement, Runkeeper recorded my time as 9:25, and the official chip time was 9:26 (I think Runkeeper must have started right after I crossed the start line).

Blown. Away. I have quite literally never run any distance that fast in my life. 

So I finished, managed to change into skinny jeans in my car (without getting arrested for indecent exposure, which tells me the universe must have liked me Friday night), and went to grab that dinner and a free beer. 

And happily checked the official results when I got home. 

To my happy surprise, I was solidly in the middle of the pack again for age/gender, gender, and overall. 

Apparently I can haul ass when free beer is at the end of the race.

An Honest-to-God Princess Dress

So we've addressed that whole "yes, I'm a princess, get over it." thing.

Of course, that means I needed a work appropriate princess dress. 

Pattern: Vogue 1348

I was really surprised at how non-fiddly this pattern turned out to be. It looked rather intimidating, and the directions made it sound complicated, but it really wasn't. I made only one major modification -- I can't put in an invisible zipper to save my life, so I went for a regular zip, with my usual trick of basting it in by hand first, and then running it through the machine.

The pleats were incredibly easy to do. Basically, after pulling the sections together, make the pleat by gathering the fabric. So easy. And such a nice flare.

And it has an awesome petticoat. I did the gathers in sections to make it easier to gather at one time. That ended up being the perfect move, and it has the right about of fullness... there, at least. :) There's lots of volume in the hips, which shouldn't surprise me, considering that you can see that in the line art. I think I'm just not used to things fitting me like the line art says it should. 

And OH so fluffy to put it on. It's definitely a spinning type of dress, and I love the print and the fabric in this execution. 

Plus, it has POCKETS! And the pockets are hidden among the pleats and folds, so it doesn't even look like it has pockets.

I'm not completely thrilled with the fit. It's too big in the upper chest, and no amount of scaling would have fixed that, I think. The waist fits perfectly, but the pleats make the waist appear to have a lower drop than it actually does. It is very cute with a belt though to heighten the waist, so I'm going to keep that in mind as an option. 

I don't think I'll make this again. First off, it's a very distinctive pattern. Second, it's just a little too much volume around my hips. Very pretty, and I do love it, but I don't love it enough to need one in every color. 

Fabric: Italian Green/Gray/Black Abstract Printed Stretch Cotton Woven

Another Mood find, of course.

Mood's site says that I can toss the dress fabric in the dryer, but I think because of the organza and lining, that's not going to be an option for me. Joann says that the organza can go in the dryer, but I'm not finding anything on the lining. 

Lining was a white Bemberg lining from Joann... which of course, I can no longer find on their website. So that tells me that I'll either need to go back to using their Posh lining line, or start buying linings from Mood. I like the Posh, and it's cheaper, so I feel like that's probably what I'll keep doing.

I don't know what I was thinking in picking up a shimmering organza, but I regret nothing. I love how it makes me grin, and it definitely adds to the princess factor.

Trying to Mix Up the Routine

It's not that I have anything against being unpredictable.

OK. So maybe I have a lot against unpredictability. If I'm ever slaughtered by a serial killer, I'm sure my keeping a routine will be pointed to as a reason for why I made an easy target. I can just hear it now. 

So on Tuesday, she always went to barre. On Wednesdays, she always went to Starbucks. She always went to Whole Foods on either Saturday or Sunday. And she followed her weekend barre class with Bruegger's. 

In general, I don't have an issue with this. Where I tend to have more of an issue with it is when people mock the routine, question the routine, or otherwise point it out. 

From my perspective, it's like evidence-based data. If you know something works, you stick with it. 

I sometimes give the Dietitian The Look when she asks about the routine. Usually, it's because she's noticing that something changed, and then she's asking me why it changed. And some days, I really can't answer -- I need a cue either about the meal she's looking at, or the specific day. Because... well, while yes, the routine is important, sometimes in life, it's hard to pinpoint why the routine had to change. 

But, with that said, I will be the first to admit that I am typically thrown into a tailspin when the food routine gets disrupted.

Take last weekend. I saw on Facebook after barre that there was a transformer explosion/fire at the intersection where a) I turn to go home, but more importantly, b) where Bruegger's is. 

But I'm optimistic some days, so I went through that intersection, to see if maybe I could still get my bagel.

Sure enough, closed.

Not a problem, I think. I have food at home. 

Except for the bit when I got home and wandered for 45 minutes because I had no clue what I wanted to eat, nothing was inspiring me, and why should I bother with food that's not inspiring? 

Might need to think that routine a bit. Or, if nothing else, come up with backup routines. 

If Fast Fashion Doesn't Provide ... Make It Yourself

This dress really came about because no mainstream retailer was making what I needed this summer.

I felt like it was a basic request: A knit maxi dress that didn't require a strapless bra. Because sometimes, when it is stupidly hot, a strapless bra is the last thing one wants to deal with.

But I couldn't find one! They're available in maternity, it seems (seriously? only pregnant women get to be comfortable?), and with skinny little spaghetti straps, but nothing with a strap that is actually wide enough to comfortably handle a bra. 

Fortunately, when I got frustrated happened to line up with when fabric and Simplicity patterns were on sale. 

Pattern: Simplicity 1358

Repeat after me: Simplicity patterns are never actually simple. 

So many modifications on this one. It called for bands at the armholes and neck, but after doing the neck, and seeing how horribly it rolled -- it makes for a nice pattern, but isn't quite like what I was picturing -- I decided to use bias tape at the armholes. It worked much better, and gave more of the look and feel that I was going for. The band issue could have been because of the thinness of the fabric, but I don't regret leaving them out for the arms. 

I haven't done a final hem yet, but I think I'm going to lop a good six inches off the bottom. I love the Romanesque drape and flow of it, but at the end of the day, I need to pick up the skirt to walk in it as is, and that's not very practical. I think doing the deep cut will let me keep that flow, but also let me walk like a functional adult.

With that said, I will definitely remake this dress in the shorter version -- likely View E. I have the fabric, and just need to do it. It should be a feasible project for a weekend, as long as I actually stick to it. 

Fabric: Mint Boho Scroll

I so rarely buy fashion fabric from Joann these days. But I wanted something on the cheaper side, and to be honest, wasn't thrilled with any of the knit prints that Mood had. At this price, I could totally justify buying the fabric and not feel guilty about making a dress that I didn't necessarily need.

It was very easy and pleasant to work with, and definitely reinforced that for basic knits and cheap projects, I'll check out my local Joann. The cutting staff were pleasant, and you really can't beat the sales and coupons. 

The fabric flowed perfectly for this project. It came out as the weight that I wanted, and drapes nicely. A good choice, all around!

Thoughts from the Massage Table

I either completely suck at turning my brain off during a massage, or I am the poster child for train of thought relaxation during a massage.

• "I really should get back to blogging again."
• "Does she think I'm fat?"
• "I'm throwing a crapton of money at this. Let her think I'm fat."
• "OW. Yes, OK, my legs definitely needed this."
• "Oh. OK. That's better."
• "Why does a massage make me hungry? This happens every single time."
• "Do I need a snack? Maybe I'll get a snack when I'm done. Hey, that's better, I guess."
• "Ouch. Yes. That's a hip bone. Or maybe the flexor is just tight."
• "Oh, screw it. Everything is tight."
• "On the other hand, this is still more comfortable than an hour with Therapist 3.0." 
• "Maybe. That still really hurts."

I'm lucky in that after a rough start (maybe it is like psychotherapy afterall), I was so lucky to find a massage therapist who is beyond awesome. And, after walking around for way too long with generally tense muscles -- after our first session, she proclaimed that I was quite literally storing stress in my toes -- I decided that OK, if nothing else, I would get a massage after every race. 

In reality, I'd love to get a massage every other month. Sometimes, with the race schedule, that actually works out. But at any rate, still a worthwhile expense. 

Part of what I find invaluable about the massage routine is having someone who can take an objective look at my body, and point out what I may be missing -- or steer me back to a right direction. I've seen this massage therapist enough times now that she's comfortable making comparisons to how I've been before ... and likewise, since she's the one who knows musculature, I'm also comfortable asking questions that I may not be comfortable asking the Dietitian or Therapist 3.0. Especially since I don't feel like the massage therapist may have an ulterior motive. 

Don't see myself as a runner, I said. "I know you don't see yourself as one, but you've got the long and lean muscles of one."

Shouldn't I be gone of this water weight within a week? Cue laughter. "Um, no. Try two to three. At least."

Can I go for a swim since I need to do something to move? "Not unless you want to undo all of the work I just did."

And self-care? "Lots of water, and take it easy, and look at how your shoulder loosened up today."

I'll take it. 

Everyone Has a Bad Day

Second half marathon is down in the books. And oh, was it a doozy.

It turns out that when confronted with 80 percent humidity and lower GI issues, I can actually run faster on a broken toe. 

I started out fantastically -- for me, at least. A good pace, all the way up through mile 5. (5.08, to be precise.) And then, my system decided that nope, no way, we were not doing this thing. 

And on a course with no porta potties, of course. So losing time to go off course to find a public bathroom.

Any time I started at a pace beyond a brisk walk, I started cramping cramping cramping. And it was so humid. I knew that any chance of getting my sub 2:45 proof of time for Disney was out the window.

I was miserable by the time I finished. And I'm OK owning the fact that I was so absolutely miserable by the end. My stomach hurt, my timing and stats were pretty bad (although not absolutely horrible, so apparently other people also had a bad day), and despite planning on hanging out at the beach after, all I wanted to do was find a Starbucks and go home to my couch and Cat. 

And it didn't help that there wasn't actual bling -- just a plastic license plate vanity holder. I ... I can't even.

In a way, it's good to see that I'm not alone. In the days since the race, I've seen comments on one page about how the medals weren't actually, you know, medals. And that the race is so unorganized. And finding this blog post made me realize that OK, it may have sucked, but it wasn't all entirely my fault.

I think part of what made the race such a let down was that everyone I'd talked to who was a local runner praised it for being an easy, flat, fast race that I'd probably enjoy. 

When in reality? Sure, it was flat. And sure, I started out strong. But so unorganized. And I think I like the hills, because then there's the muscle relief when coming back downhill. 

Were there things I could have done better? Absolutely. I think I definitely need to start upping my mileage per week (MPW) and I'd like to start running more consistently. And oh god I am never ever again using a granola bar to try to stabilize before a long run. That was singlehandedly the biggest stupidest mistake I've made as a runner. 

I feel like the saving grace is knowing that I did the Pittsburgh half in a better time, on a more challenging course, and with a broken toe. So everyone has a bad day and a bad race, and learns something from that awful race. And my bad day and bad race and oh lessons learned came on the shores of Lake Erie. 

But hell. I'm still a runner. I still covered 13.1 miles without dying. 

How Providers Fail at Providing Care

I understand that medical provider transition is rough. I totally get it. In the past 18 months I've had two endocrinologists and three therapists. 

I don't expect anyone to totally grasp me and get all of the nuances up front. I don't. Really.

But I expect a baseline understanding of me as an individual patient. And a baseline understanding of what my baggage is, and why boilerplate and treating me like I've never handled diabetes is really not going to work.

I have been with this clinic for almost 10 years now. They have had an electronic health record system for all of this time. 

There is no excuse why a new provider, upon meeting me for the first time, can't take a few minutes to scroll the highlights. Because thanks to the last endo and her level of meticulousness, the highlights are pretty clear without having to scroll back all 10 years. Eating disorder. History of hypoglycemia. Type 1 for 35 years. Previous CGMS user. Refuses to go back on CGMS that requires an abdominal site. And a record of reinforcing that no, we need to find a non-caloric way to handle this hypoglycemia. 

Yet, there I was that morning, listening to the nurse practitioner -- since the clinic was taking a "any warm body" approach to my request of "Um, we have a problem and I have a race coming up" -- treat me like I was a stupid patient who knew nothing about diabetes or my body. For almost an hour. (My favorite line during this time may have been when she looked at my logs, noticed periods with no boluses, and then said "So, do you not eat during this time?")

I appreciate that she took time, but she would have been better used actually reading the history and coming up with a solution that, you know, we hadn't already tried. 

But what did she do instead? 

• Pushed snacks.
• Pushed the CGMS. (And suggested that if I still had any supplies left from my time on it, to go back on it for now.)
• Pushed the clinic's two-week blinded CGMS (WHY? We did this first. I got scolded because I didn't know how to calibrate it. And it provided nothing useful, besides, "Oh, hai, your latte makes you spike. Try this.")
• Pushed checking my blood sugar more often. (Keep in mind that they only *just* got the health insurance to approve eight strips a day. How else is this supposed to work?)
• Reminded me that I need to eat. 
• Told me to fuel while I run. 

And most lasting? 

Told me there was no pattern. I knew there was no pattern. I reached out for help trying to figure out how to mitigate the fact that there was no pattern. And how to mitigate the fact that I'm spiking after workouts, and then getting smacked in the head with a hypo six to 12 hours later ... even on the days when I don't workout. But not all the time.

I get that these are all solutions that would carry merit ... if you were talking to a patient who isn't me. 

But when you're talking to a patient who has a history of saying that no, we need to find basal patterns that work with my life, and I'm not feeding the damn insulin... and a patient who says "I won't go on CGMS because it was horrible for my body image, and I can't wear two sites in my torso because it makes me feel fatter than I am."... Then why do you use these tactics again?

Because what was my takeaway from that appointment? 

That in medicine, here, I am a number. I am not an individual patient. I am simply another type 1 diabetic who needs to be talked down to. That my perspective doesn't matter. 

And it makes me want to not go back.

Thinking About Physique, Fit, and My Past Life

I'm really sorry to anyone who's thought that I'm staring at them during class or while I'm running.

One of my hangups has always been whether something looks too tight, or whether it clings, Or whether it makes me look fatter than I think I am. Or whether it makes other people think that I'm fat. 

And lately, I've been needing to buy some new running and barre tops because my older ones have started to get embarrassingly big. Which I'd usually be OK with, but then I start to worry that people will think that I'm bigger than I am if there's all this fabric. 

But then, what happens is that I buy these tops, and I try them on, and I am convinced that they must be too tight, because they don't have extra fabric, and they actually... well, don't flow. They fit like a workout top is supposedly supposed to look.

So I run, or go to class, and my side thought process is usually "OK, is that how this is supposed to look? Is it too tight? Is mine too tight? Do people look at me like I'm looking at them?" Because I know the look I don't want to have, which I can basically sum up when looking at other people as "She didn't want to buy her actual size so she bought the size she wants to be." 

And I never want someone to look at me, and think that oh, it's such a shame I wouldn't buy my real size, but instead bought a tighter size that clearly doesn't fit.

On a site that I read, a question was posed about what the ideal aesthetic was. A lot of people commented with rather extreme examples, but it got me thinking about what mine was. And I realized (because sometimes, the rabbit holes of the Internet do have usefulness) that I don't want to be thin, because I don't think I ever can be thin. But I want the aesthetic of a distance runner. 

enter awkward silence here

Muscular, but lean. Powerful, but not flabby. Which in turn got me thinking about how my clothes fit me, and what the perception might be to others. And that do I actually have this frame, even though I cover it up? 

When I was in class a few days ago, I was thinking about a conversation I'd had with a couple of colleagues back when I'd been writing a piece on an program expansion in the eating disorder program at Former Employer. 

In what still remains one of the most awkward workplace experiences ever -- the medical director, who I was interviewing, knew I was a former patient, and her colleague, the program director, who I was also interviewing, did not -- at one point, the program director made a comment about how their patients "totally could" wear slimmer clothes because they had the body for it, but because they thought they were fat, they wouldn't. And that they went for baggier clothes.

And at the time, this really didn't apply to me, I thought. I don't think I even used that example in the finished piece because I had to be brief-ish, and there were other anecdotes that worked better. (Because hey, for as awkward as that interview was, it was an awesome feature, and a writing sample that I will continue to use in my professional portfolio.)

But then, thinking about clothes and class and fitness, and the physique that I wanted, made me realize. I wear a size small/XS (depending on cut), with size 4 leggings. Maybe that runner's frame is actually there. 

And I think those clothes aren't big enough because obviously I'm fat and I can't have clothes that show my actual size. Because who would want to see my actual size? 

But then I look at other people, and I look at the website pictures, and I see that how it looks on me is how it looks on them. In my head, though, it's still too clingy, and it still makes me look fat, and hell no does anyone want to see that. 

So. Um. Maybe there are some similar thought patterns after all. 

I don't know what I think about wearing a top that is actually my size. And actually looks like the pictures say it should. Because in my head, it's not my size, and it can't possibly look on me like it does on them -- even though the mirror is pretty clear. 

So that's why I stare. To see if I look like what I think others look like, and whether I can decide if that's what I can accept on me.