A Rosen By Any Other Name

What will your name be after the wedding?

As The Regulars know, I’m getting married in 83 days. Married to the man who starred in 25 years of my adult dreams (not that kind, you pervs), and who found me again last year, fat, miserable and living in “interesting” circumstances.

Despite my attempts not to wish too much into Howard’s return, and against his own self-proclamation that we move things slowly, we’re now less than 12 weeks from wrapping ourselves and our lives around each other forever.

Not that I can imagine a tighter, more permanent knot than we have now. Our little family rituals warm me; from the soft of the ‘good-nights’ we give each other as DS falls off to sleep, all the way to the grit of battling work, school and PMS. These days I’m so happy that it’s hard for me to remember sometimes that there’s a lot going on, and that even though it’s all happy, it’s still stress.

I’m hoping that the end of this next period brings a new low and I’ll be within a pound or so of goal. So here comes maintenance. I’m so busy at work that I haven’t taken a proper, sit-and-be-quiet lunch break since I converted in April, and in a few weeks, I’ll begin my MBA program. On top of that, bridal dresses are coming in, wedding invitations call to me from beneath their tissue-paper cocoons, and the guest list fluctuates daily with a ‘are they coming/they might not’ that bests old Dr. Doolittle’s Push Me-Pull You in the number of hairpin turns it takes.

Just my side of the list changes, mind you. Howard’s list built itself the night we authored it, went through a simple edit when we showed it to his parents, and, apart from the rare news that someone simply cannot comes (with reasons such as ‘we don’t live in the country anymore’), it’s a fixed entity.

Not so the Bride’s side. Folks I wouldn’t invite to lunch are offering to invite themselves to the wedding, and others, such as my father and both surviving grandparents, drop off, their lives too difficult and/or complicated to make the drive out from Ohio. It’s crazy, and it makes me wonder about myself and why I chose/was chosen by this group of people to represent ‘my loved ones’ at the most important ritual of my life.

On that note, and a sparkling bright spot in the ‘second-to-last-minute preparations’ parade, my brother has stepped up in a gargantuan way, agreeing not only to walk with me down the aisle, but getting his tux right away AND joining Howard in the ‘I’m wearing a real bow tie’ extravaganza at the wedding.

I’m so glad I asked him. It felt weird not including him in the party before, and when I think about it, he’s probably a better escort for me, all things considered. “T” has seen more and lived more and been through lots more crap with me. I’m glad he’ll be in the pictures, and I’m relieved that his tie will look great (here’s hoping that he can show Howard how to do his tie, too.).

I’m so looking forward to the wedding, and even though some of the glitches are heartbreaking, I know that it will run smoothly and beautifully, and as close to Plan as could be expected, given there’s 100 people and heavy hors d'oeuvres involved. So, that’s aside for now. On to the whole Post-Wedding Name Change dance.

I’ve noticed that as the wedding approaches, that I’m getting a lot of ‘so, tell me what your new name will be’, and ‘what shall we call you after the wedding?’ I hadn’t thought much about it before. Howard and I breezed through it right after the engagement, and Grandma Florida lobbed it up once in her typical supportive, ‘I love ya regardless of your answer’ way, so I really hadn’t considered that it merited thought until now. But I think I’m ready to discuss it.

I’ve been Amy Mc______ my whole life. Yes, I’ve been married before. But I never changed my name legally, and though I went ahead and petitioned for the ‘return of my maiden name’ at divorce time, the fact is that I’ve been me, and considered as me, and addressed as me, since my mother named me forty-two years ago.

The reasons not to switch names at marriage have changed over time. I didn’t want to worry about changing it back—too late for that, and, per above, it doesn’t matter. A woman gets married, it is assumed that she has legally changed her name. The only mystery is whether she keeps her middle name or substitutes her ‘maiden’ name in its place. For a (long) while, I considered it personally offensive that I would be the default Gal in Court, and in line at Social Security, and starving over lunch at the DMV, to get my name switched over. And then, I just got old, and decided that if I’ve been Amy Mc________ this long, I might as well stay this way. And anyway, it amuses me when people ask, ‘so what will your name be after the wedding?’, and I reply, “Amy”, or “Mc_________”.

That doubled up in logic when I convinced X to let me name DS with my last name, rather than his. He was unconcerned about Carrying On The Family Name, and when I pointed out that I’d be carrying the babe for 40 weeks (ok, it was 39 weeks and 5 days) and pushing said infant (NINE POUNDS) from my loins, that perhaps I’d prefer it if the creature got my stamp, he agreed.

All good, and I’m glad of it, but now, faced with Howard and the memory of several girlish years when I tried his last name with my first, the argument grays up. I’m still 42, I’m still Me, and DS still shares my name. I still like my name, I like being a “Mc”, that odd place between “M” and “N” in the alphabet (according to every set of index cards). It’s got character, and it’s got Mother Ireland in there (where I’ve never been, and btw, my “Irish” ancestors were from Kentucky).

But now….now I don’t know. I think about my family. Good, hard-working, blue collar folks who couldn’t catch a break if it were made for them. They’re tough, they’re survivors, and they’re mine. But they’re not particularly warm. They….WE live far away from one another, we don’t gather together at holidays, and ‘infrequently’ is about the best we do on communication. We don’t know anything personal about one another, we don’t talk about anything of consequence, and when we get married, well, we’re happy, we suppose, but we don’t go. Can’t get off work. Too much to do. See you at the reunion. Maybe.

I’m at fault, too. I haven’t been home to Ohio since the year I got pregnant, and even then I took the trip with great reluctance. That was 2001. The trip before that was seven years prior, in 1994. I’d just broken up with the Step-Father and I didn’t care for the idea of reading all day alone on Christmas and seeing if it really is true that Chinese restaurants stay open. The year before that was 1987, when my grandmother died.

I call my mother when I can’t remember the last time I spoke to her, and I call my sister never. I have no idea where any of my aunts or uncles live, I don’t have anyone’s phone number, and I wouldn’t recognize their spouses, their children, or even most of them, if we passed on a sidewalk. It’s just how we are.

Howard’s family is like the antimatter of mine. They all live far away, but they’re tight and they’re involved with each other, and they seem genuinely to enjoy being together. They have issues, but it’s accepted as part of The Package, and even now, every day, their sense of inclusion warms me until I weep. Why wouldn’t I want to be a part of a family like that? Believe me, I do. It’s everything I never knew existed, and now that I’ve found it, want it every day forevermore.

His friends are the same stock. Loyal, loving, close and involved in each other’s lives. Not everyone is First Class Friend, but anyone who’s around is cared about and known. Why would I want to separate myself from that? I don’t; not at all. In fact, I’m rather looking forward to the new friends I’ll make under the Happy, Bordering on Ecstatic mindset. I’ve made lots of friends during the Unhappy years, and the products of those are as disappointing as you’d imagine. Not everyone is less than desirable; many are not, in fact. But enough of the Old Life Crowd exists to remind me that there could be something better that awaits me on the other side of this wedding.

So now I’m looking at my wedding as this unbelievably magical moment that has this unexpected surprise to it. In joining this family and these friends, I get an opportunity to grow up and grow old in a culture of acceptance, where I am known and understood. I’m an old dog (okay, cat), and I’m proud of me. I’m proud of many things I’ve done, and I’m even proud that I have regrets, because it reminds me that I’m human, and that my life, even now, creaks and sways sometimes. I also realize that marrying Howard and changing my name wouldn’t put any of my history behind me. It wouldn’t change anything about who I am. But these days, when I think about where I want to be and who I want to become, it’s that woman married to Howard, living happily ever after. And I want everything that involves, inside AND out.

I still don’t know what I’ll do regarding the law, but no matter how my business card reads, and no matter how I sign my social security checks in 20 (25?) years, come October 13, 2007, in my heart I will be Amy R. Those of you who didn’t know me before may simply call me “Mrs. Rosen”.

Kidding. At least for now. After all, I just introduced myself to the kid next door as “Mrs. Mc”. But no matter. He knows I’m getting married soon. I’m sure it’ll be no surprise to him that I’ve changed my name.

A the T(welve Weeks to Go).

PS-Happy Anniversary, my darling.

Eat No Evil

Cripes, I’m hungry.

I don’t know whether it’s just some evil trick that my body is playing on me, but lately I’m like an orphan in “Oliver!”, singing about food, glorious food. Suddenly, my previously-trained eyes are darting to donut boxes and Spanish-rice specials at work. Yesterday I saw my boss eating a salad that was literally a ranch-dressing soup, and my mouth watered. I don’t even like salad dressing, but all that cheese and all those big hunks of meat just sang to me like the ship-crashing sirens they were. I don’t get this, and I don’t like it. I haven’t been smearing my egg whites with peanut butter or snorting Snickers, and yet my brain has decided to bring back all the desires for the old, make-me-fat-and-keep-me-there “diet”. What in Crisco’s name is going on?

Frankly, I think it’s mostly a backlash from an experiment I conducted a week or so ago, when I ate as if I were on maintenance. I wanted to try it, to show myself that there was nothing to fear about adding a few extra calories in to the daily feast. It was nothing fancy-just an extra apple, a little bit more protein and a smidgen more carbs, plus yogurt with ham (not together!) for my last meal/snack instead of low fat popcorn. I edged my calories up by the WW-recommended 4 POINTS (about 350 calories for those who calculate food values in the regular way) and had 5 or 6 mini-meals instead of my 3 or 4 regular ones. I wound up eating every 2.5 to 3 hours, and while it was exhausting, it was good. I was satisfied all day long, I did not down an entire jar of pickles right before bed, and I managed, at last, to get my fiber count up over that 35 g hump. Glory day.

And a huge mistake. Nothing to fear? Guess again.

I went back to my regular plan the next day. After all, I’m now hovering around the 150 mark, and the big bar is back in place, so I am definitely still in weight loss mode. I ate my normal 3-point breakfast (vs. the 4.5 ‘maintenance’ meal), and felt properly sated at meal’s end.

And then my body decided that it liked the Eating All The Time model so much that it would torture me until I caved and brought it back. I’ve resisted, more or less successfully, but it’s as if a single day of over-feeding has created this beast who will not be quieted with Jazz apples and non-fat yogurt. The Fat Lady emerges yet again. Seriously, somebody just stick Excaliber through that broad and let’s be done with her already.

I am out of practice with being hungry all the time, and now I’m holding hands with the PMS bitch, so pretty soon, poor Howard is going to lose whatever hair he has left, because I’m going to yell it right off of his head. So clearly I must remain on a diet every day for the rest of my life. I'll get used to the hunger, and maybe someday soon, I'll stop dreaming of ice-cream covered everything and peanut butter pie.

I have changed other things too, which probably contributed to all this. I gave up coffee entirely.I managed to wean myself in a way that spared me from the Caffeine Headache, and I thank whatever deities helped me with that one. I’m not sure I could have made it through on just Excedrin Migraine (which has caffeine in it).

Soda left the building as well. One of my WW buddies told me that diet soda contains sodium benzoate which is more or less a poison. Okay, then! All coke-brown, white, purple, and even the High Class root beer, is no more. DS took it well; better than Howard or I, and now we’re all on a strictly water intake. When I’m drooling for Diet Coke, I remind myself that every other creature drinks only water so there’s no real reason to drink anything else, except for pleasure. Ah, pleasure. One of the things I shed along with 101 pounds.

By the way, WW is a big honkin’ bunch of liars by writing that water is the best appetite suppressant. It does all right, and I’m definitely healthier now, but I’m hungrier, too. And while we’re talking about it, ice in water doesn’t help. It just makes my hunger cold, which makes it angry.

I’m glad I made the switch: I don’t have these weird ‘creature crawling across my intestines’ aches anymore, and that is excellent. That was downright scary, and a couple of trips to the doctor yielded nothing but, ‘let’s wait and see’. Yeah, great. Me, whose motto is, “instant gratification takes too long” is going to ‘wait and see’. Good luck with that. But a few changes in diet and the removal of these potent poisons seems to have vamoosed the symptoms. And that's good, because that was most un-fun.

So I gave up the last of my vices, and it's really helped. People want to know what’s new, because now I’m not only thin, but my skin is all glowy and I have muscular definition where once I had only sag. I want to tell them how I’ve changed, but it’s difficult to be heard over my stomach's howl.

I’ve decided to view this as I’ve viewed the other inexplicable things on this journey—as a temporary weirdness, devoid of logic and bound to disappear in such a banal way that I won’t realize it until something else oddball pops up. I mean, my hair is curly now and I can see the veins in my arms-something I’ve never had. Stuff is going on, I have no real control over it, and it defies all deduction. Why worry about something I can’t change?

Gotta go. It’s time to eat.

A the R(avenous)

Afternoon Delight

So clearly I’m an end-of-day person.

I missed my run yesterday, due to some stupid weather thing. I don’t know exactly what it was; something about lightning, damaging winds and a silly flash flood. I wanted to try it, because it seems so hard core to run during the rain. But even I cannot rationalize a workout when there are bolts of electricity flying about, and so I came home, feeling flabbier already.

I made up the workout today. Even though I’d missed just a day, and even though I’ll still get 3 full runs in this week, it was so odd to me not to run on a Tuesday that I was twitchy all night and downright cantankerous this morning. I’ve yet to experience the Runner’s High, and yet I seem fully capable of the Runner’s DTs when I don’t go shuffling through the wilderness. Yippee.

And I hindered myself further by opting to wear a skirt and heels today. Heels are bad news for runners, and since I was on my toes all morning, my calves ache now, and since I had to wear those shoes again all afternoon, I’m a little shaky in the shins. Seriously, what moron wears heels when she’s going to run midday? This moron, apparently.

I needed to do it: I had a big meeting with all the VPs, and I wanted to look as smart and professional as possible. So I wore my back-pleated skirt and my patent-leather heels. They looked great, and I got all those ‘oh, you must be an executive’ looks all day. I haven’t worn heels in a while, and it was nice, nice, nice to see my reflection in those business clothes. But still, I suffered. Luckily (???) I suffered enough that I won’t repeat the error. But tonight I’m all hobbly and it’s my own vain fault.

Since the meeting was at the end of the day and I knew I couldn’t work out after hours, I made the plans to run at lunch. I picked a new spot-a forest preserve near the office and with a trail long enough to accommodate my full run.

Within 100 yards, I wanted to collapse. It was pretty mild today, but I was running in fields vs. forests and the sun was right on my face. Plus, since Howard was not with me and I wanted to stay hydrated, I ran with my 1-liter water bottle in my hand. Big mistake. A 2-pound weight is probably manageable if it fit in my hand, but in the Jumbo Plastic Container size, it’s akin to carrying a sloshing bunny in your fist.

The run got easier, and eventually my bottle drained far enough that my hand stopped cramping. I hit the western branch of the DuPage river, complete with a little dam and a strip of blacktop that was springy and straight. I took off a little bit down the stretch, and even though I had to stop at the end to figure out which of the 4 paths was the trail, I felt good and the break was only a few seconds. I turned around when the path hit the street, ran the whole thing back, and then lost 5 full minutes looking for the top half of the trail.

The map shows it as continuous, but it is, in fact, broken up by a parking lot, a picnic area, two stinky outhouses, and a kiosk. I was off the trail so long that my bladder won the war and I had to duck into the outhouse, holding my heaving breath while my shaking legs held me up over the hole. My god, I didn’t know they still made outhouses. This is Chicago, right? I mean, there is the river Right There. Anyway, after the pit stop, I found the trail behind a ‘no vehicles’ sign and set off, grateful for the canopy of trees.

About 3 minutes in, the path narrowed and then disappeared. The path was wide and the grass was flattened, but still, it’s uneven ground. It was weird at first, but I got used to it faster than I expected, and then it was really nice to trot through the woods, with trees overhead and grass underfoot. I picked up my pace again, and I noticed that I met and passed my usual 4-mile collapse. I was so intent on keeping my feet from turning inside out that I missed the mark that would have told me to melt into hysterical exhaustion. I have to say, it was refreshing to finish a run without having first screamed in rage or melted into sobs or both. Score One for a Distracting Path.

I ran almost the whole thing, and my stops (apart from a trip into aforementioned outhouse) were just a few seconds. At the end, I was tired, but I felt good. I did just a pinch over 6 miles at just under 9 minutes per mile. A little faster than usual, and feeling a little better than normal.

So maybe I need to acknowledge that while I can ‘run’ 6 miles or more in a session, I’m not seasoned enough to run the whole thing without a break. In taking these tiny (3-5 second) stops to drink water, check my directions or double back when I found out I was off the path and in someone’s back yard, I recovered enough to keep myself intact with good form all the way through. Fancy that: listening to your body and having a good outcome. Well, I guess it’s okay to do now, since my body is no longer telling me that if I eat a stash of Hostess fruit pies before I get home, that the calories don’t count.

Anyway, I think that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to stop declaring my workout a Total Waste of *&#^%! Time when I am forced to walk for a bit. I didn’t even get the heavy legs that I’ve been getting lately. And it could have been anything-the water, the temperature, the hour….but I think it was just me, trusting and listening for once.

Results not typical. Don’t expect me to continue this without a zillion interruptions and backtracks. I mean, it’s me after all.

But I think if I could really convince myself to run when I felt like it and stop when I needed to, I could probably jump to 7 miles per workout: maybe even this week. Something to consider, especially if I can also do it a little bit faster. Right now, edging 1 hour per workout, it’s really just a little bit too long to do the whole thing over lunch.

But I don’t think that’s really relevant, since I didn’t much care for the run. I liked the preserve, I am glad that my run got logged before I put in 9 full hours at the office, and I really liked running on the grass. I had a whole Mother Nature Woman thing going on. It felt natural, and while my knees are a little sore tonight, it feels muscular, which means I worked something new and that is good.

Still, I didn’t like the rushed feeling I had, I wasn’t too keen on stripping in the basement bathroom at work, and tonight after dinner, I was jonesing for a run, as if my brain had forgotten the miles logged over lunch. I can see doing this in an Emergency Session, like today, when I’m already down a workout for the week and there’s no way to make it up at night. I’d rather run at noon that skip, and so it’s there for me if I want it. I felt safe at the preserve, and it’s nice to be discovering my city all over again, this time at odd hours and with wildflowers at my feet.

But I'm an afternoon gal. I can’t do what Howard does and crawl from bed at 5am, or wait until DS has gone down to go strolling through Wheaton in my sneakers. Whatever trade I must make, my run comes after work. It’s my transition time-the notice to my brain that work is over, and that my family awaits me at the end of the trail. I like that way better than squeezing my workout in between meetings. I don’t want it squeezed—I want it stretched and oozed out over the bridge of my day. I have my work, I have my nights, and now, I have my afternoon delights.

A the A(fter-Nooner)

Down and Downer

Another barrier broken.

I weighed in on Sunday, registering 149.25 pounds, logging a total loss of 101.75 pounds and 40.5% of my original body weight. The big bar has come down.

Of course, it went right back up on Monday, at 150.50, but Monday is always my ‘heavy’ day, and so I despair not—at least until I see whether it’s going to stick.

Speaking of stick, I decided to run a real 10k last night: not the fake 10k I’d been running at 7min/mile a few weeks ago. The thermometer thrust its 95-degree mercury tongue at me, but I was determined to do a long, slow distance, and that was the time I could do it. I ducked out early from work, with the blessing of “Artemis” the Director who runs a 6-minute mile without any training. She gave me some pointers on keeping my mouth from cracking and my legs from collapsing and sent me off into the draining heat.

I hit a fatigue spot around mile 4, and spent a full minute screaming at my phone/mp3 player for not knowing inherently that I wanted to change the music I was hearing. I couldn’t get Howard’s water bottle to work-clearly, it’s designed for engineers, rather than the more creative, arty folk like me, who prefer not to use their brains, or their manners, when they are most needed. My legs fused to the ground and I had a little limestone pebble in my shoe for the whole trip, making me cranky(-er!) .

I realized, after the fact, of course, that I do normally hit a spot of fatigue right at that juncture, and so am going to try a PowerGel (sp?) on my next run. I felt great for the first 3.5 miles and even finished strong, but man, the middle was just a drag. I was okay in the shade, but the sun just yanked all my resolve out, and once I stopped for water, I couldn’t seem to get my rhythm back.

But I did it, and even though I wasn’t supposed to time myself, I did, clocking a dishrag-rotting 1hour, 8 minutes. Yes, I know I wanted to run it slowly, and no, I don’t wish to have a heart attack to prove I can run at the same speed in Hell’s Kiln as I do on brisk mornings, but still. I’d managed an 8:45 minute just 2 days before. Oh, well. The point is to run for fun and fitness. I’m getting the fitness for sure: my hips are slimming, my torso is shaping in new, appealing ways, and even the octopus has less to say these days. Of course, today I’m in my size 3s, so it’s rappelling over the lip of my too-low-rise “waist band”, but still, there’s not a roll so much as a little croissant, and I have to say that this is fine with me.

In other news, it’s official that my father will not be attending the wedding. I figured out the other night that I will have exactly zero representation from his side of the family at the ceremony. My mom’s mom is teetering as well, and my brother can flake in an instant, so if all goes to plan, then I will have exactly 3 relatives representing me: my mother, my sister, and my sister’s husband. Keep in mind that my sister and her husband are videotaping the wedding as a present to us, and I know for a fact that if I hadn’t agreed to be filmed during the most solemn moment of my life, that I wouldn’t have the two of them in attendance, either.

I knew my Dad was a maybe from the get-go, and so I’m not really surprised. But I am disappointed. I guess he decided that he’s already attended one of my weddings, and so that was enough. I would find a way to resolve this easier if he were just standing around in a suit on the front row. But we’re doing a Jewish processional for the service, which means that both bride and groom are (supposed to be!) escorted down the aisle by both parents.

I can’t decide which is worse-that people will see me with only my mother (if that!) and think that my father is dead, or they’ll know he is alive, and so will assume that (a) we are not on speaking terms, or (b) that he disapproves of my marriage, and so is boycotting. Well, I’d gone 6 months without any drama; I suppose I was due. And I don’t eat chocolate anymore, so I’m without any vice to comfort me.

Guess I’ll go for a run.

A the S(pent)