Shopping.... Sugar..... Sh**!

My daughter and I spent several hours in the car together this weekend. In the early evening, with still a few hours to drive, we got off at an exit for coffee and gas. There was a big shopping mall between those two points. “I’m feeling lately like I want to go shopping,” I admitted to her as I drove past the mall entrance. We marveled that we are in month 8 of our commitment to not shop, and to date neither of us has cheated. And I won’t, despite those recent yearnings, which will be ignored.

We talked about “the end” of this commitment in four months, and what that might be like. I told her that I fully expect to stay on the shopping diet even when the year is over; she agrees. We both like zero balance on our credit cards, and we like not accumulating. Honestly, there is not one thing I need or that I anticipate needing. I got through the fall and winter without a single day of panic over what I should wear – there were always plenty of options for whatever my mood, the occasion, or the weather brought. My recent yearnings to shop are surely due to the sneak peaks I’ve taken into the few spring catalogs that have been in my mailbox of late. However, I also believe that resisting shopping has been made easier because every free moment of time I might have had to shop is consumed with school work. If I were truly free during my non-working hours, it surely would be harder. I really just have no time to wander about in stores, peruse catalogs, or browse the internet. My busyness has been a blessing. But I wonder what will happen when the excuse of school work evaporates.

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The last time I entered the pharmacy at Grand Central Terminal, I ran into an immense rainbow-colored wall of marshmallow Peeps. My heart rate increased, my taste buds went into overdrive, and my willpower …. well, it won but mostly due to the immutable timetable of a commuter train and a very long checkout line. But those bunnies (no chicks for me -  the beheading of a bird even when it’s made of marshmallow is just too Ozzy O for me) will be taunting me for the next six weeks. Once Easter is behind me, the confection torture that started in October with candy corn will lighten until Halloween is upon us again. 

My daughter and I recently attended a three-week lecture series at The Open Center in NY. It was about gluten allergies (which she has) and sugar addiction (which we both have). I was hoping that there would be some magic or  at least ideas that I hadn’t already heard about to try to lessen my cravings and make this easier. I’m sorry to report there are none. The best the speaker could offer was a shrug of his shoulders and the suggestion that we eat some fruit instead or go exercise. I mean really. When I’m frantically scouring the cupboards and the refrigerator in search of something that will satisfy me, somehow the prospect of a banana just doesn’t do it. And the likelihood of my either heading to the gym or dropping to the floor and doing 50 crunches (even if I could make it to 50) in that moment of angst seems pretty remote.

I have been pretty “good” – managing to resist most extra sugar that comes in the form of baked goods, candy and the like. My sister and I made a pact. She won’t buy me any peeps or jelly beans at Easter. I can buy her one box of peeps but not the whole rainbow, which my usual compulsivity would dictate; if I buy her maple-cream filled eggs – her personal weakness, I’ll limit those to two. She rationalizes that the calorie count of the eggs is relatively low plus the chocolate around them is dark. We all know dark chocolate is a “good” thing.   My daughter and I have a similar pact except that it’s exception-less. I must get through this holiday without additional stress on my pancreas.

But despite these agreements, there is still a plethora of sugar in my diet. I need my coffee light and sweet. Two cups a day, occasionally three. My lunchtime yogurt has sugar a.k.a high fructose corn syrup as its second ingredient. I haven’t been able to eschew that in favor of plain (gag, gag) yogurt even if I put in my own fruit. My excuse? I don’t feel like getting out the blender every morning to create it. And then I don’t feel like washing the blender. My dinnertime salad dressing has the same thinly disguised sugar product as my yogurt does. And when I boil some water for a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows in the evening instead of some ice cream, I wonder who I think I’m kidding. Marshmallows are sugar no matter their form. And liquid sugar is no better than solid sugar.

Some decision-points are easier than others. It definitely helps to have someone supportive in my presence when there’s a choice to be made. If my daughter is with me, between the two of us, we’ll do the right thing - food-wise and shopping-wise. My secretary no longer brings me pieces of cake or a couple of cookies when she notices food in our suite. But being alone at home is hard, especially during long weekend days or evenings when I’m writing and feel stuck or weary. Restlessness sets in and I start seeking solutions for those feelings in the form of sugar. I’ve thought about that a lot lately. When my mind is occupied and interested, and I am not feeling restless or uneasy, sugar doesn’t compete for my attention. But when I start to feel like I need a break or I’d rather do anything but what I’m doing at the moment, sugar surges to mind as the perfect antidote for my malaise. A snickers bar is sure to make me feel better although in my saner moments, I’m not sure what better is, really. Sated? Soothed? Stimulated? Or just temporarily distracted from something more painful than an unwritten paragraph?

The (Reduced) Sugar Trial.... Just Don't-Just Don't-Just Don't

This has been a really, really hard week.

Back at work on Monday, there is candy all over the place. Everyone seems to be bringing in their gifts from home and I can appreciate that strategy. Beautiful boxes with individually decorated pieces and assorted other chocolates sit on the long, low file cabinet in our office suite where goodies tend to gather. All day long I take the route in and out of our suite that bypasses this cabinet.  All day long I say to myself, Just don’t-Just don’t-Just don’t.  All day long I feel anxious and blue. Mid-way through the afternoon, I send an emergency email to my daughter. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of chocolate around here. I’m having a really hard time.” She emails me back, “Me too. Candy all over the place here too, including jelly beans.” I groan. That would be worse. I could eat jelly beans by the million. I haven’t touched one in about two years. I know better.

Tuesday is more of the same. I wander over to my colleague, A’s office, and whine a little about all the candy. He looks at me sheepishly, “I know,” he says, “I had one piece.”  I admire his will power. Another colleague, M, tells me she’s been bypassing the candy-laden cabinet too. She’s trying to stick to my not-a-vow-but-a-tentative-plan-to-deal-with-my-sugar-addiction. Misery loves company.

I am still suffering on Wednesday. A carton of dark chocolate truffles cast under my desk catches my eye. I had forgotten it was there. I had not taken this gift home with me before Christmas because I knew its fate. The carton is tightly sealed. Several times during the day, I pick up the carton and fondle it. About the fourth time, my finger toys with the edge of the seal. I almost let it slip underneath, almost release the heavenly scent of dark, cocoa-covered chocolates, almost set myself up to eat every one just to get them out of the way. A voice from somewhere in my head appeals, “Just don’t-Just don’t-Just don’t.” I put the carton down. I walk the hall to the water cooler, fill my water bottle and drink drink drink. I tell myself there is only an hour left in the work day to endure.   

Thursday is a better day. I take a little plastic dish of raw baby carrots and another of hummus to work with me, along with my lunch. Perhaps if I keep myself more comfortably full during the day, it will be easier. I am usually ravenous by lunch time and my typical soup and yogurt just doesn’t always satisfy me.  I munch on the carrots in the mid-afternoon and ignore the chocolate underneath my desk. The chocolate on the file cabinet, thankfully, is gone.

A dear friend of thirty-five years sends me a precious gift via email. After reading my last blog entry [See The Route to Resolution-Just for Today, 12/31/10] she reveals to me, among other things, her life-long addiction to sweets and how she finally, finally addressed it. I share it with her permission. “I knew,” she writes, “if I said I could never have ice cream again, I would crack up or kill myself. So I said to myself, you may have ice cream any time you want. All you have to do is get in the car, go to Ben and Jerry's, and get one scoop.  Then you must come home.  Come into the house.  Hang up your coat.  Do some little chore.  If you still want another scoop you MAY have one.  Just get your coat on, get the car out, go back to the ice cream shop, get one scoop, and come home. Amazing results.”  

I very nearly cry as I read her words, I am so overwhelmed. My friend has been fighting cancer. She continues, “Of course, cancer has changed this problem, too.  I crave chocolate, because of serotonin, not the taste.  So I ration my chocolate.  Otherwise I do not care if I eat or not. Ice cream can sit in my freezer now and I sometimes end up throwing it out because it has formed crystals.  Hurts my depression-baby soul, but what is the alternative?” There is more. She writes me about her nail-biting and her shopping habit too, and I feel 100% understood. I am almost breathless at her generosity as my eyes, my brain and my emotions take in her words – over and over again.

Nights are slightly less difficult but only because they are short. Between a dance class, the gym, a client, and an appointment for an eye exam, I get home late almost every evening. I have no candy, cookies, other baked goods, or soda in my house by design. However, there are two almost-full half-gallons of ice cream in my freezer, the result of a weak, hungry moment and a sale at the supermarket over the holidays.  Between them, the two half-gallons feature coffee, chocolate, caramel and nuts. Similar to my friend, ice cream is a food group I doubt I could live without. 

   

I have been making salads nightly for dinner. Large filling salads with yummy but not bad-for-you items – assorted greens, tomatoes, cucumbers, avocado, raw mushrooms, artichoke hearts, black olives, cauliflower – that are delicious, but they are not ice cream. Ice cream has been my evening struggle.

On Tuesday night, my friend’s strategy for ice cream consumption floats to conscious awareness as I contemplate my freezer contents. I decide out of nowhere that I will allow myself two teaspoons of ice cream a night. Only two. This means I have to pay attention so I don’t miss the event. It seems to work. I stop after two and put the ice cream away. I only feel a little deprived.

On Thursday night, when I think one more wouldn’t hurt, I tell myself that if I give in to the craving now, I’m going to have to start this all over again. I believe the anonymous responder [see Comments from The Route to Resolution, 12/31/10] that eventually I won’t be drawn to sweets if I can just get over this hump. Sometimes repetition is comforting but not in this instance. I know for certain that I do not want to have first-week-resisting-sugar experiences more than once.

The Route to Resolution - Just for Today

I’m not a big fan of New Year’s. Never have been. When I was a child, it signaled an abrupt halt to the excitement and anticipation of Christmas. The presents were opened, the cookies mostly gone, the magical lights would be coming down, and the long western NY winter months stretched interminably ahead.  As an adult, it’s pretty much the same thing. Just strike the “western” part.

I’ve never been the party type either. The idea of being out in public amongst a bunch of on-their-way-to-drunk revelers trying to look/act like I am having fun strikes me as about as appealing as a trip to the dentist.

The turning of one year into another often makes me feel melancholy. Even when it’s been one of the “good” years, even when the year to come holds a promise of fun and new adventures, I still feel mournful. I have just come to expect it. I do not let go of things, years included, easily.

As a child and a young adult, I always made the same New Year’s resolution until I realized it was a losing proposition.  “I will stop biting my fingernails.” It never lasted more than a few days. That’s partly because it was such unconscious activity. I would suddenly realize that I had chomped half-way through a nail. And then, of course I had to finish the job. Off the wagon, there wasn’t much point climbing back on. Perhaps you know the drill. It could be the same for any addiction, any compulsion, any bad habit. You want something to be different (or maybe you don’t, really) and you - along, perhaps with your brain chemistry and other hard-wiring -  are the only barrier en route to the difference.

I still bite my nails. Well, not so much biting as ripping. Sometimes mercilessly. I often complain to the woman I call my heart mother, “I don’t stop until I draw blood.” The analytic route of considering who I might want to bite instead hasn’t put a dent in my habit. I’ve tried nail polish – it works for awhile, until it doesn’t. A friend suggests that I commit to a weekly manicure but I am too embarrassed to let a manicurist see the condition of my fingers, so that’s out. Plus I would have to deal with my entrenched belief that this activity falls in the category of unnecessary extravagance. [Aside to daughter and best friend – this is my issue, not a commentary on your activity.] Those who’ve been up in a hot air balloon or who are planning a Parisian trip with me know that I do not disallow all extravagance. 

So forget the nails. Maybe I’ll torture them until death do us part.

There are several other things on my mind as I skid into 2011. Sugar is one of them. Those who have known rail-thin me all my life might scoff. However, some time during the four years of my mother’s illness, and continuing in the almost five years she’s been gone, I managed to develop an addiction to sugar. It started with mom’s cookies –the ones she always had waiting for me whenever I arrived. Luckily I was pretty underweight to begin, otherwise the problem (and I) might be bigger. It wasn’t until this past year that I began to take a hard look at my compulsive sugar behavior and realized that if I didn’t want to end up diabetic or overweight, I was going to need to intervene. As with the fingernails, I have been a member of the “You’ve gone this far, you might as well finish” club. The things I might as well finish would be the box of cookies, the box of candy, the cupcakes, the half-gallon of ice cream. Far be it from me to actually throw it/them out instead. That would go against my puritan ethic of waste-not-want-not. I’m stuck no matter what I do.

I did learn something in 2010, however, that I see as potentially helpful as I move closer to, oh my god(dess), life without (extra) sugar. I am a binger. I realized this when I began to examine my shopping practice. I could be shopping dormant for weeks, maybe months, but once I made up my mind to buy something, and the first purchase was made, there was no stopping me until I was sated. The trick was to not make that first purchase, which seemed ridiculously easy to me once I realized it. Don’t look in the catalogs, stay out of the stores. Remove temptation. Case closed.    

Although I suspect that sugar will be a harder demon to corral, the principle is the same. Just don’t start. I tried an experiment during my school’s annual holiday party this season. The morning of the party, I said to myself, “Let’s make a deal. Just for today, why don’t you try to not consume any sugar. See if you can do it. No dessert at the party, ok?” I agreed with myself that I could tolerate anything for just one day.  And I did. I successfully walked past the box of high-end candy sitting on the low gray file cabinet where office personnel tend to place temptations. At the lunch-time party, I ate the entrée, the veggies, and the salad. When it was time for dessert, I gave a brief glance at the array of goodies to see what I was missing (Damn! Cannoli!), said “Just for today” to myself, and “I’m getting out of here” to my staff.  Done! Success! Empowered! But sadly, it was just for that day. The next day rolled around and I made no such pact with myself.  

I suspect this is like any other addiction. A little turns into a lot and then too much before one realizes what has happened. The pleasure-in-the-moment makes the what-have-I-done aftershocks sink into the background. Until it doesn’t.  Maybe I am edging toward that point. We’ll see.

I will stop short of pledging a reduced-or-no-sugar resolution for this New Year. The nail failure is still vivid and I don’t need another reason to feel badly about myself. My plan is to employ the one-day-at-a-time strategy. So when I am facing the enticement of icecreamcookiescakecandysodapiefruittarts cannoliscremebrulee and other tasty delights, in that moment of decision, I only entreat my brain to remind my mouth that this morning we urged Just for today. Who knows, maybe in an instance of research carryover, my nails will thank me.

Curbing the Christmas Shopping Frenzy

It’s been four months since my daughter and I made a pact during our annual trek to Maine to not buy any new clothes, shoes, bags, or (in her case) new and unnecessary “product” (i.e. make-up, creams, and other potions) for a year. The reason was simple – I had become uneasy over my compulsive need to accumulate. I felt guilty because I have so much that buying more seemed gluttonous and immoral. My space felt crowded and disorganized, which was leading to overwhelmed. My inner guide whispered, “j u s t   s t o p.”

For a few weeks, I wrote about having/not having and enough/not enough, and then my thoughts turned to other things. But “the commitment” remains in effect.  I’ve had one instance of “catalog longing” over a sweater in colors that soothe me. It lasted just about one moment. Most catalogs that still come to my home go straight to the recycling pile without a second glance. I stopped all retail email solicitations, which has been a relief. There is enough clogging my in-box. What manages to slip through on occasion is simply deleted.

I had an interesting debate with my best friend in September about whether rain shoes – also seen in a catalog - constitute a need or a want. She argued that they should not be on the no-buy list; I wasn’t so sure. Her reasoning included a reference to wet feet and discomfort. Mine included the suspicion that I could get along without them. The conversation was inconclusive. I didn’t throw the catalog out, but I haven’t ordered them either. That was two months ago. I’ll see how I feel about it when the next rainy season comes around.

Now Christmas is coming. ‘Tis the season of gluttony and excess. I realized in the early fall that Christmas was going to require some strategizing.

In Maine, before we made our commitment to each other, my daughter had bought me a small piece of art that I loved and I had bought her a couple of items she wanted. We often do that when we are together on vacation and then save our purchases for Christmas. Ordinarily, that would be just the beginning of our shopping-for-each-other-frenzy. But by October, we had determined that it had been the end instead. The present shower was over, at least between us.

This is not easy for me but it’s palatable because she and I are doing it together. I love buying/giving presents. I love the excitement that goes along with pleasing someone I love with something I know they will love. But the reality is that it’s rarely some-thing with me – more like some-things. Once I start, it’s hard for me to stop. My brother-in-law teases me about my shopping stamina. He’ll walk in the room and, if I’m there, wonder, “Stores closed?”  

A few years ago before Christmas, my best friend had said in passing that she thought she would like a charm bracelet. I bought her the bracelet, and I didn’t stop buying charms until I had exhausted every single thing I could think of that might have meaning to her. And yes, she loved it, and I loved giving it to her, but it serves as an example of my compulsiveness where shopping is concerned. Last year, my entrepreneurial daughter mentioned a desire to make her own greeting cards. I didn’t stop until I bought every conceivable tool, accessory, paper, rubber stamp, punch, ink, etc etc etc that I could think of in order to create her own card studio. Actually, I might have missed something. I simply ran out of time.

Therefore, curbing my Christmas shopping habit is a very big deal. I suspect that if I were not buried in school work, I would find this more painful. Next year, when my coursework is over will be a better test of my control. For now, the compulsiveness that gets my papers done will partially replace my throbbing need to go Christmas shopping. I simply do not have time.

I am not planning to give up Christmas altogether. I suspect a cold turkey decision would depress me. I have a brother who would be devastated and would just not “get it”. And I have other family and friends I still want to please. There are elements about Christmas I love, and I hope some of them will remain when whatever inside me that’s shifting settles. More than the wish to declutter and stop accumulating, I want to curb compulsivity so it’s not driving me. But underneath compulsive is also a generous soul – and I do not want to lose her.

Breaking Tradition

For much of my life, I have taken solace in the traditions of holidays. Actually, it wasn’t just solace – some traditions were so important to me that I actually thought I might not survive without them.

Once the gauntlet of snake-necked swan statues and barking, biting dogs ended (see Thanksgiving at Aunt Boo’s House, 11/13/10), Thanksgiving became a safe holiday. From the time I was 8 until my beloved mom’s final Thanksgiving in 2005, the holiday was always spent at my childhood home. The guest list was always the same except when death, divorce or birth intervened. As a child, two sets of my grandparents were always invited (I had three sets, but that’s another story), my aunt and uncle who would have to sneak out in the afternoon to go “do their chores” (they had a dairy farm), and a grand-aunt who gave very wet kisses (yuck). Later, as my sister and I grew up, my father left, spouses were added and subtracted as we married, divorced, and in the case of my sister, remarried. Children were born and there was a long stint of status quo until our children started adding boyfriends, fiancés, and husbands to the mix.  And no matter where we were living, when Thanksgiving arrived, my sister and I always traveled to our childhood home with our families for the long weekend. 

Routine was very important and so was the menu, which never changed. I usually arrived the day before, and spent much of the day helping my mom with preparations. That time together was quiet and sweet as we cut up bread for dressing, rolled out pie crusts, sliced apples, and chatted. Late in the day, we’d get out her Spode china, brought from England long ago by her cousin, and set the table. Thanksgiving morning, with parade sounds in the background, there was usually a panicked, “Didn’t I buy a bag to roast the turkey in?” and my mom would rout through her floor-to-ceiling cupboards in disbelief that she might have forgotten this most important element (and always find one buried someplace). 

The house gradually filled with the smells of turkey and dressing and the sounds of our children complaining of hunger until finally, it was time to carve the turkey – always my job. The yummiest bites were those I snuck ahead of time and passed around to anyone in the vicinity of me and my knife. At the dinner table, our children’s voices sped through, “God is great God is good Let us thank Him for our food Amen.” Later, my mother’s voice quietly intoned, “Bless, Oh Lord, these Thy gifts which we are about to receive” when our children grew too cool to say grace.

After dinner, we always lingered around the table. As a child, I loved listening to the grown-ups talk and tell jokes, and later turn the conversation toward Christmas.  As my sister and I moved into the middle generation, Thanksgiving night usually included a “Kmart run” for Christmas stocking shopping, which was fun beyond belief. We’d run around Kmart with our carts, buying things for each other, for our kids, spouses, mom and brother, warning “Don’t look!” if we had to pass each other or stop and ask a question.

Friday morning we’d often be up at the crack of dawn – yes, that would be us out at 4:30 a.m. and in line somewhere to buy our mother a computer or buy our kids some coveted gift. As we got older (and more tired) we moved our start time a couple hours later. But the tradition of sitting in a mall with my sister, my daughter, and my nieces not long after dawn, having coffee together and heading off in our various directions to shop till we dropped was special, and in our minds, compulsory. Friday night was always given to celebrating my brother’s and my youngest niece’s birthdays. Saturday was designated for more shopping – my sister and brother-in-law might sneak off to see his family, or occasionally to play cards with their friends, and in later years we always put my mom’s Christmas tree up and decorated it for her. Finally, Sunday morning, Thanksgiving was officially over. We’d pack up our cars and head south or east – until it was time to reconvene at Christmas.

Those traditions are sweet in my memory and I smile when I think of them. The usual and customary, however, came to a screeching halt during fall 2005 when our mom took a turn for the worse in her fight against ovarian cancer. She had been hospitalized for a few weeks at the end of October and came home to hospice care in mid-November of that year. Our celebration was vastly different, though it stands out as my most memorable Thanksgiving. My sister and I, exhausted from trips back and forth to care for mom, had no inclination to prepare, bake, or cook anything. We let our neighborhood supermarket do it. We set up card tables and chairs to eat our dinner in the living room where mom lay in a hospital bed. Although the rest of us remember the meal as forgettable, our mom, who had not had an appetite for days was alert, able to sit up in bed, eat some of it, and with a big smile, pronounce it “delicious.”  We looked at each other and gave thanks.

The following year our mom was gone, our childhood home was sold, and we convened at my sister’s for Thanksgiving. My sister and I flew solo for the first time in preparing Thanksgiving dinner and everyone lived to tell about it. A few laughs, a few tears, and without missing a beat, we began another tradition in another town, another state.

This year we are breaking with tradition again. My daughter and I are staying home for the first time ever. We want to see the Macy’s parade in our adopted home town. I want my brother, who loves parades, to experience it too. The parade passes the building where my daughter works. Her office features floor to ceiling windows on the 4^th floor overlooking Times Square. Her boss has given us permission to be there. We won’t be cold (or wet) and we won’t have to fight the crowds.

Although we were prepared to “go it alone” for Thanksgiving, some of our family will travel north to join us. While we feel honored, we know we would survive if they didn’t or couldn't come. That’s the important thing. But we will all look at each other next Thursday morning in a totally different setting – surviving, no – embracing another break with tradition and we will give thanks.