There's less of me to love!
In the last 8 days, I have lost 5 1/2 inches.
WooHoo!
Of all the times in my life where no one would hold it against me to hit the chocolate or indulge in some way, I'm not doing it. I'm not emotional eating. I'm just eating healthy food whenever I do eat and walking or going to the gym.
So I have this theory.
If there is less of me to love, then the same amount of love is divided by less square inches, which means the love per square inch ratio is higher.
(twinkly eyed smile)
Okay.
That's as much math as you'll hear on this blog.
Love y'all,
Shula

Something I've learned recently is that comparing myself with another woman or worse yet someone else comparing me to another woman is a shortcut ticket to misery. I want to share some thoughts that have helped me find my way out of the comparison trap.

I must live in the light of God's sovereignty.
Trusting His good heart toward me.
Trusting God did a good job when he made me.
Trusting God and I and I together are doing a good job of continuing to make me.
I must accept God's grace toward me as sufficient,
and not fall into either ditch of pride or envy.
Pride says I'm better than someone else.
Envy says I think someone else's possessions or traits or qualities are better than mine and I therefore find my own possessions or traits or qualities not good enough, less-than, unsatisfactory.
God created me.
God did a great job and took great joy in making me.
And I can take great joy in making me too, because I am made by, shaped by, changed by the choices that I make day after day after day.
Making the choice to grow and change is a good thing.
But healthy change MUST be secondary to the foundation of truth that says:
God is sovereign, God is good, God is loving, and this good God shaped me with tender care.
It is in this warm solid foundation, that change is good and welcomed for I know I was delightful already before the change.

And being humble and vulnerable and tender and strong,
giving God plenty of elbow room to work,
that can only yield good things.

Feeling this, knowing this , believing this
feels
SO VERY GOOD.

and I'm delighted to share it with you.

With love,
Shula

PS Thinking about God creating me led me to this video of creation. I belong smack-dab amongst all this other created beauty cause the very same artist made me. Ooooh! Love that!

This song was playing on the alarm clock this morning. I soaked up every word. Hope your hearts drink it in like mine did. This is day seven of sober eating.
Love,
Shula

I blurted this out in frustration while I was at the bank trying to cash my Ike insurance check for the umpteenth time. Remember the mortgage company that ate my 1st check? Well, they're up to shenanigans and foot dragging again. This time at the local branch. But I'm not here to fuss about the bank.

The point is, I am learning to associate exercise as the preferred method of stress relief.

This is a big deal.

A very good thing.

After the 2nd hour spent arguing with mortgage company, I drove to the gym and I didn't just do the workout, I attacked the circuit training equipment. I sweated. I grunted. I groaned. I carried on. Some of the sweet old ladies at the gym discreetly stared. I didn't care. I was just glad I was working out in the gym and not throwing a tantrum in the bank lobby. By the time I was done with my workout, my hair was wet and dripping sweat onto my shoulders. And I felt peaceful and even euphoric. The only other time I've felt so peaceful, sweaty and euphoric was. Well, you know.

This is day 3 of no sugar.

The mood swings are not fun. It's withdrawal, just like any other addiction.
I made good choices today.

The next time somebody pisses you off, say, "God must want me to work out today!"

Well darlings I have decided to screw up my courage and really go for it.
God has given me so much healing in my marriage and sexuality and emotional and physical health, I've decided to be brave and dare to hope Himself will also bring healing to my weight. It's an interesting place to be. I feel gorgeous and sexy now. I don't feel unpretty or unsexy. But my doctor, Beloved Endocrinologist, really wants me to lose weight. Since I'm being treated for a metabolic disorder, the Atkins low carb way is the best match for me.

I feel so nervous!!

I have lost weight before eating the Atkins way, and I did very well. The problem is not the eating plan. The problem is emotional eating. I have lost 15 pounds, gotten some momentum, and then hit an emotional wall and gained 5 pounds back. I'm still at net loss of 10 which is good. And I want more.

I feel like this is the last battle for my heart. The last place in my life that needs to be healed. It's not that I want to look like anyone else. I am so tired feeling victory failure and frustration in this area of my life. I want to conquer this area of my life. I want to be the curvy, athletic girl I used to be.

On the fun side, Delighted Husband and I have looked at each other with a gleam in our eye thinking about some of the hot stuff we could do if I were smaller and more flexible and had more, er, stamina. (blush) (grin) In the few months I have been working out at the gym, I have been amazed at how much faster and easier I can orgasm. Lord only knows what else might be in store for Delighted Husband and me! I intend to find out.

So, does this sound like a good goal? Is this something y'all think you could support?

Love,
Shula

This is the song that played while I was doing my cool-down stretches.
Bliss.

I've been working out at a gym for a while and I recently took it to the next level by having a trainer set some goals for me. Today was the first day worked out on the new goal level. It was hard. It was harrrrrrd work! Without trying to, or conciously thinking about it, I groaned while I did the last 2 reps on the weight machine. It helped. It really helped. In the split second after making that sound of pure agonized effort, two thoughts immediately raced through my mind.
1) Good Lord! That's so unladylike.
2) That really helped. I think I'll try it again the next time I'm struggling on the last rep.

Something else that helps?
I mean really helps.
I turn away from the mirrors. I need to focus on what my mind and body is doing, not keeping up the running commentary on body image. I deliberately shifted my concentration
from
sight—(what do I look like? Does my whatever look fat?)
to
touch—(am I reaching equal range of motion? Do I feel out of breath? Do I need to slow down?)

It really helped.

Y'all know I like wearing a cleaveage-and-chiffon dress as much as the next girl, but sometimes I have to give myself permission to be unladylike to get the job done.

Please pray for me. I am really going for it and I need encouragement.

Fatigue is a powerful force and it takes something equally powerful to counteract it.
Beauty.
Delighted Husband and I have been working some long hours at our respective jobs. Both of us feeling a fatigue of unusual intensity. Fatigue is more than sleepyness or the sense of needing to sit down and catch your breath after an intense game of basketball. Fatigue is a bonewearyness of body and soul. This is what we're dealing with.

We arrive home and after sending one last important email I step away from the computer and walk with him toward the bedroom. We cuddle and he tells me about his day. About the stresses and strains of daily work life. I listen and blurt out sympathy and indignation. Our companionship is sweet. Two best friends sharing the victories and griefs of the day. Suddenly, he rolls on top of me. I blink in surprise. Then smile at what he says next. Then smile at what he does next.

Companionship, love, marital play all satisfied, hunger is the next need in line. He heads for the kitchen to make himself a bowl of cereal. That is one of the most adorable things about him I think—how Delighted Husband is pushing forty and still enjoys a bowl of colorful cereal with the unabashed gusto of a little boy. I prefer more substantial fare, and find the thought of sugary cereal on an empty stomach deplorable.

I doze and luxuriate until my stomach starts to growl. I close my eyes and remember waffles. I remember when my Daddy used to cook on the nights my Mama had to work late at her floral shop. That's right. I get the business owner bug honest. And her store was there to offer beauty and joy to women as well. What a heritage. So on nights Mama was working late into the night like Santa's elves to bouquet-ify an entire wedding party, Daddy would make waffles. Waffles. I hadn't had waffles in years.

I ambled into the kitchen, nearly stood on my head in front of the island cabinet, and dug out the waffle iron. While it was heating, I opened a box of whole wheat bisquicky stuff and whipped up a batch of waffle batter. I'm pushin' forty myself and my waffles are more carb-healthy than Daddy's but the thought still counts. I anoint my waffle with real butter and maple syrup—not even sugarfree stuff, the real McCoy—and take a bite. I swallow and sigh and think "God bless us all every one." I listen to my audiobook and savor the waffley bliss. By this time, Delighted Husband is in the gameroom playing Wii. The chirpy happy music and roaring car engine noise tells me he is off to the races with Mario Kart.

Having savored my waffle, I want something lush from the protein category. I know just the ticket. I whip up a batch of eggs the way Friend Dennis makes them. Spicy and seasoned just right with mushrooms and cheese. I remember the first time he cooked these eggs for us on the first morning of one of the vacations Friend Dennis and his Dearly Beloved took with me and Delighted Husband. I remember how special it was to have someone cook for me. Me the one who loves to cook being cooked for and how cared-for that made me feel.

And I feel cared-for all over again. Remembering the meals my Daddy and my friend cooked for me, I feel it and taste it all over again, and I feel nourished body and soul.

Such simple pleasures. Such beauty. And I experience the wonder of feeling nourished and satisfied instead of hungry and fatigued. Simple things will get you through, my friends. Simple rest. Simple play. Simple food. Simple love. Wow, do I feel better.

I'll tell you the same thing I've told all my girlfriends to whom I recommend scheduled sex and they wrinkle their nose and say "ohh but wouldn't that take all the fun out of it?"

Girls, I have walked into an evening of scheduled sex at many stages of arousal, desire, or lack thereof.
And I've never regretted it.
Ever.

I could tell you that making love regularly creates hormonal bonds with your husband, boosts self-esteem, and promotes an overall sense of well-being, ease, and satisfaction. But perhaps you'll understand it better if I tell you a little story.

It's 8:30pm and I have just been loved truly, madly, deeply and past the edge of reason. And now Boy Scouts are over and it's time to go pick up Dear Child. I groan, and stretch and peel myself out of bed. I'm looking for a little consolation prize so I decide to try on that cute little sundress that was too small the last time I tried it. It fits. Yeah, baby! This is just the boost I need. I glide out of the house pausing briefly to slip on some sandals.

I pull up to the door of the church and the scoutmaster who happens to be the pastor walks out with a smile and props his elbow on my drivers side mirror in a conversational pose.
"Wellll hellloooo!"
I give a quick little smile and beckon Dear Child into the SUV. Friendly Pastor will not be dissuaded.
"So how was date night?"
"Great!" I cannot suppress a smile.
"So where'd you go for dinner?"
I stammer, "Um, we, er, We had a picnic" I hope this is at least partially true. I think we ate something before we got busy. I could not tell you what we ate if my life depended on it.
"Ohhh a picnic! Great idea! Where'd you go?"
I feel the heat suffuse my face and know a blush is blooming over my cheeks. "Uhh, we had our picnic at home."
There is a brief tiny flash of recognition and Friendly Pastor draws back like he's been stung. He backpedals admirably with "Well thanks for letting Dear Child participate in our program! We sure had a fun time tonight!"
I smile a proper motherly smile and thank him right back. What I want to say but don't...
No problem, Rev. We wouldn't let him quit if he wanted to! We need the free babysitting!

Dear Son is hungry, so I drive him to Subway and I walk over to Starbucks to get a decaf sugarfree cinnamon dolce.
My walk becomes a saunter as I think of all the things I just did with Delighted Husband. To the casual observer, I am a thirtysomething housewife. A curvaceous soccer mom who shops at Lane Bryant. But I know I am a sex goddess. And Delighted Husband knows it too. I smile. Just feeling good in every joint of my body. I feel lithe and relaxed and absolutely gorgeous. Gorgeous is as gorgeous does. And gorgeous does. She certainly does.

When was a teenager at youth missions training camp, one of the speakers said the following:
Someday, soon, all your desire, purpose and direction will all come together.
—Jim Graaf 1987

That was 21 years ago and I remember it—every word.
and here we are.
Those words seem especially, beautifully true today.

My doctor—a lovely brilliant psychiatrist who has taken care of me for ten years—told me this week that I'm the poster child for recovery from abuse and depression. Her comment surprised me as I was just in for a routine med check I didn't expect to talk about the last ten years, just the last 6 months. But she said it and after a brief flash of shyness I smiled, because I knew it was true.

Then she asks me if I'm writing a book to tell my story because I should.
I tell her yes I am and that I have also been writing a blog for over a year. She smiles and says 'creating a high quality blog takes a lot of work and creative energy' and 'you've worked really hard for this. you should be really proud of yourself'.

I paused and took a deep breath and looked in her kind intelligent eyes and said "Healing is its own reward. But I do receive your affirmation."

We part with smiles on both our faces.

I beam silently all the way to the car. Pausing briefly to stand in the office building lobby and remember all the times I have walked past this lobby to her office. Twenty times at least, ten years with every 6 month med checks and a few extra if I was having a bad episode. I think of the meds I no longer take because I no longer need them. I think about the maintenance meds I do take and how gratefully even keel I am now. How good my normal is. And I start for a split second to tear up with sentiment then I say 'no, this is all about celebration' and I stand there silent and hug myself inside and tell the woman inside of me how proud I am of her. I hear Himself whispering love in my thoughts"Baby girl I am so very very very very very very proud of you." I think of all the times I wanted to give up and didn't. And I smile with joy that can find no words.

I want to jump and cheer like my team just won the Superbowl, but there is a solemn feeling that keeps me from doing so. I think of all the horror and grief I waded through to get to this point and solemn joy seems the appropriate response.

I start to call some of my dearest friends to share the moment, but I close the phone and wait. I have such a profound sense of this being a moment just me and God. I walk to the car and then decide it's time to call Delighted Husband. He's been with me for many years of my journey. Our conversation is brief and affectionate. His pager goes off midsentence and we part with quick iloveyou's.

I have the feeling that something momentous has happened and I feel the urge to do like they did in the Old Testament and build an altar. Pile up some stones and scratch out a plaque that says, "Here God did something for me." Something tangible. So I ask Himself what do I do seeing as how piling up boulders really isn't an option for me. He says, "let's go shopping." So Himself takes me shopping at Target looking for something special to remember this day. "You'll know it when you see it" he says. I go straight to the lingerie department—my natural habitat—but nothing feels particularly "it". I feel led walk over to the athletic section of the store and I pick out 4 adorable colorful jogbras and a matching running skort. A size I couldn't fit 6 months ago.

And I remember for a split second how remarkable it is that celebration and rewarding myself does not automatically equal food. And I grin at this private joke and say to Himself in a teasing tone of voice, "Show off!!" because he really has shown off his power in me.