I’ve always been deathly afraid of a number. The number changes many times but the fear is always there. What is it today? What will people think? How can I hide from it?

This fear has been a part of me for as long as I can remember. My mood for the day, my assessment of my own value and the shame associated with it has had too much control over me. Nope it’s not my age or credit score – yup it’s my weight.

Now I don’t want to do a typical post on how I’ve seen the light, here’s my before picture and follow my journey. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that – those women who do have inspired me many times. The problem is that the old shitty tapes in my head always got in my way.

I remember being told when I was young that if I only didn’t talk so much (like that’s really going to change) and lost weight, boys would like me. I was also told that boys would only date me because my dad was a car dealer since I was so big (man I sure would love to be that 140# of “big” I was in high school again!). I even had an adult friend tell me I better lose weight because I couldn’t be the “fat” mom and embarrass my kids (although if you ask my kids, I did manage to embarrass them in numerous other ways. Ask them about the pom pom moms). And of course the old standby, “but you have such a pretty face.” Yup, I do 🙂 but it came across as more of a criticism than compliment.

Isn’t it funny how the messages I heard were all connected to the same point – no one, especially boys (because that was the main point of life was to have a boy love me) would love me unless I was totally different.

Hey we all have our stories. I’m not writing this for sympathy, for you to say I’m beautiful on the inside as well as out (yup, I am, but so are you) or a pat on the back. I’m writing this for me. I finally feel free of the old shit.

With everything I’ve gone through in the last couple of years, I’ve grown, and not just in weight. I’ve grown into a deep love affair – with myself. I’ve learned I have some pretty cool qualities, that I love to write and laugh but never will carry a tune (although I always say I carry it in places it has never gone before), have a deep capacity for love of my family, friends, my work, experiences and saving my little piece of the world. I’m certainly not perfect but that’s the point – we learn as we make mistakes and grow.

I am so freakin’ happy. I love my life and the people I surround myself with. I love all my cats and dog – even though I should buy stock in Tidy Cat Litter – and am so blessed with loving relationships.

So I’m taking my next step. I’m shedding this emotional shell. I’ve used my weight as protection and an insulator from hurt. A friend and I were laughing about our relationship with food – it’s kind of like a bad lover. It feels so good to eat, then it’s over quickly and you say “really, that’s all you got?” and then feel disappointed. Then you feel so bad you do it again and the cycle continues. It actually sounded much funnier when we were talking about it.

I’ve done every diet in the book at least three times. I lose, then regain. Over and over. But I’ve figured out the big difference this time. I always thought I would be happy WHEN I lost weight. Nirvana would be achieved, and the world would fall at my feet.

I’m happy now. If I never lose another pound I still love myself and know the value I bring to the world around me. This time I’m doing it because I want to. I’m going to be 58. It’s a great age, old enough to know better, young enough to do better.

I started Weight Watchers a couple weeks ago. Oprah and I are now hanging (well I watch her videos and respond, I’m not sure she’s responded to me yet) and I’m done with fad diets and deprevation diets. No more hiding, no more “I have to lose this much weight by so and so or I’m a loser” bullshit.

So I weighed 298.6# when I started. Most in my life. And I’ve lost 7.8# since I started. I have a goal in mind but frankly this is about more than that. This is about this very happy woman taking charge of her demons of self doubt and kicking them in the ass. No more hiding and “If I don’t admit I’m fat, no one will know it” thinking. I think you all did. And at the advanced age of 57 I want my good health to continue. I was so fortunate with my colon cancer three years ago. I want to play more golf, run with my granddaugher, be able to get up off the floor easily, never again worry about sitting in a booth and not feel like someone is always behind me when it’s just my butt (seriously sometimes I’ll turn around and say who’s there??)

I’ve waited a couple weeks to post this. I’ll admit it – I was nervous. What if I’m judged or rejected? One of my close male friends told me guys don’t even think like that, to just let it go. And of course there is always the fear of failure. What if I don’t follow through and then am judged on that? Frankly, I’ve failed at a lot of things in my life, and I always pick myself up and keep going (thus the Nine Lives of Jan title). I know what I want and I’m doing it.

Thanks loyal readers (I’ve always wanted to say that) for allowing me to be free. I’m still going to write my incredibly funny (at least in my head they’re funny) adventures here and occassionally let you know how I’m doing with the weight journey. As I said, it’s only a number. And I’m tired of being afraid.

A few weeks ago, I screwed up my left hip flexor (I never knew what it was called until a year or so ago. It’s what makes you able to move your left leg without whimpering with pain). I was a bit stubborn – hard to believe – when my buddy John was over here. John and Kim own the cottage and he was out to repair the privacy fence that had blown down (and that’s a whole other blog post adventure).

John had 50# bags of cement in the back of his car. He told me not to get them because “girls can’t lift 50#.” That man knows me. Don’t ever tell me I can’t do something. I said “oh yeah?” or some ridiculous comment and started to lift one out. I did the whole bend my knees and lift, which was good. It was the whole turning to the side and not lifting my leg to shift weight that was bad. I certainly didn’t admit it hurt like hell. I will not admit defeat.

I did admit it that night though when I was icing it and using Icy Hot on it. I limped around with it for a week thinking it would get better. I decided to call in the big guns and went to see Dr. Deb, my amazing chiropractor. Deb fixed it right up and I left the office feeling better and no pain.

Yeah, then I screwed up. I gave in to my addiction on the way back to the office and drove through Starbucks. Usually this is easy – make the order, drive up, pay and get my coffee. That’s what happened, until I held my phone out to pay.

I dropped it.

Right out the window and right in front of my back tire. Crap.

The girl at the window leaned out to confirm where my iPhone was at. I couldn’t really open my door because there was maybe a 4″ space between my car and the counter. And of course there was a back up of cars behind me.

She guided me to slowly pull my car forward and start turning the wheel to get more room to open the door. This seemed to go on forever as I’d move and turn, back up, and do it again. I thought I had enough room to squeeze out to be able to pick it up.

Nope. I got stuck.

So here I am, stuck halfway out the door, my left leg stretched out and turned, my belly caught on the door and can’t move. Well shit. Now what do I do?

The woman behind me was getting impatient and I was at that point anxious and embarrassed. I didn’t know what to do. So I sucked in my gut and just pushed myself back into the car. All I could think of was someone in the line behind me shooting video of the fat lady in the purple coat stuck getting out of her car to get her damn $5 cup of little coffee and lots of fat and cream.

The girl in the window continued to give me instructions on moving my car further without running over my phone. After what seemed to be hours, I was able to get out and pick up my phone*. I turned around to all the cars behind me and yelled “got it!” trying to seem like I thought it was a fun adventure that we were all in together.

I will say one advantage of having an addiction and feeding it at the same place is that they know your name. The manager said, “don’t worry about it Jan, we’ve got you” and didn’t charge me. I grabbed my Venti Chestnut Praline Latte and took off.

I got back to work and for the next few days searched social media for #fatladyatstarbucks to see if I popped up anywhere. So far, so good.

The worst part? I had just paid Dr. Deb to fix me up and within a half hour, I screwed it up even worse. I waited a week before I went back to see her because I’m stubborn and thought it would go away.

The moral of this story? I guess for me is to quit being so stubborn (ain’t gonna happen, no way), hold on to my phone with a death grip when I hold it out the window,  and to keep being nice to the Starbucks folks so if I do it again, I’ll get another free $5 coffee.

I suppose it I quit drinking the fat laden $5 coffees, I might lose weight so I wouldn’t get stuck in the door. And no it never occurred to me to climb over the seat and get out on the passenger side.

Oh well, if you see me on YouTube tag me. I want some royalites off of that to buy more Starbucks.

*Oh and BTW, Otterbox is totally worth the money. Not a scratch on my phone.

Wasn’t that a song title? It popped into my head when I started to type. Anyway, this about the ultimate sacrifice I made for my brother Jimmy. I made it unselfishly (if I do say so myself), without resentment or regret.

No I didn’t give him a kidney.

I watched an Ohio State Football game with him.

Just to give you a little background, I grew up in Newark, Ohio which is about 30 miles from Columbus, home of OSU. It was the 70’s – the years of Woody Hayes, Archie Griffin and Cornelius Green. My dad would make sure we watched the games whenever they were on TV (remember no ESPN back in the day so it was an event). Lots of cheering, being appalled yet fascinated by Woody Hayes and always watching script Ohio. Other than Notre Dame, which was really a religious obligation to our Irish Catholic family, Ohio State was the epitome of the college football experience.

I however, have always been a rebel. I loved the University of Michigan.

Not loving Ohio State was the equivalent of a mortal sin. And I relished that.

Anywhere around the state of Ohio and especially in Columbus, you never utter the words Michigan or UofM. It’s just asking to get harassed. So while I was a rebel with really no cause, I didn’t flaunt it. I’m not stupid.

Which leads me back to my brother Jimmy. He’s my only and older brother. Jimmy is responsible for every phobia I have, as all good big brothers do to their little sisters. I am afraid of escalators (old men with long fingers will pull you under at the bottom), sidewalk grates (old men live under there and with those same long fingers will pull you through the grate) and elevators (old men are on top of the elevator and when it bounces a little, it’s because they’re cutting the cable so you’ll crash).

Even to this day, I hesitate on all three. While I am aware that my big ass will not fit through the sidewalk grates, I ain’t taking any chances. And one day at an old job of mine, as I went to the bathroom I passed the freight elevator. The doors were open and an old man was standing on top of the car. Scared the shit out of me.

So Jimmy wanted to come up and visit me at my new cottage. My big brother wanted to make sure I was ok. It’s something my dad would have done. I was so excited he was coming up. We realized we haven’t spent any significant time alone, just the two of us, in 40 years.

So when Jimmy called to say he’d be up on Saturday, I said awesome, what time? He replied the Bucks play at 3:30 so in plenty of time for the game. I planned out lots of snack food and dinner and said a few rosarys that I wouldn’t be an ass about OSU.

I didn’t say anything negative, smart assy or snarky. Even when OSU lost so badly to Iowa, I felt bad for Jimmy. That’s his team and he was really bummed. I even tried to cheer him up by watching a “Fast and Furious” movie with him.

So what’s the moral of my story? I guess that if you love your sibling enough, you can keep your damn mouth shut. I’m grateful for the time we had together and the reconnection between us. Family is your roots. It’s where you came from. Sometimes there’s things that families can do to make you crazy (not me, I never bug them at all), you can have huge political and religious differences (we’ve all agreed to just not discuss those things) but man, they’ve got your back. I know that whatever happens to me, Jimmy and my sisters will be there for me without question or hesitation. And I will always be there for them (of course they’re all a lot older than me and say I have to take care of them because I’m the youngest).

And the best part? I worked off at least a couple days in Purgatory watching that game. Thanks Jimmy!

I’ve lived alone before but haven’t for quite a few years. While it’s been an adjustment, and one I wasn’t quite ready for, I’m doing pretty well. Still sad at times, a little morose (remember the Irish Catholic roots) but ready to see life anew at 57 (if only my skin and body would begin anew too).

So in a tip of the hat to David Letterman, here are my Top Five Good Things about Living Alone. (Sorry Dave, I just couldn’t come up with 10, but I’m sure as time goes on I will.)

5. The bathroom. This is pretty much a given. No messes that aren’t mine, only cleaning my hair out of the tub and sink and no lingering reminders of someone else – you get my drift. Even when we had two bathrooms, it’s still that privacy issue. I’m digging my own bathroom time. (that sounds kind of weird. . .)

4.  Alone time. I can go to sleep when I want and not hear a TV. I can read as late as I want and not disturb anyone with my light. I can go all day without talking to anyone if I want. I can walk around naked all day if I want (sorry for the visual but it’s true. I don’t though. I’m afraid someone will come to the door and then faint). I don’t have to be nice if I don’t want. I enjoy quiet until I don’t. I’m learning to love this again.

3.  Cooking. I’ve always loved to cook. I enjoy trying new recipes, making up ones and cooking for friends. I’ve wanted to get back to vegetarianism. I was a vegetarian 35 years or so ago (I believe I was two at the time – or 2ish. . . I think there might have been a zero after it) and quit because it was too hard. Now so many recipes, foods to try and the freedom to not worry about cooking for someone else is awesome. I’m having fun spending a few hours in the kitchen trying four or five new recipes. I’ve started canning again. I’m tasting new things and having a blast. And I feel good about not eating anything with a face (yes, it’s my animal rights issue that is driving this). I’m losing weight too. It’s all good man.

2.  I control the remote. I will never ever ever have to watch Judge Judy again. I can watch a marathon of House Hunters, followed by five different crime shows. I won’t have to compromise. I know that sounds selfish but I’ve had to endure Judge Judy for years. She doesn’t compromise. I guess it rubbed off on me.

1.  I can do whatever the hell I want when I want to. I can dance, I can sing, I can talk to the animals (not quite like Dr. Doolittle but they listen well) I can talk to myself (this is getting to be a bad habit). I will sit for a few hours reading a book, followed by a frenzied cleaning rush at midnight. I can eat ice cream for dinner without judgement. I can cry when I want, laugh hysterically at my own jokes (told you the talking to myself was getting bad) or just be still. I can just be me.

I’m not trying to say living with someone sucks. It can be wonderful and has been. But living on my own again is making me get to know myself better and practice gratitude much more. I’m lonely at times. I’m not going to lie. But it’s easier to be lonely when you’re alone than lonely in a relationship. That really sucks.

So you’ll have to excuse me. I’m going to put my black leggings on with the glow-in-the-dark cats pattern and dance in the bathroom in the dark. Tomorrow is Halloween you know. And Reuben and the kitties think I’m pretty darn funny when I do whatever the hell I want to do.

I love having the pond. It relaxes me, is beautiful to look at and is also my water source. I do like having water. Lately though I’ve had so many guests come join me on my pond. They can be quite fun to watch, but they’re loud, don’t clean up after themselves and think they own the place. No I haven’t been invaded by teenagers.

Canadian geese.

Over the last few weeks groups of geese have been landing in the pond. At first I thought it was so cool and I’d say hi to them – and they’d calmly swim down to the other end. I loved watching them and how one would honk and then they’d all take off. They’d go a bit south, make a wide turn to the west back over the cottage and then head south. I liked to think they were saying goodbye.

I know, I’m spending too much time alone.

I also couldn’t help it – I’d count them. I know Canadian Geese mate for life and I’d count to make sure there was an even number. If not, I’d wonder who’d lost a mate and was left alone. I’d think hey, I hear ya man, and feel badly for whomever it was. It would make me a little morose (I’m Irish Catholic – we don’t get melancholy or sad, we get broody) and think maybe he/she could stay with me. Then I’d slap myself up the side of the head – only figuratively – and say snap out of it. You have enough animals around here!

Then they started to get a bit annoying. They leave lots of feathers in the water. I’m glad to provide bathing space, but clean up after yourselves. I have to drink (heavily filtered though) this water.

Then they poop. I get it, we all do (wasn’t that a book title for kids on potty training?) but man, I don’t want to step in it. Go do it in the neighbor’s field. He cut the corn down and it’s wide open. Why does it have to be next to my pond?

Then the noise. I’ve been woken up quite a few times in the middle of the night with lots of honking as either a new group arrives or one departs. I wish they would respect the check in/check out times I’ve posted. It’s just rude. It’s not like they’re paying to stay here.

They do however provide entertainment for both Reuben and my sister’s dog Tucker. Reuben likes to look at them and will wade in towards them. He must not look threatening because they don’t do anything but swim the other way. Tucker though is an English Springer Spaniel. Tuck likes to bark and bark. And the geese like to ignore and ignore. I think Tuck’s feelings get a little hurt that they don’t listen to his demand to leave. He keeps trying though.

Overall I really do like seeing them. If they lived here it would make me crazy. They are dirty, messy and inconsiderate. I’ve had teenagers once, not again.

Seriously though, I’m paying the rent and no one asked me if they could fly in and out. I’m running the worst Airbnb ever. It is kind of like teenagers and family from out-of-town – you like seeing them for a bit, then they annoy the hell out of you. So I smile nicely as they fly away, feel a little sad they’re leaving, then so relieved I can go in and relax. Then I’ll go through it all again in the spring. Maybe I can figure out a rental schedule by then.

 

Every morning as I get ready to leave for work, I pet each of the cats and Reuben. I tell them all to have a good day and for Reuben to watch the house while I’m gone. I’ve always done this ever since I’ve had pets but even more so now that I’m at the cottage.

And then I realized. I think I’ve become a twisted version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

It dawned on me last week. I was thinking Leo really needs to get a job (my Siamese. He’s great at opening locked doors, getting into cabinets and starting up crap with the rest of the cats. If you know of a job opening, call me), I have these seven lives dependent on me with no tax credits, I have to do all the cooking and cleaning and they have personalities that fit each of the dwarf’s names. (Was that the longest run on sentence or what?)

I did leave to go live in a cottage by myself and while I won’t say it but I won’t stop you from saying it, some consider me the fairest of them all. I do sing a lot at home by myself and have been known to try to get them all to dance with me. Although I do like to wear dresses to work occasionally, I never wear a headband.

Living with these seven boys can be challenging. When Grumpy (Elliott Stabler) has had enough he’ll try to pick on Happy (Bernie) who just purrs and keeps on going. Then he’ll try to pick on Bashful (Too Shy) who runs and hides so Dopey (Reuben. He’s a lab) then chases everyone around. Doc (Leo), Sneezy (Geno) and Sleepy (Eddie) then get involved and it goes on and on and on.

Seriously I do interact with humans. And I do realize they’re my pets. I really do.

The worst is bed time. I bought a new mattress and box springs when I moved. It’s like sleeping on a cloud. Unfortunately, when I go to bed I have it to myself but that doesn’t last. I’ll wake up to a cat on my head, one on the pillow next to me, assorted ones at the end so I can’t move my legs – and one big 90# dog snoring in my face.

I sleep with lots of different men every night. And they’re all furry, shed too much and hog the bed. Not quite what I thought single life would be.

So while I do see similarities, and I really don’t believe in fairy tales, there is one big difference – I’m not waiting for a prince to come kiss me and make life perfect. I’m figuring out how to be happy all by myself. No one can do that for me.

But all these boys with me are making life much more interesting.

(You know they’re all waiting for her to fall asleep so they can jump in and hog the bed!)

 

 

I figured I’d catch you with the title.

So welcome to my new blog. I’m embarking on a new chapter in my life. And I’ve become something I hate. I am a stereotype. I’m a woman in her 50’s, single again, have 6 cats and a dog and content to stay home and read and do crafts. Yikes.

I wasn’t quite expecting this turn of events but hey, it’s all good, right? I enjoyed blogging when I was doing the Farm and when I said I was no longer associated with it,  I had many people reach out and say they hoped I’d continue blogging. I appreciated that. I mean, I think I’m really funny and it was nice to get a few people to agree. And hey, it keeps me away from the craft table.

I went with the name The Nine Lives of Jan (thanks btw to my DIL who suggested it). I am like a cat. I continuously reinvent myself no matter what the setback, I always land on my feet and am forever covered in cat hair. So come along for the ride with me – it won’t feel so strange having some friends along.

If you read my last blog, you know it took me quite awhile to adjust to country life. Well now I’m even further out in the country. I mean no cable or internet runs to my cottage (don’t worry I got DirectTV and a Verizon modem). The closest Starbucks is 12 miles away. No pizza deliveries (which is fine since the projectile vomiting episode last spring). And I have to deal with any bug or critter issues on my own (we won’t even talk about all the coyotes out here).

But hey man, I’m diggin’ it. I sit about two acres back from the road, live in a beautiful little one bedroom cottage with a deck and porches AND a pond. The picture above is from one of my sunset walks around the pond with Reuben – my dog – and Leo – my Siamese cat – who likes to walk with us. I’m so grateful to my friends who let me rent this piece of peace. It’s my new healing cottage on the pond.

So stay tuned for more posts. I’m just getting started.