Day 12: Suits of Armor.

We tend to wear suits of armor, one over the other.... and we hope we will not have to completely undress.
- Chogyam Trungpa

As the days go by, one thing is becoming clear ... the food thing is gonna be way harder than the pot thing. Pot is all or nothing, which makes the decision somewhat easy: Just say no. But the food thing ...

So perhaps it's worth examining why I've always been, ahh ... heavy. (Well, okay, I was thin until I was 11, and then, in 1989, after hitting a high of 170, I came close when I lost 32 pounds in a bet with Samantha's mom. I looked great, but all I saw were the 13 pounds I thought I still needed to lose.)

There are plenty of theories out there about why women who claim to want to lose weight stay fat, but the one that's always felt like a fit with my psyche is the "Suit of Armor" approach. The layers are seen as protection; they keep the boys at bay. But the question remains: Why would a woman want to do such a thing? (I'm sorely tempted to say, "Why wouldn't she," but far be it from me to go for the cheap one-liner.)

In my case, the analysis is Psych 101: Even though I grew up desperate for attention from boys, I was far more drawn to girls. I may have wanted boys to like me, but I wanted girls to truly know me. I never acknowledged this as a sexual leaning, though; I instead articulated my chastely obsessive crushes (always on older girls) as wanting a big sister.

My first "big sister" was Carrie, a 19-year-old clerk at the local drugstore. I was 13, and I'd sit on the soda pop chest near her register and talk to her for hours at a time. I thought Carrie was the most beautiful, elegant and kindest person I'd ever met, and I wanted to be the most important person in her life. I'm sure she thought I was a sweet kid, but the entire thing ended badly when I found out she was quitting her job and getting married. She told me on Easter Sunday, and when she said "Happy Easter," I snarled back, "Fuck Easter!" and stormed out.

It was not my finest hour. It's also when I started eating in earnest.

When I was a sophomore in high school (and 20 pounds overweight), I wanted a senior named Linda to be my big sister, and in fact, we actually became quite close. I think Linda actually did see me as a little sister ... albeit a sister in Christ. (Long story, but to Reader's Digest it, I met her when we were in the school's production of "Fiddler on the Roof." I thought she was the most beautiful, elegant and kindest person I'd ever met, and I wanted to be the most important person in her life. I used my charm to ingratiate myself, and Laurie promptly invited me to her Christian Youth Group. I'd never been religious, but I followed like a puppy and went born-again within a few months. Anything to sit next to Linda during group prayer. My mother was mortified, and much to her relief, my love of the Lord pretty much flew out the window when I went to college.)

After Linda, I had an inkling there might be more to my feelings than just the big sister thing, but I stubbornly stuffed such thoughts and continued on as I had been. (What that meant was, I kept on sleeping with boys I didn't care about - and who didn't care about me - as a way to prove to myself that girls weren't really a "thing" at all.)

This is where the Suit of Armor really kicked in. After college, my weight started creeping up, and by the time I was 26, I'd hit the aforementioned 170. I moaned and whined about wanting a boyfriend all the time, but made sure to focus solely on one-night stands and unattainables. I also moaned and whined about wanting to be thin - usually while shoving a pizza down my throat.

It's too bad, because my twenties were an otherwise heady time. My job - syndicated music critic for the daily newspaper - was high-profile and fun. I had a weekly gig on the city's top rated morning radio show, my apartment rocked, I had wonderful friends, and my summers were spent drinking margaritas and grilling at my parents' pool. But instead of enjoying my life, I kept gaining weight and clinging to my "I do SO like boys!" denial. I was privately miserable.

Then came that bet with Samantha's mother. I lost 31 pounds and became an exercise freak. (Well, okay, "freak" is pushing it, but I did join a tennis club and work out a lot.) By this time, thanks in part to my exposure to new friend Bambi (who chooses "Bambi" as her blog alias??) and her then-girlfriend Sally (Bambi is still just about the coolest lesbian, not to mention person, I've ever known) I knew full well that I preferred women. I even graduated to calling myself "Bisexual in Theory" (yes, I thought I was very covert). And then, when I was 28, I met Sophie at the club, and all bets were off. She became my personal trainer, and I finally kissed a woman for the first time (the first kiss wasn't actually with Sophie, although she later became my first girlfriend. I'll elaborate in another post). After that, there was no turning back.

Unfortunately, there was also no turning back as far as my eating habits were concerned. My newfound love of the Stairmaster faded quickly, and my Suit of Armor (which had been reduced to, say, a suit of chain mail) again reared its ugly head. When I moved to L.A. the next year to attend graduate school (for screenwriting), the pounds continued their slow march back into power, and the rest is history. I fought the pounds and the pounds won.

Am I finally ready to let go of the suit's protective powers? I sure as hell hope so. I mean, the girl thing isn't an issue any more (it's no secret to anyone who knows me), so I hope I'm only wearing the suit out of habit (and because I really do love food).

If I'm wearing it because I still need protection, well ... enough, already. It's time to get myself a talisman and move the fuck on.