Destination Discipline

I was 25 years old when I bought my first motorcycle. It was a metallic blue, 1986 250cc Rebel – a beginner bike for all you non-riders, and it was(at the time) probably the most beautiful bike I’d ever seen. I learned how to ride it in a parking lot by my house, but when I was confident enough, I zipped up and down the roads in my neighborhood, waving at strangers. I was thrilled with the hint of anxiety I felt as I learned how to properly use the clutch, but humbled by the small engine and its reluctance to move the machine that housed it over 60mph on the highway. Still, that little bike gave me the greatest feeling of “cool” I had ever experienced at that point in my life, and I reveled in the wonder of being noticed if for no other reason than for being the chunky girl on a little blue motorcycle.

I loathed to part with that wonderful machine and so it wasn’t very much longer until I purchased my second bike, a maroon, 1997 750cc Yamaha Virago. This machine was an entirely different experience. It was heavy. I felt the responsibility of balancing it carefully lest it fall and I not be able to pick it up, because dropping a bike is one of the most humiliating things you can do. I’ll admit I was never a speed demon. I always felt like I was just shy of getting my sea legs on the thing, but it did move fast! And it was so dang comfy. I felt like a true biker on that motorcycle and I rode it proudly until the day I sold it to pay income tax.

Still, I remember how it felt to glide down the road with the wind in my face and the bugs in my teeth. I remember waving at the other bikers–not the goofy wave I give people on my Jamis hybrid(that’s a bicycle, y’all) but a real biker wave. It’s what I call the salty salute most riders give as they pass by–a kind of universal mantra for the biker that is reserved for the road. Only bikers give it to each other(I’ve tried it from my Jamis but I’m sadly ignored), and if you’re not a biker, there is no amount of waving or finger-wagging that will get another biker to give it back. I forfeited the cool club when I stopped riding and I’ve lusted after another bike ever since.

You see, for me, riding a bike was always about image. Sure, I loved to ride, but more importantly, I wanted to look cool. Maybe it’s the outcast in me that craved attention, or maybe I simply longed to be accepted because I knew I was a total nerd at heart. Whatever the case may be, I wanted to be a part of the motorcycle club, and for a while, I was.

But image is not the same thing as identity. And this disparity tugged at my heartstrings as my family pressured me to let go of the biker lifestyle. You see, while I was trying so hard to fit into that biker culture, I was also trying to raise two little boys. They loved to ride on the motorbike with me but the “responsible” adults in my immediate vicinity were certain that two-wheeled contraption was going to kill me. As much as it pains me to admit now, the statistics for motorcycle deaths aren’t very cheerful, and in the end my family won. In many ways I’ve never really recovered. Every Spring I get a little pang in my heart when people break out the bikes and race past me on the road.

And so it happened the other morning that I was riding my Jamis before work when I encountered an older fellow on a beauty of a white motorcycle at a stop light. I guess I was feeling nostalgic as I pulled up beside him at the light and complimented his ride. He informed me that it was a police bike that had been refurbished and his crusty-proud grin reminded me just how much I miss riding and showing off my wheels. I told him I used to ride but that “my husband made me sell my bike” and he gave me that mournful look most bikers give me when I tell them that. But before we could say anything else, the light turned green. He revved his engine and glided around the corner while I pedaled hard in my cycling shorts and light blue bicycle helmet–ever the almighty nerd.

The chance encounter caused me to think about who I am today compared to who I used to want to be. I used to feel like I didn’t belong–like nobody really liked me for who I was–and that I needed a motorcycle to get people’s attention. I used to believe that the black leather jacket and cowboy boots were a sort of magic costume that made me appealing, and so I wore them sort of like Cinderella wore her beautiful white evening gown. I braided my hair, and pulled on my black helmet, and I sped around the region doling out “the biker salute”. I felt like I was a part of something, even though riding a bike didn’t afford me any kind of special privilege. To be honest, I felt very invisible in my everyday life and so riding a motorcycle gave me visibility. I suppose in the end, being a biker chick was really nothing more than a fanciful mirage.

But today I am not the same person that I was. I don’t need a motorcycle to boost my self-esteem. I don’t need the boots or the black leather jacket. I don’t even need the fringes on the handles because my self-worth is so much more than the dirt and grit on my cheeks from riding on a Saturday night(not that it wasn’t wonderful!). Today I am confident and comfortable in my own skin(stretch-marks and all). I am content to live in the shadows, to pedal like a nerd on the sidelines, and to take pride in the gray hairs that line my temples(which is a beautiful indicator of graceful longevity). I suppose in some respects I still like to live dangerously(if you call digging out stumps and hauling truck loads of rock dangerous work). But I am relieved that I no longer need to chase image like it’s some kind of miraculous trophy. I can rest easy in the love of my children. I can relax in the bemused gaze of my husband as he explains one more time that my chicken-cutting technique is a little sloppy. And I can laugh at myself as I pump my fists in the air while I march around my neighborhood and endure the confused looks of drivers who wonder “what in the world is that woman doing?” Because I’ve come to realize that my true identity is bound up in the love of my God and my family, and not in the vacuous image of being a “cool biker chick”.

Today at work I had a conversation with a friend who is trying so hard to live a healthy lifestyle while working full-time and raising her children. She expressed to me her dismay at losing her hair(that happens after one gives birth) and also her frustration at the sleepless nights she is experiencing with a newborn. She told me what a struggle it is to make healthy choices when she is just dead-dog tired, and I just listened, and remembered, and smiled. And then I told her what I have learned in my journey over these past few years… I told her that image is just that–a picture, but identity is who we actually are. Our faces and our bodies do not define us, because the people that know and love us don’t care about bald spots on our heads or rolls of fat around our bellies. Our identity is so much more than perfect skin or knobby knees. We are the affection we shower on our babies and the sacrifices we make to ensure their bellies are full. We are stamina at 2:04 a.m. when someone is throwing up and joy in the unprovoked giggles that ring out of tiny little lungs. We are patience and losing our temper and crying because our nerves just can’t take any more. We are worried when the diagnosis of our child makes us wonder how many days or hours we have left, and we are laughter when we consider the hairstyle they are leaving the house with for prom. So long as our identity is bound up in something true, and real, and lasting, I honestly don’t see why worrying over the imperfections in my body should have any place in my consciousness. And if you are reading this, neither should you.

I watched my friend smile and walk away as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders. And in that moment she was so lovely. I wish I could have taken a picture. But of course a picture is just another image after all, and I got something more precious from our encounter…. I got a glimpse of the wonder, majesty and beauty of a unique human heart.

When I was in the sixth grade, I wanted nothing more than to have blond hair, blue eyes, and the affection of my classmates–most of whom treated me like a three legged dog. They oscillated between pity, tolerance and annoyance. At their best they were dismissive, which is probably why I craved their attention and went to unhealthy lengths to get it. When the boys took turns belching in class, I joined in the chorus. When the girls pierced their ears, I followed suit. Still, I just didn’t quite fit in(I wonder why!).

I also made a lot of assumptions about my classmates. One friend had a poodle skirt her mother made and I was incredibly jealous. I thought that she had the perfect life because she had that skirt(among other things). I assumed the same about the girls with stylish hair and even the boys with their soccer shorts and cleats(they were so cool!). In short, I assumed things about people based on their possessions or appearance that had nothing to do with their character. I believe this is why I formed such unhealthy relationships in my childhood; I was so busy trying to impress people while at the same time consuming their affection like a starved animal – all so I could improve my social situation.

When I began my journey to better health, I thought my life would be darn near perfect once I got to a certain size. To my shame, as I lost the weight, I continued to make assumptions about those who couldn’t. I noticed in myself a shameful attitude: pride. And let me be clear, there is nothing so ugly as arrogance. I knew being thinner didn’t make me better, but it was such a terrible temptation to think that way. Now I have arrived at a place where I can see the apple from both sides of the tree. I know how it feels to be heavy and ashamed, and I know how it feels to be healthy and ashamed. For whatever reason, I carry in myself a certain sense of guilt that I have been able to lose the weight while others have not. This perspective imbues me with a certain sense of responsibility to share my experiences. I want people to know that it is possible to be heavy your whole life and find lasting change by living a healthy lifestyle. I’m not saying it’s easy, but it is possible.

I have been following a blogger on Medium, “My Fat Friend”. She writes about her experiences as a “fat” person in a thin-themed culture. I can relate to almost everything she writes. I always felt like a pariah as a heavy person. At the same time I am also condemned by what she writes. Most recently she slayed me with this quote: “But to go to a gym, I’ve also got to brave a culture that’s borne of insecurity, perfectionism and the lack of it.” Because insecurity, perfectionism, and my lack of it were frequent companions in my journey to better health. I refused to join a gym because I didn’t want to be the “fat” girl in a room full of anorexic freaks. But at the same time, I wanted to be the “anorexic freak”. Talk about an identity crisis!

I will never forget the moment I realized people liked me more because I was thinner. I was angry. Hurt. Livid. Didn’t people realize I was the same person on the inside? I was still Margaret. Why did people treat me differently?

I walk my dog in the mornings and have made fast friends with the other walkers and joggers. They wear sporty skorts and headband visors. They have Nike tennis shoes. Sometimes they even stop to chat and tell me the names of their doggies. They make me feel accepted and–I’ll be honest–I love it! I have become a part of this strange, albeit warm and friendly suburban culture of good health. But there is one woman who isn’t chatty. She is older and heavier-set, and though I have seen her walking for over a year now, the only thing that has changed about her is her hairstyle. Last year I remember calling out to her, “You are doing great!” I said it because I remembered how hard it was to walk up hills as a heavier person and I was proud of her. But now that I consider those words, I am sad. I remember the distinct look on her face when I passed her. She was annoyed that I had called out to encourage her. She looked at me and made an assumption that I was one of those healthy/fit type people who was judging her based solely by her waistline. And the thing is, I feel just awful about it. Every time I see her I want to apologize for being a total and complete dunderhead.

Assumptions make for weak human beings. We fail people when we view them only by what we assume of them rather than for who they actually are. I will even go a step further, we fail ourselves too. Because assumptions are only a half-step away from fantasy, and when we project onto others our perceived thoughts of them based solely on appearance or association, we can cause great and lasting damage.

This morning I ran into someone I used to go to school with. He didn’t remember me, though I remembered him well. Back then I considered us casual friends in that way people are when they are both sort of social outcasts. As we talked I came to realize that we were making assumptions of each other based on our (flawed) memories of shared experiences. Emotions cloud our judgement, especially in regards to childhood pain. And to be honest, I began to feel very fearful because I was worried he would remember me as I was and be unable to move on to who I am today. I haven’t seen him in nearly 28 years! Of course we have changed. Having said all of that, I wished we could just start over. I wished I had a big fan in which to blow away the dark cloud of painful childhood memories. In essence, I want to look through the lens of truth and see him for who he is today; a husband and father–but more importantly–a human being and fellow brother in this journey we call life. To do that, I have to be willing to let go of what was(or what I thought was) and embrace the present. I have to set aside my experiences, to ask questions and to be willing to listen to the answers. In essence, I need to let go of what was and embrace what is. Sometimes that is a lot harder than it seems. But I consider it just another step in my journey to learn discipline, especially in regards to loving my neighbors.

My children were upset when I told them we were not stopping at Captain D’s for lunch after church. My youngest son screamed and thrashed in the seat next to me. My older son mewled from the back seat like a wounded animal. But I stood firm. No fast food! But I want to be completely honest; I wanted fried fish and French fries as much as they did.

So we made a compromise(i.e. I told them I would not leave them on the side of the road). I wanted to find a restaurant with healthy options and I told them that if they were willing to try something new, I was too. So I pulled into the parking lot of the Asian Buffet in my neighborhood with high hopes. I had been wanting to try their food for several months because the pictures on the front of the building were bright and inviting. My mouth watered as we walked up. I envisioned row upon row of steamed vegetables and lean meats. Maybe they would even have sugar free desserts. Maybe, if I was good I would even allow myself 1 crag Rangoon(my favorite appetizer).

We all grabbed our plates and ran to the buffet like ants to a picnic. Much to my children’s chagrin I saw a fair amount of fresh fruit and vegetables. But since it was a buffet, there was also plenty of sweet rolls, pizza and pasta for my sweet-toothed children. So I did what any honorable mother would do, I loaded up plates with all the healthy stuff first – promising them a big dessert if they would stick to their promise to try the healthier foods. And, true to my word, I began to search for foods I don’t normally eat (that are healthy) so I could show my children that it’s fun to try new things.

I perused the food stations with care – reading each item carefully — in order to determine what I had never eaten before AND that would nourish my body. Then I sat down at the table with my children and we all stared at our plates. My older child grimaced. My younger child moaned. But I assure you, neither of them were as terrified to take that first bite of food as I was. For staring up at me from my plate were the following items: sautéed baby squid(tentacles and all!), fried frog legs, and sushi. Oh the humanity!

My older son looked at me and said, “You’re not actually going to eat that, are you?”

I swallowed and nodded. Then I stabbed at the squid with my fork, placed a squishy bite into my mouth, and began to chew. It was a lot spicier than I expected, but I thanked God it didn’t come back to life, latch onto my tongue, and chew its way back out of my face(yes – I have quite a vivid imagination). My children then watched in horror as I picked up the frog legs and began to nibble off the spindly flesh. I thought my older boy was going to cry(and I was doing my best not to). Because at my house we all really like to catch and play with frogs, and eating them just feels, well, wrong. I then tried the sushi. I have tried sushi before, most notably when I visited my friend Becky in San Diego a few years ago. She insisted I try it, but eating raw fish felt a lot like chewing and eating my own tongue. This sushi wasn’t terrible. In fact, it was almost good. Almost. But after eating the other creatures, I didn’t have the capacity to like it because I kept thinking the squid was going to climb up out of my stomach and kill us all. I think all in all, my kids definitely got the better deal out of our food adventure. I don’t really consider fried ochre or steamed pea pods to be blatantly offensive to the taste buds. And because I am a woman of my word, they both enjoyed ice cream for dessert.

So maybe you are wondering why I chose to share this story with you today. The truth is, eating healthy foods doesn’t have to be gross. We all have to start somewhere. The majority of my homemade meals are multi-colored and very tasty. Green beans. Broccoli. Sweet potatoes. Salmon. Chicken. It’s all pretty simple. Finding a restaurant that provides a healthy and tasty option, however, is often a challenge. For that reason I find it much easier to make my own meals at home. This keeps me happy AND healthy. Because when I look at the ingredients on menus I have to sigh. “Low sodium” usually means bland and more bland. “No sugar added” usually means it contains aspartame or its wicked cousins saccharin and sucralose(unless it’s Menchies and boy I love me some Menchies frozen yogurt!). “Low-fat” tends to be synonymous with more sugar added which is a total misnomer. So generally trying to eat healthy food means clogging up my body with chemicals it doesn’t know how to process.

Today if you are stuck in a food rut, I encourage you to step outside of your comfort zone and try something new. Maybe you hated lima beans as a child(like me!). Well guess what, it’s been 30+ years! Maybe you should try them again. Brussels sprouts are the great love of my adult life. When I consider all of the years I could have been enjoying them, I want to cry.

So often we get hung up on the idea that if we want to live a healthy lifestyle we can’t eat foods we enjoy, but it’s simply not true. Half the fun of being human is living and learning. Learning to love new foods has opened up a whole world of personal happiness for me. Granted, I will probably never eat frog legs again, but the look of horror on my children’s face made every single bite worth it. And that was the whole point of this exercise. I wanted to teach my children that it is fun to try new things. We don’t have to be afraid(or angry or just plain resistant) to trying foods that are healthy for our bodies. Just because it’s “healthy”, doesn’t mean it yucky.

If you take nothing else away from this blog post, please know this, shifting ones mindset from “I refuse to try that” to “I will try that” could mean the difference between never reaching your goals or finding a happier, healthier you.