In The Company of Jenn

This one goes out to the one I love

- "The One I Love" (R.E.M.,1987's Document)

My sister's influence is palpable and electric; she rustles my deepest feelings, raising bittersweet memories of a shared past and loosely tangled present.  In her shadow I am reminded of my stunted emotional growth and frustrated plans.  Pettiness compels me to stack her talents and accomplishments against my own, but the panoramic magnificence she displays is essentially impossible to measure.  By the end of high school she was a distinguished academic, thespian, singer, writer, artist, and revered local beauty, elected "Miss 4th of July" after reaching salutatorian status in a class of equally remarkable peers.  In the ensuing years she has secured roles with countless independent filmmakers, studied drama at a top London academy, shown great skill and knowledge in working with fine cuisine, and, more recently,  mastered Pilates in both practice and instruction.  Needless to say, J. commands a powerful gravitational force.  A radiant celestial object, she swiftly lassos you into her orbit.  She is a star.

People of her ilk, residents of that astral plane beyond Earth's far mesosphere, are achievers.  They set the bar astronomically high, expecting others to do the same.  J. is in top physical form, with what one calls a "dancer's build".  But she arrived at this ideal only after listening to the needs of her body.  Half a decade ago it was revealed that she carries an acute form of celiac disease, which requires her to drastically limit her groceries to a handful of categories.  To my understanding, violent stomach pain and mental sluggishness develop should her intestines become exposed to even a single allergen.  Currently, the list of known offenders includes:  grains or flour, cornstarch or arrowroot, potatoes, sweet potatoes, or any starchy vegetables, corn, all soys and soy by-products, sugar, milk/cream, beans (excluding lentils), chocolate (unless she literally grinds the cocoa by hand), all preservatives, coagulants, and emulsifiers.  She cannot even use bottled herbal mixtures such as Mrs. Dash because of specific additives that help to keep the ingredients from clumping (and the fact that gluten is present at its processing centers).  Instead, J. relies on a sort of Adkins-Mediterranean plan, wherein fat is embraced for its essential vitamins and oils.  From what I can observe, richer foods are allowed, sensibly portioned in accordance to what one craves.  Vegetables are key; protein derived from meats, eggs, hard cheeses, and homemade goat's milk yogurt also figure-in prominently.  Coconut water, bananas, honey, almond butter, dates, frozen grapes, tea, coffee, and, in small doses, a small family of alcohols (wine, champagne, ciders, port, sherry, liquers/spirits, whiskey*) are the primary, if only, indulgences.  All are pure, fresh, and, in most cases, organic.

It has been beneficial to witness J.'s lifestyle first-hand in order to establish an informed understanding of her eating routines.  I was admittedly worried that this precisely calibrated diet of hers what in fact dieting, as I have seen gluten intolerance used as a means of dodging carbohydrate intake by women looking to "reduce".  (At eating disorder treatment centers, medically-based allergies can act as an anorexic's "get out of jail free card" when they interfere with menu requirements.  Of course, this can backfire when the claimant is prescribed something even less palatable, commonly Boost or Ensure.)  It can also be concerning when someone is an athlete by profession, as my sister's job seems to demand a high level of energy expenditure.  To her credit, J. explained to me that she consumes the calories necessary to support her workouts, and I have maturely tolerated indications of her various sessions when they happen here or elsewhere.  In fact, I have napped on my bed while she practiced heavy-breathing (yoga?) in an adjacent room.  I want her to feel comfortable doing what she needs to do.  At the end of the day, the ultimate evidence of her vitality is defined by science.  To put it bluntly, she is capable of child-bearing.  According to elementary biology, this is nature's reliable indicator that a specimen is superior and would benefit its order to breed.  In terms of evolution, J. is a taller giraffe.

I lost weight when first stressing about my sibling's impending arrival, but to be honest I had "fallen off the wagon" weeks before she even announced her plans.  I was neglecting my commitment to more nutritious foods, skipping my Orgain shake at lunch and filling-up again on lettuce doused in mustard and pickle juice in a late-night binge.  Fortunately, my diet soda consumption continues at at a reduced level.  For whatever reasons, I had forgotten my goals and again engaged in "power walks" and pedaling on the stationary bike.  Over this last weekend my scale confirmed the return of a pound or greater, as J. has been kind enough to nudge me in a positive direction.  My initial panic has been assuaged; I am greeted each morning with a cup of J.'s signature kale-berry juice and glad that I am awarded the respect and privacy to meet my nutrition goals with relative independence.  I have taken the responsibility to not sneak off for longer walks than those recommended by my dietician, and I plan to put a moratorium on weighing myself until significant progress might be seen.  I hope to come out the other side of this summer with a little more strength --physically and in my sororal relationship.  I've never believed I could live at J.'s level, but, to paraphrase Kanye West's lyrics from "Home", aiming at a star could (at worst) land you among the clouds.

My sister the super-hero:  J. as She-ra (with a now-verboten candy
apple), Halloween 1985.  That's me to the right as a "Star Fairy."

*According to a cursory internet search, whisky, despite being derived from barley, is approved for celiacs because the distillation process cancels its effects by removing its offending proteins.  However, no hard liquor made from grains should be consumed during the early stages of a gluten-free regimen, warns the Celiac Sprue Association.

Smooth Operator

Drawing aside her veil of melancholy, the author encounters a surprising set-up for the definitive play on words.

I often doubt my capability to improve upon the low-level weight I've now long maintained, but every so often a new fount of confidence reinvigorates my surety.  Working with the knowledge that I will never voluntarily submit to consuming traditionally-prepared milkshakes (claiming mild intolerance to lactose and outward resistance to fat), a new strategy for easy calorie consumption arrived in my mind, advertised as a definitive solution to my continuing dilemma.  It seemed to me that I could concoct my own nutrient-dense drinks, based on a simple template and incorporating tasty, natural ingredients I might learn to tolerate when taken via straw.  I was once told by a dietician that frozen fruit, especially bananas, lend substantial body to smoothies.  They are a refreshing, sweet coagulator and preferable to ice alone, which contributes volume without the benefit of vitamins and calories.  Plain yoghurt would add a sour note, carrying with it protein; soy or almond-derived “milks” would benefit calcium levels and general consistency.  What’s more, should I feel especially adventurous/confident, an infusion of raw kale, coconut “water”, dates, figs, nut butter, or even “lite”-style ice cream might give the concoction real legitimacy as a meal supplement.

I was prepared to follow-through with a primitive variation on this recipe, and even went so far as to select Maine blueberries from the local grocer’s supply, having already chilled a peeled, halved banana in our icebox and readied the Almond Breeze.  Yes, this would be a test run with fare from my usual list of pantry staples, but it was a big step nonetheless and I was eager to see it realized.  Unfortunately, I did not get further than adding the second ingredient to my family’s much-neglected high-wattage mixer when a toxic aroma met the air.  I had already noticed that the blades of this ancient appliance were not spinning at a particularly effective speed, so it did not require much consideration to deduce that said contraption had a faulty motor and was presently in the act of burning-out.  The punch line to all this is that I had only JUST revisited Jack White’s 2012 alt-blues album “Blunderbuss”, and the pun born from its memory was more delicious than anything I might have concocted with my arsenal of safety foods.  Clearly, this was a classic case of Blenderbust.

Bill of Change

Even while portraying his beloved alter-ego, Dr. Heathcliff "Cliff" Huxtable, comedy legend Bill Cosby was a champion of personal responsibility.  The Cosby Show rarely missed an opportunity to impart lessons relating to self-empowerment and community improvement.  As popular primetime viewing it carried a surprisingly heavy-handed endorsement of social reform from below, of change born from the efforts of industrious and humble Joe and Jane Everyman.  It almost should have carried the title of that other television staple of the late-eighties, Nickelodeon's Don't Just Sit There.  In promotion of his new book release and current concert tour, Cosby spoke to Sunday's New York Post about the dominant social issue of our time -- the spread and acceptance of listlessness, of assumed "victimhood".  Under the headline "A Plague Called Apathy", he relates that most of us, especially poor urban youths, operate without ambition, accepting a "less-than" lot with a defeatist mentality --often one inherited from resentful, resigned elders.  "You got to have fight", he pronounces.  "We don't have that fight, so life is problematic."  Cosby believes Americans abuse their afforded freedoms (such as how we spend our incomes) while not taking rightful, full advantage of others (access to superior education, nutrition, and drug awareness).  We open our wallets for processed meals and cigarettes, allowing diabetes, emphysema, and cancer to infiltrate and define not only multiple generations of family, but entire communities.  "Toni Morrison spoke at Vanderbilt University graduation last month and she was saying that money was the reason for so many deaths, so many wars and people eating the wrong foods.  And it's true, man.  But when you listen to the people who are selling 'feel good,' it's greed.  They couldn't care less about us -- and because we have a feeling of apathy, we don't care either."  Cosby believes that as long as profit can be made from selling packaged, "friendly" poisons throngs will continue to buy that easy "fix", propelling and preserving America's dark industries.  "People are greedy," he bluntly explains.  "It wasn't about somebody dying, it is all about money, so they use something called choice, which makes no sense at all.  I have the right to smoke myself to death, they say.  I don't know if you ever had relatives who are sitting there and mentally they are in a state of addiction and they say, 'No, I want to have my cigarette.'  They have a metal bottle and two things going up their nose and they have a pack of cigarettes in their pocket or pocketbooks and they keep saying, 'I know, I know,' and people push them around in the wheelchair to have a smoke."  Collectively, Western populations turn a blind eye to these publicly sanctioned epidemics.  Disease, be it mental or otherwise, infiltrates almost every social network, with minor degrees separating its victims.  And to this Bill asks, Where are the families?  What came of intervention?  Even with superstar burn-outs Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston, there is little evidence to suggest that anyone took steps to discontinue his pills or to deny her that final dose of crack cocaine.  Houston infamously drowned in her own bathtub -- a fitting metaphor for the idle impotence of those beset by substance abuse.  I consider myself one of them.

Cosby's harangue rallied my attention with his reference to the familiar sight of a set-in-his-ways convalescent.  I, too, am entrenched in a debilitating --yet repairable-- condition.  That I refuse to shake this absurd, sad sickness is a testament to my stubbornness and inability to manage anxiety.  Aside from lightly-prescribed OCD medication --along with occasional art, writing, and psychological sessions-- I predominantly reduce stress with firmly-observed patterns of exercise and restriction.  (My most relaxing periods of repose are meal sessions, actually.  But they come with a price.)  These preternatural, curious rituals help prevent my small world from being upended, promising to maintain the status quo.  I understand that change, once committed to, would improve my present situation; I both crave and deny it's intrusion.  

As it so happens, in less than one week I will have no choice but to adapt, as alterations in my environment will subsequently effect living and eating arrangements.  For the first time in three years I am to be reunited with my sister as a housemate.  She is to be in Maine through September and, being fond of her company, I look forward to what new colors she might infuse into my black-and-white routine.  I know for certain that many habits will be drastically amended and/or repealed in her presence.  Manifold walks intended to expend calories are a well-known indicator of my disorder, and she will likely frown upon their length and frequency.  I know she will also goad me into exploring new and richer foods, such as nuts, avocados, whole eggs, and pureed vegetable/fruit concoctions.  If past experience can be seen as an indicator, my older sibling will prove to be a positive force and possible sponsor for recovery.  If for whatever reason I do not feel that I am capable of improving my weight through her intervention alone, I may finally entertain the option of subletting a room in Portland, where I would participate in the intensive treatment available to those within commutable range.  Operated from the sixth floor of Mercy Hospital, this program is conducted on weekdays from early morning tomid-afternoon.  There, stringent rules and supervision are met with full cooperation from all enrolled, and rapid progress is expected.  Because of my limited payment options, this is the only rehabilitation unit anywhere that, to my knowledge, will have me in its roster --until I amass a lottery windfall or enroll with a non-Medicaid insurance provider.  (Given my bleak financial standing, mere Powerball tickets are a laughable indulgence, and health coverage through known agencies would require  reliable revenue from more than mere part-time employment.)  Playing on dining room imagery, I face a major "fork in the road", each path revealing an amply loaded plate of strikingly different arrangement, aroma, outlay.  But the intended outcome?  Despite different recipes, with contrasting methods of preparation, these dueling treatment options ultimately serve the same end:  fulfillment of the body and soul.

Tossed Salad or "Lettuce" Not Laugh (At Ice Cream)

Puttin' On The Ritz: As seen in LIFE Magazine, June 12, 1949

It is with minor regret that I acknowledge my diminished presence here at Careful What You Wish-- I am not bowing-out of my obligations to the site, but have chosen, rather, to dedicate increased attention to working with collage and other visual art forms.  I would like to see myself sketching, if not also creating the abstract paintings that come more naturally to me.  Whatever the medium or task, I simply prefer to spend spare moments --those in which I am not out walking in the newly-balmy breezes-- to projects not involving the hollow glow of a computer.

A major focus of meals is still the reduction of shredded romaine lettuce with dinner, which I have cut back by about half, if not more.  If I do have salad, I am always sure to top it with protein --preferably baked salmon or chicken-- and to be mindful when it is being binged on, as that is a surefire path to prolonged stomach pain and nausea.  I have more or less replaced a steamed broccoli mixture (which I also was consuming in large measure) with my old stand-by, winter squash, as this is a heavier, more starchy vegetable.  I push myself to pour chocolate soy milk and unsweetened Almond Breeze with meals for the benefit of  calcium and calories in liquid form, and also garnish air-popped popcorn with a fair allowance of powdered "nutritional yeast", as previously divulged.  The sudden introduction of summer weather in the Northeastern U.S. has once again prompted one friend to needle me in regards to the "cure-all" remedy of ice cream; he has firmly prescribed Ben & Jerry's to be portioned-out in three allotments (totaling one pint per day).  To this suggestion I defer to my therapist, who, knowing my history, has commented candidly (whilst stifling a chuckle):  "Um, not gonna happen."

Might low-sugar versions be considered as a compromise?
(Advertisement from LIFE Magazine, July 23, 1945)

Additional note:  In the spring of 2004 I was released from six weeks of treatment at the Renfrew Center of Philadelphia, an experience I entered begrudgingly at the request of university health services.  Shell-shocked, resentful, morose, l immediately sought the company of classic cinema for solace and reprieve.  One of the first films encountered, ironically, was 1942's "Now, Voyager", in which Bette Davis is herself seen as a patron of modern psychiatry by way of sanitarium residency.  At Cascade, treatment is gentle and creatively approached, consisting almost "entirely of casual conversations and loom-weaving", as observed in a fantastic essay by Matt Bailey of the film site Not Coming To A Theater Near You.  As the narrative advances, Davis' Charlotte is shown compassion and, ultimately, love; she blossoms under said benevolence and later pays it forward.  Encountering the daughter of her love interest who, conveniently, has been admitted to Cascade, Charlotte's remedy for the girl's depression is to sponsor her with rounds of ice cream, tennis, and other activities available to progressive, privileged ladies of the period.   Essentially, an attentive, stylish role model/surrogate mother as fashioned in the indelible, spitfire mold of Bette Davis is enough to restore the damaged psyche of any troubled teenager.  Funny that the instrument of her powers is a good soda fountain sundae.