Embracing the Yuk

Well, kids, it's official: I did it. I've got me some diabetes. Or as I will probably continue to refer to it, the diabeasties.

I know, my darlings, I know. This is not good. My dad had diabetes as a complication of heart disease; his diagnosis was rapidly followed by both of his sisters coming down with the hot mess. And of course, the news isn't much better on Mom's side: her dad died of it; but what was worse, two of her aunts lived with it: a veritable cornucopia of blindness, amputations, high blood pressure: the gift basket no one wants. And I know that my family and friends are now officially worried sick: I totally understand. If my darling Connor or Ryan came home with this news, I would basically clear the house of all the Nilla Wafers, Devil Dogs, Fruit Roll-Ups, Teddy Grahams, etc. and forbid them from ever consuming that crap again. And it is because I love them and I want them to have happy healthy lives.

So I am working on ridding myself of the bad stuff: my friend Joe today told me: "Here's the rule: no more white food." Which sucks because that eliminates a whole bunch of stuff I like, but in the immortal words of the Brady kids: When it's time to change, you've got to rearrange -- who you are into what you're gonna be (sha-na-na-na na na-na na-na, sha-na na-na-na).

What happens next? A whole battery of tests: something called an A1C to see just how reversible this bad boy is: followed by more tests, classes at White Plains hospital on how to manage blood sugar testing (if it comes to that), medication, wellness, etc. The good news is, I have lost 12 lbs already on Weight Watchers (after 3 weeks back on the chain gang) and when I began that, I decided to eliminate sugar, in all its evil forms and with all of its empty promises.

Having poured the Tennessee Valley Authority Irrigation Project's worth of Coke down my gullet for the past 4 years, I can say it's a big change. No sugar, no ice cream, no cake, no high fructose corn syrup, no chocolate, no candy, no soda, not even ginger ale. Everything in the market seems to have a big old skull and crossbones on it. Only problem is, everything that I should be eating still has a Mr. Yuk sticker, if only in my head. I just don't like the healthy stuff - whole grains, veggies, fiber - ugh, gross. I am your classic All-American first-string fat-ass, susceptible to temptation and convenience. If I didn't live in New York, with all these great restaurants and cooking options, G-d help me, I'd probably be a regular at Olive Garden.

But it's time to embrace the Yuk. Fiber One has no points, and it doesn't taste that bad. Weight Watchers ice cream is great even though I think it's made of whale parts. And I tried whole wheat bread today for lunch, and you know what? It was pretty good. I must keep chanting the mantra. The Yuk is health and wholeness. The Yuk is good and righteous, and I don't want to get my toes cut off. The Yuk is the light, and I don't feel like having a stroke just yet. The Yuk is inspiration. And the Yuk is love.

The RJ Guide to Reform Judaism: 30 Stories

Normally, as many of you are well aware, I absolutely prefer to hide my light under a rock. Nonetheless I am just so damn tickled at being part of Reform Judaism magazine's recently-published feature The RJ Guide to Reform Judaism: 30 Stories, which explores through several first-person narratives what it means to be a Reform Jew today, with all the complications, celebrations, insights and ideas that identifying with our movement can bring about.

So what does it mean to me, you may ask? For those of you that know me, and know my story (Catholic upbringing, conversion, blah blah blah future rabbi-cakes), obviously you know that it means a great deal. I meant what I said when I wrote that having attended Catholic school was probably one of the the most influential factors in my decision to convert to Judaism. Our school environment was filled with reverence and the understanding that G-d's presence was real; that in fact, S/He was in the room with us. To that end, every lesson began and ended with a prayer; if we heard a siren outside the window we immediately stopped what we were doing to pray for the person in trouble - a habit I still carry to this day, though without the Hail Mary text. Which is interesting, given that my office is next door to a firehouse. The nuns warned us never to get used to the sound, and never to tune it out - if we did, we could miss an opportunity to ask G-d for help on behalf of someone who might not be able to ask themselves.

The memories of those classrooms are more vivid and concrete than any other classrooms I ever sat in - the way the light poured in through the windows, the set-up of reading and math and coloring areas, even the taste of the pretzels that came in those industrial cardboard boxes. We thanked G-d for all of those things, and others too, on a daily basis: every morning began with singing about the miracles and marvels around us, and every day concluded with the nuns blessing us to leave and return in safety.

Sound familar? It did to me when I started exploring Judaism. It was amazing that so much of my original faith was there, waiting to be reclaimed. When I switched to public school, I lost that sense of reverence, of safety and sanctity. But what I never knew was that it was there all the time, and I was lucky enough to find it again. Heaven knows that I probably overparticipate in congregational life - my friend Danielle once remarked that when you convert, you overcompensate so hard for not being born Jewish that you end up on all the committees and you know you'd end up giving your car to someone if they asked for it nicely. But what I get back from all of my participation is that same sense again - of light coming in, of protection and safety, of knowing that I'm blessed whenever I leave, and whenever I come home again.

So I'm very proud to represent my congregation in 30 Stories. For more about it, or to read the narratives themselves, click here.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it:

Two years ago, my very first blog was designed to be a creative outlet as I set out on a journey to lose weight, get healthy, and turn my life around. Both projects - the blog and the weight loss - failed miserably.

Here's what happened in the time spent between blogs: My father died. I was laid off. I wrote a book. I lost some weight and gained it back. And then I got a new job, allegedly as an Associate Marketing Director (but what she really wanted was a yes-girl) working for a world-class cultural institution that employed some of the most ridiculously evil people I've ever met.

After a year of mental, emotional, and physical workplace abuse, I got sick. Very sick. With a staph infection that wouldn't respond to medication, threats, violence or entreaties for mercy. Three hospital stays later, I ended up hooked up to an IV machine for 3 hours a day for two months, had a tiny piece of bone removed from my left foot, and ended up with an extended tour of duty on crutches.

After the whole ordeal ended, I was diagnosed with severe rheumatoid arthritis - "a little souvenir of a terrible year."

Oh, and after I got sick, you guessed it: I got fired.

On the other side of the darkness, there were also good things: I finished my book, and found a fabulous new agent. I applied to rabbinical school. And - miracle of miracles - I got in, but failed the Hebrew entrance exam.

A year later and I'm still trying to get it together: to learn this language so that I can escape the realm of Sales and Marketing; to get healthy and back to a reasonable facsimile of myself before the Death Eaters got me. I still feel haunted by what happened in my old job, by the consequences of not taking care of myself - consequences of pain, vulnerability, sadness and solitude that I still live with every day. Like a prairie dog who is too scared to do more than peer up from her hole in the ground, there are days I prefer to spend underground, because even with all of the good things, and all of the blessings, in my heart, I'm still afraid of the light.

I tell myself it doesn't matter. People lose jobs every day. People lose themselves in illness and are forced to cut back. I try not to focus on the losses - the loss of prestige, the decrease in expendable income, not even the uselessness and boredom I feel every day when I'm not racing around like a crazy person - the way I used to - just to try to avoid incurring the wrath of She-Who-Must-Not-Be Named (but who will be called Mimi Fiedler in my next book).

I tell myself I need the time to heal, the time to make sure I don't do anything stupid again. I tell myself I need better boundaries. And finally, I tell myself that if I had actually stuck to my guns, and achieved that original goal of eating right, losing weight, and being healthy, perhaps I wouldn't have ended up in such a bad place.

So I'm starting over. Call it Operation Or Chadash - a new light.

In my first post on my old blog, I remember quoting Deuteronomy - the verse I chant every year on Yom Kippur:

It is not up in the heavens, that someone will have to go up, and get it, and bring it back and teach you. It is not across the sea, so that someone will have to cross it, and get it, and bring it back and teach you. No, it is very near to you, in your mouth and in your heart, and you can do it.

That was how I felt - as if my goals were near to me, as if - even broken - the world was still full of possibility. But today I reflect on the words Lady Augusta Gregory's poem, "The Grief of a Girl's Heart:

You have taken the east from me, you have taken the west from me.

You have taken what is before me, and what is behind me.

You have taken the sun, you have taken the moon from me.

And oh - my fear is great - you have taken God from me.

It's amazing what a job - an illness - a broken promise - can take with it when it finally goes away. So perhaps this time, it is not so much about what I need to lose. It is about what I need to get back.