Alison Hodgson

Expert on the etiquette of perilous times.

On the verge of losing 30 pounds

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My clothes shopping is infrequent but rigidly scheduled (every October and every other April) and directly tied to writers conferences. The Festival of Faith and Writing is biennial and convenes in April, while Breathe Christian Writers Conference (sponsored by my writer’s group, The Guild) is every October. Wanting to look fresh at these events gets me to the mall.

This past April I found myself waiting until the very last minute. Only a funeral a week before Festival, forced my hand. I had a nice, black dress to wear, but I didn’t have any dress pants for the visitation. Fortunately my sister Torey was able to go shopping with me (I NEVER shop without her) and while we were at it I picked up a few things to wear to Festival.

Only afterwards did I question why I had put it off so long. Did I plan to go a day or two before? That was ridiculous, even for a non-shopper like me.

Pictured above is my nightstand from before. The sooty book in the center is “Thin Within” a book I had been going through in the days before the fire and read that last night. “A Grace Oriented Approach to Lasting Weight Loss” is the subtitle. It’s a Christian book breaking down why a person over eats and a guide for how to break that habit. The idea is to prayerfully work through why you might be overeating and recognize how you are while, slowly and compassionately, breaking the cycles at play.

Six years ago, I lost 30 pounds by eating when I was hungry and stopping before I was too full, and by walking several days a week. A series of events occurred which precipitated me breaking these habits and slowly to gain back the extra pounds.

Six months before the fire I was poking around the nooks and crannies of my life and faced two sources of discontent: my weight and the lack of organization in our home. It’s a good life when the things that trouble you are completely within your control. I knew that and was thankful, and I got to work. I went room by room through the house de-cluttering and reorganizing, and I got back in the habit of exercising regularly and making better food choices. My home was almost entirely in order the day the fire was set; with my body, I had made a solid start with hope for the future.

After the fire, care for the one was unnecessary and for the other it just sort of fell away.

I was reluctant to replace anything the first year or so but especially clothes because I wasn’t the size I wished to be and ought to be losing weight. I was clear on this. But it was only when I wondered why I had waited until the very last minute this past April—to less than a week before—that something became apparent: I had been holding off to give myself time to get smaller. Up until the week before the conference I had been on the verge of losing 30 pounds.

Mind you, I had been doing absolutely nothing to promote this endeavor, but I was holding this delusion as a possibility to the very last moment. And then I saw it for what it was and how ludicrous my thinking had been. 

That’s what they call an aha moment. That I could be so self-deluded troubled me. 

Soon after my brother announced he wanted to shoot a documentary about my son Christopher in June. I considered being thusly immortalized, if only for a few seconds (it’s a short documentary) and said, “Hail, no.”

That’s what they call a catalyst.

Short story: fourteen weeks ago I started a health plan and have since lost 27 pounds. I have a bit more to go— I’m finessing that—but I feel good, my energy is up and I’m more comfortable in my own skin again, in its every meaning.

I would like to talk about this some more and tell you my back story. Despite the fact that I’ve only been overweight a fraction of my life, I’ve been worried about my body since I was seven, and there were some precipitating events there too. I wasn’t abused, but I was raised in a veritable hothouse for mental disorders regarding eating and weight. That’s a story for another day.

So here I am truly on the verge of losing 30 pounds and it’s great.


Happy Birthday!

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This is one of my favorite pictures of Lydia, taken when she was nine. The day of her birth ranks as one of the happiest days of my life.

She is beautiful, inside and out, kind-hearted and wise.

I’m so glad she’s my girl.

Why You Should Stop Watching Reality TV:

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For the very same reason, when you come upon a car accident, you choose to look away. Sure, there is that ghoulish urge but an adult doesn’t press her face against the window, mouth breathing and staring.

It’s as simple as that.

A couple years ago I asked my sister, “What’s up with the KarDUHshians? Who are they?” I knew them from tabloids at the checkout and the “news”feed on Comcast, but I couldn’t figure out what they had to do with Bruce Jenner and why they were on television.

“You mean the KarDASHians?” Torey asked.

“Oh, is that how you pronounce it?”

“Yeah.” And then she brought me up to speed.

I don’t understand how people (who aren’t in a coma, being held at gunpoint, or bed bound and without a remote, ) can watch these programs. The only way I can watch a show about vacuous people is if it’s a comedy and there’s a script handled by brilliant writers.

If my nutritional palate was as finicky as my intellectual one, I would never have had a problem with my weight.

And yet, I’m beginning to reconsider. I read an article recently on the salaries of various “reality” television “stars” and the figures are compelling. The Jersey Shore cast started at around $10,000/episode and now are up to six figures per. Yesterday I figured out who Honey Boo Boo is reading articles about the Democratic National Convention and there was one about her ratings being better than Bill Clinton’s.

I’ll tell you, I was concerned when I read the scandalous amount TLC is paying her family. The Thompsons are making $40,000 the entire SEASON plus some small location fee for filming in their home. TLC should be ashamed…in so many ways.

Next week my brother arrives to begin filming a short documentary about my son Christopher. The first week is interviews and the second is the B roll. He’ll be following Christopher around getting candid moments and beautiful/interesting images to give a break from talking heads.

I’m pretty much considering it my audition reel for reality tv. Hey, life is expensive: the bigs kids will be going to college soon; my mom lives with us now; those dogs love the vet and are constantly finding ways to supplement their annual checkups; do you even know how much it costs to dress a man who is 6’6″ and weighs less than 500 lbs!

So anyway, I’m in.

If you know a reality television scout or producer please send him or her right my way. I don’t have a resume, but let them know my show would be content RICH: lots of coffee drinking; a goodly amount of staring vacuoulsy into the air following by frenzied typing; HOURS of reading; a mere tinch of cleaning and cooking; A LOT of driving around when I can share my deep thoughts on EVERYTHING! And you all know the kids! Plus the dogs! We’re golden. And Paul’s a total looker.

I guess the real title of this post should be: “Why You Should Stop Watching Reality TV until I get MY Show!”

Can’t wait!

XOXO

If you support my quest, please share this post!!!!!!!!

I know the exclamation points above were gratuitous but I’m a “reality”” star” (in the making) and I am NOT afraid to go OTT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Older Than Jane Austen

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On this day, 195 years ago, Jane Austen died. She was 41.

I don’t know how old I was the first time I read Pride and Prejudice, maybe twelve, thirteen at the most. Too young, I , gulped the book skimming for dialogue. When I tackled Emma I actually heard Jane Austen’s voice. I think it was a comment about Mrs. Elton and it made me sit up literally and literarily. Austen’s ability to say so much with such an economy of words and in direct contradiction to what her character was speaking astonished me and I’ve never fully recovered.

I do not call her Jane.

I consider all books which are sequels of sorts, abominations but enjoyed both Bridget Jones  and Clueless which were loosely based on Pride and Prejudice, Persuasion and Emma, respectively.

Ironically, reading Jane Austen’s novels nearly cost me my husband. Short story: Paul and I started dating when we were children and no man should be compared to Mr. Darcy, let alone a sixteen year old boy.

I almost didn’t name our older daughter, Lydia, for obvious reasons, but Lydia Hodgson is no Lydia Bennett. If you had to peg her for a Bennett sister, she’s probably a mashup of Elizabeth and Jane.

Mansfield Park is the only title I don’t read habitually, though I’ve read it several times.

My friend, Jamie Chavez recently blogged about the “controversy” over the extent of editing Austen received. She is a fine editor herself and considers it a tempest in a teapot. I agree.

 I’ve known since I first read Pride and Prejudice and the introduction by her nephew that she died young. Although 41 sounded pretty old to me then.

Last week I turned 42 and I remembered her age at death, not realizing the anniversary was so close to that of my birth.

There is no point in comparing oneself to Jane Austen although she could have made good work of my love story.

 I’m so thankful she “let other pens dwell on guilt and misery.” In the early days after someone burned my house down I turned to the Bible, P.G. Wodehouse and her.

I am glad she sat in her little chair and wrote and wrote until the very end of her days.

Bouquet of the Day: What makes a woman high maintenance?

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This was a bouquet from last month: five clovers with their own leaves.

The day she picked it,  Eden and I visited one of our favorite greenhouses, Ludema’s. It was a terrible day—rainy and cold— but we were in the neighborhood. Ludema’s also has a florist. When Eden and I reached the check out, a man was just approaching. He deferred to us but I told him to go ahead since we had a cart full of plants and he only had a bouquet of flowers. He was buying red roses cut short in a square glass vase, beautifully arranged.

Waiting my turn, I thought about this nice man who was willing to let me and my cart full of plants go before him, not to mention buying someone lovely roses and yet—if I was the recipient—I would be so disappointed. Red roses are pretty much the antithesis of who I am florally.

The cashier didn’t know the price and yelled across the room to the florist who said, “$45, but take off five because of the size of the vase.”

$40 for an arrangement I would hate.

Years ago—after “Harry Met Sally” came out—my sister and I were having a discussion with a group of guys. Torey’s and my assertion was that we were low maintenance. The men, who knew us well, scoffed. We were soooooooo high maintenance.

What!

I brought up how I would rather Paul picked me dandelions over buying red roses! If that wasn’t low maintenance, what was?  The guys just laughed at the idea of Torey or me even thinking we weren’t the highest of maintenance. Now I see that Torey and I were right and so were the guys.

Set aside the mysogynistic thinking behind the idea of maintaining a woman, for a moment please. I thought because I didn’t need to be taken to expensive restaurants and preferred weeds and wildflowers to roses from a florist that made me low maintenance. Now I see the tight perimeter around my approval. If you want to give me flowers you’re best bet is in a garden  unless you can find a good florist, because—if you do go to any old florist—forget about most roses absolutely NO red or white (which are usually more green and not in a good way) but if you must have roses they better be in an arrangement with flowers like stock and peonies…snapdragons are good…no chrysanthemums (unless they’re chartreuse) and please, for the love of all things, no baby’s breath! So you’re best bet is just picking a bouquet in a garden and I’d be happy with anything—just NO RED ROSES!

Paul was firmly in the “It’s the thought that counts!” camp and just kept bringing me daisy-like chrysanthemums from the grocery store and I felt unloved because he refused to know me.  I mixed up the lover’s gift with proof of the giver’s love and Paul felt unappreciated.

God bless Paul.

God bless me.

He has, obviously, with and through each other despite our selfishness and immaturity.

I would choose my girl’s bouquet of clovers over roses from the florist any day: I just prefer the latter and, even if I didn’t,  I love my girl.

I don’t need to be maintained. I know Paul loves me and I’m finally learning to love.