It's Hard to Be a Saint In the City

Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) is often utilized in eating disorder treatment. CBT's younger sibling, DBT (Dialectical Behavioral Therapy) is more rarely employed, but certainly isn't unheard of, especially with the accompanying diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder, or a mood disorder (DBT came about to treat BPD, in fact). CBT can be individual- or group-based, but DBT is almost always both. Their shared main focuses are mindfulness, interpersonal effectiveness, emotional regulation, and distress tolerance. DBT works with these four ideas from a philosophical standpoint as much as a therapeutic one, drawing from Buddhist teachings as well as from Hegel (whence the "D"). A major difference, aside from the philosophical focus of DBT, is that DBT tends to be very. very. structured. The structure shows itself most in the group work; CBT group work can bleed into more generalized group therapy. I've done both CBT and DBT work. I found the CBT overlap of skills and talk therapy helpful at the time; and I carry with me the almost-drilled-into-me reflexes of DBT (when I can't be bothered to stifle the reflex, anyway). I have no idea what only one or only the other would impart to an eating disorder patient, but I'm glad I've had exposure to both.

This acronym-riddled, rambling paragraph is me saying, "I think structure is good. Yay for structure. But contextless structure is bad. Boo for contextless structure." DBT of course is not without context, so I exaggerate, but I can't see that DBT (the way I learned it) would have done me, as an eating disorder patient, as much good without a foundation of CBT...

... Sort of like it won't do you much good to slap the calories up on a fast food menu and then wait for the public to suddenly Get! It! about food choices. (Yes, that's really where I was going with the CBT vs. DBT thing.) (What? It's 1:00 a.m. You write something concise and relevant.) You can't shame people into eating healthier foods. But you can teach them about nutrition from the get-go, and you can retrain in adulthood to some extent. You can't solve body image issues by shaming everyone into eating fewer calories (which they don't do, anyway, according to this study). But you can promote respect and education, and so build a foundation for personal worth that isn't based on appearance. You can't toss someone a few arbitrary numbers (calories in a slice of Sbarro pizza) and expect them to suddenly and against all other logic start ignoring a set of NOT arbitrary numbers ($1.50 for a slice of pizza; $13.50 for a salad with grilled chicken at the place next door, as an example from my neighborhood). (And don't you dare get any dressing with that salad. The low-fat stuff has too much sodium, and we won't even discuss the full-fat stuff. Balsamic vinegar for you!) But shame on you if you eat that pizza slice, or that cheeseburger, or that Taco Bell burrito. Shame on you for being too lazy to work a second job so you can comfortably afford fresh produce at every meal (and snacks - processed snacks give you cancer!!1!). And shame on you for buying the 80% lean chuck instead of the 95% lean organic bison. Shame, shame, shame. What's that? How are you supposed to afford the more expensive stuff if you're already scraping by? Don't ask the City; it's not our problem.

This menu rule makes me ANGRY. It makes me DISTRESSED. So it's a damn good thing I have my CBT workbook all marked up under the bed. (What? You can't shell out for a CBT workbook because you're paying for daycare for your kid? Shame on you!! If you can't help yourself, nobody will help you!*)

Ugh. I'm going to bed. (Or, I will as soon as the drunk kid stops singing "Helena" at the top of his lungs out on the street. Ah, New York, New York.)

* They start for about $15 on Amazon. :-/

2009: YHGTBFKM

I'd officially like to christen this year: "2009: You Have Got To Be Fucking Kidding Me."

So far in 2009:YHGTBFKM we've had two really close deaths in the family. My mom has been diagnosed with breast cancer. I've had occasion to visit psych wards multiple times, and not because I'm getting my MSW. My weight has taken its sharpest dip since 2003. Business has atrophied. And now the period of intense stress from around January and February is once again poking its nose up above the water like a nasty, smelly hippo. The cause of the "period of intense stress" is not something I want floating around on the Internet (as opposed to details about eating disorder recovery and relapse, LOL, irony) so I won't ever get into specifics here, but suffice to say: 2009:YHGTBFKM.

And now, bad news of the blogging variety.

A friend of mine, who is also a blogger, recently deleted her entire blog. This blogger (let's just call her "ND") is a single mother and a public interest lawyer, and a few weeks ago she was forced to take her blog down suddenly. She wasn't allowed to say goodbye to her readers or offer any explanation as to why she deleted her blog, and I know that she feels really awful about this. Please don't mention the name of her blog in any of the comments to this post, but if you wish to say goodbye to her, she is most likely reading and would love to hear from you. I followed her blog from the first post onward, laughing nearly every time she wrote anything, but also learning a lot about the realities of law and motherhood. She is quite possibly the most driven person I've ever "met" when it comes to both of those arenas, and the removal of her blog is going to be a big, big loss for the blogosphere, not just because of the humor and insight in the blog, but because she really had a lot to teach any fellow lawyers and parents. I feel lucky to call her one of my "imaginary friends," (that's all of y'all, too), but I wish I could still call her a fellow blogger.

And, since she's reading this, she should know that if she doesn't take that trip toward the end of this month, I am thoroughly capable of upholding my promise to track her down and smack her. Hard. Just sayin'.

In the effort to remember that it used to be okay to have a 27.5-inch waist.

I love going to the Met. (That would be the Metropolitain Metropolitan Museum of Art, not the Metropolitain Metropolitan Opera. Applesauce!* but I hate opera, unless I'm listening to it on my iPod and can stop and start it at will. Actually, I take that back. I legitimately enjoyed Carmen and La Boheme. And Don Giovanni. But I hated The Magic Flute. So, I guess you could say that I've enjoyed 75% of the opera I've ever seen in person. But I'm pretty sure that, horsefeathers!* I hate opera! Anyway, the point being that we're talking about "the Met" the big museum in New York, not the big opera house in New York. Hem hem.)

Last weekend, I was there for about two hours just wandering around 19th Century Painting and getting lost and losing my breath over Van Gogh and Degas. And Monet. And Renoir. After the Impressionists, I headed to the new Greek and Roman galleries, where I was tickled to see patrons being scolded for talking on cell phones, but not for palming the ancient works of art. I also did a quick dip into the Medieval wing to see some of the "treasures" on loan from the Victoria and Albert Museum. All in all, my tour left me feeling all sorts of copacetic.

Now, this is about the least, LEAST original point to make about art (particularly non-Modern art), but isn't it refreshing to see real bodies reflected in the marble and oil and wood and watercolors? Take this little filly, for example:



Not quite the same thing as, say, Angelina Jolie since she went from her Hackers-era body to her Wanted frame. Yikes.

My simple and for-once-brief point being that I think I'll spend less time at the movies, and more time at the Met. But not the opera Met. The museum Met. Because opera is boring. And also on the other side of town. Which would necessitate paying for a cab. No-ho-ho-ho way. Hahaha, twelve dollars. Riiiiight. (Oh, and the price of an opera ticket, which, riiiiiiiiiiiiiii, etc., ght.)

[* Trying to curse less now that my nephew, whom I only rarely get to see, even though he lives 6 blocks away, is turning 1, and will theoretically start to remember words like "fuck."]

How to Give Yourself an At-Home Brazilian Wax*

*This gets a little graphic, depending on your boundaries (i.e., if you have a problem reading the correct names of girly bits). You have been warned.

PART THE FIRST: WHY
1. Look at the stock market and all the Op-Ed articles talking about unemployment rates, plummeting retail numbers, and all the foreign capital buying America.
2. Realize that, maybe, you should save the $80-plus-tip and give yourself the Brazilian that you so desperately need. (Your Vagina: "Hello? Is anybody there? I can't see. Helloooo? Hm. It's dark in here.")

PART DEUX: WHAT
1. Buy some Sally Hansen Extra Strength Brazilian Bikini Waxing and Shaping Kit (with No Mistakes Mirror) ($10.99)
2. Grab your spiffy Tweezerman tweezers (already purchased: $20)

PART THREE: HOW
1. Read directions. Remember especially to a) always put the wax on in the direction of hair growth - remember that in certain areas hair grows more than one way, b) not work in sections of more than 2 inches at a time, and c) work from the outside in.
2. Start at the outside, toward the back, with an appropriately-sized two inch region. Apply wax. Allow to cool to just the right consistency, then remove, quickly, against the hair growth.
3. Congratulate self on what a quick, clean job you did. Note that you don't know what you were doing wrong last time you tried this with a more expensive product, because that time you didn't even make it beyond the basic bikini line.
4. Continue with a second small region, then a third. Tweeze the stragglers as you progress. Realize you are possibly the best self-waxer ever, and should probably write on contract for Marie Claire and Glamour, because you obviously have a lot to offer.

PART FOUR: HUBRIS. IT GETS YOU EVERY TIME.
1. About half way through your right side, realize you are getting to a tricky part.
2. Choose this juncture to slather on too much wax, so that you accidentally put it on against the hair growth, over a large area, where the hair grows every which way.
3. Try to remove the wax strip. Try again. Try again. Start to cry a little, thinking about living the rest of your life as That Chick Who Got Sally Hansen Bikini Wax Permanently Glued to Her Vajayjay. Realize that you could probably get on Oprah or something, to warn other of the hazards of self-waxing.
4. Get your thumb nail caught on the top of the still-not-cooled wax while trying to pry if off for a fifth time.
5. Spend the next five minutes tugging up the wax in sixteenth-of-a-centimeter bits of progress. Genuinely ponder how likely it is that you might seriously maim yourself.
6. Finally get the godforsaken gob of wax OFF. Notice that, despite what you thought, it is apparently possible to give yourself a labial hematoma.

PART FIVE: HALFWAY THERE.
1. Realize that the wax has congealed to something resembling Nutella. Evil Nutella.
2. Straighten up from your weird hunched-yet-standing position to reheat the wax. Realize that your neck and back are now permanently stuck in a shape that resembles Quasimodo.
3. Return from the microwave and glance in your No Mistakes Mirror.
4. Realize that you did your genetically less hairy side first.
5. Wonder if you could rock an '80's-style half-short-half-long hairstyle... down there.
6. Realize you just... can't. Not matter how much you'd like to. Cry.

PART SIX: DELIRIUM
1. When your spouse inquires, tell him that you are, despite what it sounds like, not committing hara-kiri.
2. Ask your spouse whether there is possibly some vodka or other hard liquor in the house.
3. Unleash at string of colorful curses when he tells you, "No."
4. As you progress on your second, more daunting side, convince yourself that every little bump or blemish you see is probably vulvar cancer, and you are probably dying. Then realize your tumor is actually a spec of wax, or a spot of skin irritated by all the tugging and paiiiiiiiin.
5. Admit to yourself that no matter how flowery the idea of natural childbirth is (when the time eventually comes), you are not cut out for it.
6. Reheat the damn wax again, OMFG.
7. Daydream about becoming a professional waxer, but only taking appointments from women whom you know... and hate.
8. Resolve to tip your usual waxer, Ninetta, 50% next time you go. (Instead of 20. Not that you ever tip less than 20%. Because only assholes do that. In New York, at least.)

PART SEVEN: SWEET, SWEET RELEASE
1. Take off the last strip of hair. Stand there in the kind of unbelievable relief probably only felt previously by, say, POWs upon their release from captivity. Or by other women who have been boneheaded enough to attempt this self-Brazilian thing.
2. Feel a surge of pride at the fact that you actually. gave. yourself. a full. Brazilian. wax.
3. Realize that you have probably just ruined your twenty dollar ($20) Tweezerman tweezers, because the wax, she is not coming off.
4. Leave the bathroom and beeline for the kitchen. Glance at the stove clock and realize that you were at it for an hour and a half OMG.
5. Pour yourself a large glass of wine. Emphasis: Large.
6. As you walk, realize that your entire genital area is... well... numb. Pray to God that this is not permanent.
7. Invent a time machine. Go back in time to yesterday. Make an appointment with Ninetta. Pay her the $80 + 50% tip (because now you know how much she truly, truly deserves it). Avoid the whole At Home Self Brazilian charade.


Post Script (October 2012):
You know what I've JUST FOUND OUT?  After ALMOST FIVE YEARS of doing this?  (Yeah, I never bit the fiduciary bullet and went pro again.)  If you let the wax cool ~just enough~ but ~not too much~, the pain factor reduces by at least half.   With the Sally Hansen wax, I'd ballpark this point at "when the wax is still warm and malleable under your fingertips, but no longer makes an effort to attach itself to your fingernails."  Sorry, that's probably not very helpful.

Also, the post-wax oil?  Use it on your fingers and nails during waxing to keep the wax from sticking to them.


Post Post Script (Updated October 2012):
I hope you found this post educational, or at the very least, entertaining; it was certainly fun to write, if not so fun to research.  It is, however, a departure from my normal focuses on this blog.  Check out the Who, Why, What, and Where pages above to read more about what the blog is usually about.  I hope you stick around!