Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Week 8, Day 45 — “Control”

Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Week 8, Day 45 — “Control”

So let me take you by the hand, and lead you in this dance
Control
It’s what I got, because I took a chance
I don’t wanna rule the world, just wanna run my life

From “Control” by Janet Jackson

Weight: 246.2

Glucose Reading: 102

I recently gave myself a little test on control around the start of week 7. I wanted to see if I could enjoy a snack of raw walnuts without turning this tasty, crunchy treat into a marathon of eating my feelings at a single sitting.

Guess what? I failed.

It’s a subtle test, trying to limit yourself to “enough.” I’ve never been good with “enough.” I’m all about “more.” I wolfed down half of that damn bag of walnuts on the drive away from Trader Joe’s. I didn’t even try to wait and make it home! The mania surged in that familiar way is staggering because it is uncontrollable. It’s this powerful sense of hunger, of feeding this ravenous, desperate beast that can’t seem to be sated. It scares the shit out of me, this feeling of “more.”

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I had this flashback to when I was a kid, this one afternoon when my dad took me to Baskin-Robbins for a treat. I was down for an ice cream cone, but when we got to the store, I changed my mind and eagerly asked for a pineapple shake. Dad bought it, but when we were in the car, he turned to me and said something that struck me as odd at the time. I don’t remember the exact words, but it was something along these lines:

“Whenever you go with someone to a place like Baskin-Robbins and they offer to buy you something, don’t just pick something expensive. You never know if they have enough to pay.”

My dad was always trying to instill in me this lesson on frugality, which I never heeded. Not until it was too late and even then I still could do better. The consequences of my errant ways with money are on par with my eating disorder. I can’t consume — or spend — enough. It always had to be more…for me. Looking back, I realize that my dad went without so I could enjoy that frosty treat. He didn’t have enough for us both. Two cones yes. A cone and shake? No. I don’t even think I shared it with him. Irony? We’re both diabetic and can’t have such sugary drinks anymore.

Every time I go anywhere with my dad today, I think about these selfish moves I pulled on him, of my lack of control to put such machinations aside. That is why I work extra hard to make sure he feels so cared for and appreciated whenever we go out together. It doesn’t wipe away how awful I was to him all those years ago. I don’t want to be redeemed in that respect. It’s my own issue to reconcile. However, I do want him to know that I was able to control my own wicked tendencies in the end, that I listened and took his lesson to heart.

I’ve been trying to compose this diary entry for several days now. Talk about a lack of control. More like a lapse in focus as my career reaches one of its many rises we all experience throughout the year in productivity. A few things have happened of late, some of which have nothing to do with my current weight loss journey, yet the theme of control is not far behind.

While I continue this struggle to stop letting my emotions tyrannize my health, I’ve been scanning my motivations in other areas for similar problems, too. Like my relationships. I learned after my break-up with the Ex that you can’t control or maneuver someone into becoming the person YOU think they should become. It strangled the life out of our relationship. While it was a bitter lesson in the end, true to form, it remained a lesson I didn’t seem to want to heed. The results of trying to control ALL relationships can come undone.

I’m not sure how to explore this situation as a diary post at the moment. I can only say that my intentions were honorable, but realities exist when you all of your worlds collide together. Is it worth compromising one’s rust. Worse, what do you do when the view from the other side is disturbing to you, cold and unwarranted.

Part of me recognizes how much control I’ve given people over my interests, values and decisions these many years. I’ve let it rule me to not so great effect, allowing for real regrets to be honest. I could chalk it up to wanting to be liked, of wanting to be the peacekeeper, but really it was an evasion from reality. I think up better narratives than the ones I live or at least I’ve convinced myself of that. Complaining is so second nature to me, I often wonder if it, too, is just a manifestation of my inability to live an honest, contented life.

My desire to wrest control back of late has not been without its roiling points and it’s made me question more than just how I live my life. I was never going to be an industry player. I was never a shark in that regard. It has been a struggle, changing how I perceive my career and its importance in defining myself. I am privileged to be with people who see beyond the false trappings of the entertainment industry. They seek to nourish themselves in ways that is comprised of real sustenance, of seeking knowledge on things that make us question our world as we live it. That is what crave so much more these days.

If you recognize the foods that can cause you harm, you avoid them, right? But how far do you go with people, no matter if they are well intended or not? How do you reconcile the changes you are going through with those who are in a state of arrested development? As I continue on this journey toward wellness, I will continue to ask myself these questions. Whatever the answers, I do know they will be achieved on my terms.

I don’t want to rule the world.

I really do just want to run my life.

 

 

Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — “Week 6, Day 35 — “Lies”

Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — “Week 6, Day 35 — “Lies”

There ain’t nothin’ more powerful than the odor of mendacity…You can smell it. It smells like death.

— From “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” by Tennessee Williams

Weight: 248.3 lbs.

Glucose Reading: 129

I’ve always been a really good liar. Not #45 good, but close enough. I’ve been carrying this guilt about lying for most of my adult life. Time to dump it all into the cosmic landfill once and for all.

From a very young age, I’ve quite adept in manipulating the truth to my will. It’s this choir boy face of mine, the one that disarms people with a sly twinkle in my eye. It’s the face that says “Confess to me” when I am in an interview situation. Perhaps you won’t even hear me judge you when we speak, but sometimes my will to speak is too great. Other times, it is silent and deadly with a force that even makes me feel shame.

I’ve always been a really good liar to my parents, to my family, to my friends, to anyone that dares enter my world of vivid stories and colorful novela-esque drama. Like the time I told people when I was in junior high that our Thanksgiving dinner was a failure because the turkey blew out of the oven. When that tale made the rounds to my older sister, I was oh-so busted! But it didn’t matter, it wasn’t until the end of the school day that the truth was revealed.

Truth.

I know the truth about my lies. I’ve never possessed a great poker face. I may think my lies achieve their assigned tasks, but my inner truth is always on display. It’s one of the many walking contradictions I possess. For those who are attuned, and maybe even those who are recklessly dense, you will most likely be able to read me like an alternate selection from the Book of the Month Club. I have never been able to truly hide the panoply of insecurities that motivates me to skirt the truth:

Fear of not being accepted.

Fear of being unloved.

Fear of being left behind.

Fear of being invisible.

Fear of being ordinary. 

Fear. Just plain fear. 

This slow journey to better health has some real pitfalls. Shedding layers of my physical self is revealing a lot of what I’ve attempted to keep buried. Facing these truths also means having to apologize to a lot of people for the litany of untruths and manipulations I’ve spun better than Charlotte on her web for much of my life. I say to you all, “I’m not proud of being duplicitous, but I am glad you have stuck by me no matter what.” However, of all the lies I’ve told, the worst are the ones I tell to myself.

Lying is on par with keeping a secret or withholding information. The stupid truth is that no matter how hard you try to keep things hidden, the more certain they are to be revealed in the end. Yet, so many of us keep making that decision, certain the consequences will never materialize. That we’re untouchable. And no one will get hurt. But it’s wrong. Someone always gets hurt. Sometimes it is whoever is closest to the blast zone when it detonates. It could be someone you love, but really, the biggest damage is done to yourself.

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The lies I’ve told to myself vary in size, from tiny to epic. Thinking about it now, the size really doesn’t matter. A lie is a lie. I think about how I’ve lied to myself every day:

I’ll diet tomorrow. 

I’ll exercise this weekend. 

I’ll go to King Taco one last time. 

I’ll eat these nachos one last time before getting serious about eating better. 

I do love myself.

I do care about my life.

I do matter.

These last two days have been tough. I’m fuckin’ tired. I’m tired of carrying all of this weight around, literally and figuratively. This eternal struggle of constantly having to find new spaces for the pounds I keep gaining and losing is getting to me. I feel the struggle in a much different way and it’s a feeling that not even the Lexapro can quell.  I just can’t spin any more lies.

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At one point today, I just let my feelings spill out in front of my boss. I just had enough: The drive to Lindora, the drive to work, racing to get from one point to another. The sad drop of just .3 of a pound, despite the booster shot. The copious handfuls of walnuts I couldn’t stop shoveling into my mouth last night. The guys I’ve met on Scruff and Growlr who don’t seem to want to respond back to texts or DMs on the apps anymore, despite their initial interest. The shit show in DC that is giving lying a whole new allure to a country that refuses to acknowledge how the weight of an idealized, racist past is NOT the way to go.

Sigh. A run on sentence of emotion. A purge. Truth. Real truth. I know I will get through this intact. I took a walk after my sensible lunch. I started to write this post, to get these feelings out into the open before their toxicity triggered the mania that makes me reach for food I don’t need.  And so far, I’ve held it together.

Man, at some point, I know I am going to like myself enough to not punish myself with these thoughts anymore, that I won’t punish my body with these mad lapses in greasy, salty and fatty foods. It’s ironic, being this people pleaser, always striving to make the rest of the room feel great. I have never been able to do that for myself. Worse, I’d invent false personas with which to keep people around happy and engaged enough to keep me as their friend. Really, I just wanted to hide the deficiencies I saw in my physical self.

Food never judged me, which is why I consumed so much of it since I was kid. Shoes and all the other material goods didn’t judge me, which is why I spent so much money I didn’t have amassing so many things. It’s amazing what we tell ourselves to feign the feeling or project the image of happiness. And for what? I’ve made myself sick in ways I thought would never happen to me. But they did. I want to get better. I want to be well. I want to be no longer afraid. I want to be honest with not only the world, but myself.

I knew this return to Lindora would be different than my previous experiences. What I didn’t anticipate was such introspection as a result of what would be dredged up in the process.  I’ve never lost weight this slow before. Then again, I’ve never been so affected by the necessity of no longer being under this tyranny of food.

Driving home tonight from work, my iPod shuffled to play Sara Bareilles’s “The King of Anything.” At one point she sings, “Waitin’ for someone to tell me it’s my turn to decide.” The decision to be healthy and strong has been made. What needs to happen next is to accept a vow of truth and stop the lies that have resulted in nothing but pain and fear.

All my life
I’ve tried
To make everybody happy while I
Just hurt
And hide
Waitin’ for someone to tell me it’s my turn
To decide. — From “King of Anything” by Sara Bareilles

Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — “And the Oscar goes to…”

Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — “And the Oscar goes to…”

No one can be put in jail for their dreams.
Free country!
Means that you’ve got the choice,
Be a scholar! Make a dollar!
Free country!
Means that you get a voice,
Scream and holler! Grab ’em by the collar!
Free country!
Means you get to connect!
That’s it! Means the right to expect that you’ll have an effect.

 — From “Everybody’s Got the Right” by Stephen Sondheim

It’s Oscar Sunday. Mixed feelings about today’s show, to be honest. Some of it is politically motivated. I have a hard time grappling with the image of couture, Chopard and grandstanding on our current political situation, adding an awkward and surreal wrinkle to the distraction award shows also provide. But, it is hard not to feel nostalgic, particularly since my career features over 20 years of working on campaigns dedicated to the big prize. I think about the wonderful, hard working people I collaborated with for many years. More, I choose to look at it as bringing Pico Rivera realness to a world that features more people looking in than out. And yes, it is a small town boy’s dream realized.

My Top 5 Oscar Memories:

5. The Madness of King George & Eat Drink Man Woman (1995) — My first Oscar campaigns as a junior publicist. While I didn’t hit the carpet, I did get to spend the day with Dame Helen Mirren at her home to coordinate TV crews covering her nomination. Pure grace, class and a wicked sense of humor. I’d get my own chance to interview Dame Mirren years later on the set of Hitchcock in 2012 for the broadcast content. It was so worth the wait. And, true fact, she loves food shopping and hanging out in East Los.

My time at Samuel Goldwyn was important on so many levels. It propelled my career to the next level. It was responsible for some unforgettable moments that would replay later, particularly with my becoming a content producer. It was at Goldwyn where I first interviewed director Ang Lee for the Eat Drink Man Woman press notes in 1994, which was nominated for Best Foreign Film. We would meet again in 2011 in Taiwan, Taichung and Taipei to be exact, when I interviewed him on the set of Life of Pi for the international broadcast campaign. Best part? He remembered our first interview.

4. Slumdog Millionaire (2009) — Director Danny Boyle has been nothing but gracious, familiar and welcoming in the several interviews I’ve conducted with him over the years, which includes 28 Days Later, Sunshine, Trance and 127 Hours. I loved this movie, especially since I was one of the first to interview then newcomers Dev Patel and Freida Pinto when the film appeared at the 2008 Toronto Film Festival. A great experience.

3. Juno (2008) — You just knew this film was special when it was in production in Vancouver. Writer Diablo Cody remains one of my favorite EPK interviews ever, along with Jason Bateman. Ms. Cody even taught me some stripper moves from her old days of dance. Second best moment?  Trading lines from Drop Dead Gorgeous with Allison Janney. (“I got some!”

2. Birdman (2015) — It was a polarizing film, but it remains an achievement in craft on all levels. Interviewing Michael Keaton, Emma Stone and the ensemble resulted in revealing and candid conversations about film, magical realism and, particularly, Alejandro G. Iñárritu. It was my second project with AGI, the first being Babel. And it also played a role in my continuing conduct interviews for Spanish language content. It’s hard not to be a wee bit cynical about that, but I can’t negate how it’s also brought some welcome challenges to this half my career. That period was also when I hit the Mexican Trifecta of directors, thanks to interviews with Guillermo del Toro (The Book of Life) and Alfonso Cuarón (Gravity).

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1. Titanic (1998) — From production in 1996 to release in 1997 and the awards in 1998, this ship of dreams sailed through some choppy waters. But it journeyed into the history books. This entire experience was a microcosm of the film industry itself, good and bad. It’s unforgettable because it did cross through uncharted territory, first as a box office juggernaut and then as one of the most winning Oscar films in history. It is the ultimate in art and commerce. It wasn’t my first time at the big show. That honor went to Braveheart in 1996. But it was the one that brought me into the center ring, the one that made good on why I dreamt big as a kid, watching the telecast with determination to be part of the fray. I’ll never forget each set visit in Baja California and subsequent press days in LA and NYC with Kate Winslet and, especially, director James Cameron, who never failed to treat me with real respect. Heck, I even held his Oscars for him during a photo call. Haha. I’ve gone back to Titanic a few times since then. He’s never been anything more than a gentleman, a real showman.

I was part of some great teams in the 20 plus years. I learned from the best, individuals who truly shaped my role and reputation in this profession. It’s the ones who also made me a better person that I hold dear, which isn’t easy in a town that isn’t always so loyal or forgiving when you make a mistake.

I won’t be watching the show tonight. However, I do take great comfort knowing some chubby young Latino kid will be watching with equal determination to make their contribution and mark on this ridiculous, frustrating, inspiring and so very vital industry. Because he or she can. Because that’s their right. And everyone has their right to their dream, no matter how hard anyone — or any one president or political party — dares to tell us otherwise.

Si se fucking puede, mi gente.

I did.

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Diary of a Hungry, Angry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Day 5 — “Weight and Sorrow”

Diary of a Hungry, Angry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Day 5 — “Weight and Sorrow”

Day 5

256.7 lbs.

Glucose Reading: 176

It goes without saying that I am having a better week than #PresidentBabyhands. I’m down six pounds in five days. Sugar readings are dropping to numbers under 200 from a record 401 a few weeks ago. What more could a person want? A little peace and sanity for starters.  God, what a week. At least He/She rested on the 7th day. I’ll be glad to look out the window on Sunday and know that we’re not living in the atmosphere on a plutonium cloud.

Driving to an appointment with my boss today, I chatted with my boss about my progress with this weight loss program. One of the things we discussed was he correlation of food and our emotional states. He said, without hesitation:

“The only things we gain in life are weight and sorrow.”

I knew exactly what I was going to write about the minute he said it.

Update: He would like to contextualize his statement by saying, “I was kidding… thanks for the brutal attribution, hermano.” However, given my state of mind for a while, I found it rather poetic and true.

Depression triggered my desire to eat myself to death. The burden of sorrow caused by the loss of people close to me coupled with the current state of society was killing my desire to care about anything. The clarity that is replacing my previous opaque view of the world is certainly being challenged at the moment, as it is for many of us. Yet, it is also giving me reasons to speak up, or write up as it were, shedding the many layers of ennui and selfish woe in the process. If I allowed life to make me gain weight and bury me in sorrow, this same life can also inspire me to shed the pounds and reclaim my own contentment. Nothing has changed around me. My family, friends and livelihood are still very much in place and no less supportive and loving than before. It is my lexicon for living that’s changed. Now I want to live.

The Talking Heads have infiltrated my mental iPod of late because I have been fixating on this theme on the power of words and literacy. Since the media is suddenly obsessed with the concept of facts of late, check out this lyric from the Talking Head’s classic track, “Crosseyed and Painless.”

Facts are simple and facts are straight
Facts are lazy and facts are late
Facts all come with points of view
Facts don’t do what I want them to
Facts just twist the truth around
Facts are living turned inside out
Facts are getting the best of them
Facts are nothing on the face of things
Facts don’t stain the furniture
Facts go out and slam the door
Facts are written all over your face
Facts continue to change their shape

In the last week, this new age of American Chaos has given way to the irrational normalization of “alternative facts.” I refuse to accept such a conceit, not when facts are being twisted into pretzels and salted with mendacity. Taken further, alternative facts do not exist in the fight for better physical and mental health. Ingesting meds for diabetes does not mean I can eat a chocolate cake. I know enough to push it away because it is bad for me. So how the hell is it good for any of us to hear Kellyanne Conway, that Consort of Lies, crow on television how calling out #PresidentBabyhands as a liar is “dangerous to…democracy?” We’re a sick nation, lady. What you and your ilk represent is the chocolate cake that can kill us all.

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In this visual age, where people prefer to digest photos to reading text longer than 140 characters, we must scrutinize the words that are being hurled at us by the nanosecond. Education, literacy, these are our defenses to protect our civil liberties and a free democracy.

As I put down the fork to stop anesthetizing myself from the world, I am putting down TMZ and the gossip sites from my own information diet, too. Being educated and literate doesn’t mean you want to better than someone.  It means you can best understand when any figure, political or otherwise, is trying to tear you apart for their own personal gain. It has nothing to do with you – only them. I compare it to having a bad boyfriend/girlfriend who only talks shit and makes you feel bad about yourself.  Is is possible we really hate ourselves as a nation to let such people rule our lives?  By that token, if we are able to dump such partners from our lives, why the hell are we standing behind leaders who want nothing else but bring us down?

#resist

Diary of a Hungry, Angry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Day 4 — “Resist”

Diary of a Hungry, Angry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Day 4 — “Resist”

Day 4

End of Protein Days

257.7 lbs.

Glucose Reading: 199

Despite booking first class, luxury passage on the Love Train yesterday, I was a bit reluctant to get out of bed this morning. Maybe it is the fear of knowing what democratic pillar #President Babyhands was going to decimate next. Perhaps it is the effects of four protein days messing with my head. I wanted to write some pithy little riff on how Lindora protein days are a privileged, overfed person’s descent into hell, but I lost the desire. Instead, I’ll let this little clip of an otter happily chowing down take its place. That’s going to be me tomorrow when I get to switch back to a regular menu of poultry, fish, vegetables and fruits again.

The notion of living in a parallel universe is starting to grow in my brain. I have these moments where the only thing I can do is shake my head. I joke to myself that all those years of reading post-apocalyptic fiction, watching nuclear war films and those dystopian epicsof yore like “Logan’s Run” and “Soylent Green” are actually going to pay off! I’m ready for whatever happens next! Then this fear grows in the pit of my slowly shrinking stomach. I have to remain and fight back the fear of letting it spread  further so I don’t just lock the door and never leave the house again. .

Today, #PresidentBabyhands basically unleashed a round of “Mextortion,” proposing a 20% tax on all Mexican imports. Comedian that I am, one thought that flashed in my mind was, “Since I am in the process of losing weight, this could be a very good thing!” But really, it is not. Crushing an economy because they won’t fund your windmill from hell, Don Quixote, is tyranny at its worst.

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Political cartoonist Lalo Alcaraz (of “La Cucaracha” fame) posted this image promoting a “California Resistance,” which is the lead photo of the diary entry. “Resist” is a powerful word for us all right now. It has taken root in my mind, from resisting the urges to consume things that can hurt me to resisting the urge to go full Howard Beale in public with rage. I can tell you this. I am losing one battle and it isn’t with food.

Restraint has never been a word I’ve been able to incorporate into my lexicon for living. Not as a kid, even less so as an adult. I am finally aware that “more” can kill. As we try to process the events of this week, more challenges will be brought to the American public in a way that will divide us and conquer other principles that must be defended to the bitter end. So, what does any of this have to do with a diet diary, you may ask? Plenty.

We are what we eat, people. And I am not going to subsist on a steady diet of lies and tyrannical chaos just because so many Americans hated having a black president for eight years. You ingest in trash food, you get toxic refuse that leaves your body in shock and prone to diseases that can kill you. The same applies to the Democratic process. We are what our elected officials represent. It is no coincidence that President Babyhands is an orange-colored menace. Cheetos are just as bad for me, too. Neither requires my attention to be healthy and strong, all the better to fight back.

#resist

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Diary of a Hungry, Angry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Day 3 — “The Language of Friendship.”

Diary of a Hungry, Angry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Day 3 — “The Language of Friendship.”

Day 3

259.2

Glucose Reading: 215

I’m half way through this week’s protein days, cranky as fuck, but rather elated today. I am down nearly 4 lbs. I attribute that spectacular number to not being weighed in denim. Let’s see how much it makes a difference over the coming weeks. Sugar was a bit of a “wah-wah” moment this AM thanks to the almonds I ate instead of the protein required as part of Day 2’s plan. At least I didn’t eat a bag of pork rinds (Lemon Juice! Tapatío!)  or whatnot, but note to self. Watch the items that cause the spikes or plateaus. But I digress.

The reason I was smiling like an Osmond brother this AM was to wake up and find the overwhelming amount posts of support I received from my first diet journey essay. I couldn’t help but feel like Eve Harrington as she breathily exalts in All About Eve:

If nothing else, there’s applause… like waves of love pouring over the footlights.

It is one thing to know you’re respected, but it is another thing to feel being loved in the way many of my friends and colleagues expressed their support and care in reaction to the essay.

“Weight has always been a struggle for me. I know what it feels like. I have been a Weight Watcher member for 16 yrs and made goal only a 1 1/2 years ago…”

“I am so incredibly proud of you. You have my support 110% ”

“Try not to get too caught up in the numbers and “progress.” You’ll know by your energy and the way your jeans fit and without a doubt, you’ll be back in the Levi’s that we purchased so long ago. I’m with you. Come over. Check out all my new shoes and I’ll make you a healthy dinner. Our door is always open to you, but not your chanclas. You keep those the fuck away from me…”

“I’m in the same boat as you are, buddy. Will be following your progress with interest. Starting my own journey up and out this very week.”

“You have more people behind you than you know, old friend. Take care and press on.”

“I love you.”

People messengered me privately with words of support, offering books and other resources to help smooth out the sure to be roiling journey ahead. Others shared with me their remembrances of losing close friends to one of the many ailments being overweight can trigger with devastating results. I wasn’t even sure how to respond to most of them, wondering if even hitting “Like” was enough? I knew that this diary entry would be one way to say to all of them, “I love you back” and “Thank you for being my champion.” Helen and I joke about #blessed as being the ultimate social media cliche of our time, but fuck me. Blessed is not big enough a sentiment to feel at this moment. My biggest thanks must be not failing any of them as I move forward to Day 4 and beyond.

Honestly, I may just read and record all of the posts I received and keep a sound file in my capes in case I start to feel my resolve ever weaken. (And yes, I do wear capes as shoulder pads would look so stupid and this isn’t the 1980s.) All kidding aside, I was reminded of a framed quote from Henry David Thoreau I was given as a gift a few birthdays ago. It reads, “The language of friendship is not words, but meanings.”

What I’ve come to discover is that it should not take us such a prolonged effort to find meaning in our lives, not when love is so readily available. We may bemoan our single status or our frustrations with people close to us, whether it is family, partners, spouses, co-workers or friends. But love can be found underneath the hornet’s nest of emotions we rile up from time to time. Love will always make itself known to you just when you need it most. All you have to do it believe in it, even when you are steadfast in your resolve to prove it is not there for you.

One thing I know is going to make a big difference is keeping a sense of humor, even when the days are filled with reasons to feel otherwise. This is not a great lead in, but stick with me on this one. We lost a great American icon today, the wonderful Mary Tyler Moore. I did get a little emotional at reading the news earlier today and  I was flooded with great moments of her work in television and film.

I flashed on her singing “Mountain Greenery” with Dick Van Dyke on their show together. I thought about her steely matriarch coping with the loss of her son in “Ordinary People” and the campy drama of “Just Between Friends.” But most of all, I thought of her role as Mary Richards on “The Mary Tyler Moore Show.” The show was aspirational, adding a layer to my wanting to be a news person. The scripts were like music to me as a young kid. I loved how these characters spoke to one another. I learned that power could be found in making us laugh and cry. (The series finale is still one of my favorite episodes of TV ever.)

Laughter is cathartic, just as much as crying. Both are almost able to wipe the slate clean whenever we feel we can’t cope. So, as we face another round of presidential lies and executive orders that defy compassion and necessity, I offer a classic piece of laughter. It is one of MTM’s best moments, the funeral scene for Chuckles the Clown, four of the best minutes of TV ever produced. To quote another great female character, “Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion.” Mar knew exactly how to prompt both with style, elegance and a beautiful smile.

Goodnight, Ms. Moore. A lot of us will forever find courage in knowing “We’re gonna make it after all.”

“I’m a hungry, angry, fat, gay Mexican…”

“I’m a hungry, angry, fat, gay Mexican…”

Day 1

262.6 lbs.

Glucose Reading: 275

“I just want you to love yourself as much as we love you. We all want you to be here. Please do this for you. Please do this for us.”

When you hear a voice that is trembling with tears and emotion, you listen. I took me by surprise, to be honest. I’ve been on this weight loss path many times over the last 20 years. It’s been a journey my friends have supported on as much as they’ve endured my misadventures in dating. But the urgency in my bestie’s voice belied something different. We’ve seen loss, quite a bit of it to be honest, in the last year. We’ve seen what poor health choices can do. Look at George Michael. Luther Vandross. Perhaps it was a colleague or a family member. Many of us have endured the pain of knowing they could have saved themselves from diabetes, heart disease or the effects of high cholesterol.

I have the trifecta of these ailments that are prevalent within the Latino community. I’ve seen their effects and it is painful and scary to know I can succumb just as easily. Yet, I’ve done nothing to combat them in the last 14 months. I’ve had the skills and resources to do something about my health and my attachment to food for 20 years now. It’s been a war I’ve been battling since I was a kid. If buttered toast with jam made me feel better, I had to have four pieces. I can still hear my tearful young self ask my aunt Beba, who was visiting us from Mexico City, for those pieces of bread. And like all good moms, she enabled her “gordito querido” because he was sad.

I still get sad. A lot. And I keep reaching for that bread or nachos or carnitas burrito or any of of the salt bombs that could detonate without warning. Why? I stopped caring about my future. I couldn’t be bothered. If I’m going to go, I was going to go big. But as I started the new year, I just couldn’t justify that course of self-destruction anymore. (I think it is the Lexapro doing its job.)

I’ll admit I was a bit cavalier when I posted an image of my sullen face on Facebook, which made this simple decree:

Today is my first day back on @leanforlifelindora. I am still processing my emotional attachment to food, something that continues to hurt me as much at 49 as it did at 19. I know I’m not alone in this struggle. As I approach 50, I have set one goal for myself during these next 18 weeks of healthy eating, counseling and exercise. “I want to see 51 and beyond.”

The reason my friend called was to offer support on that statement. It was happenstance that one of her colleagues advised her that a friend of theirs was found dead over the weekend. He was overweight, suffering from diabetes. He succumbed to illness at the age of 63. She called me in tears to urge me to take better care, to take charge. I was humbled and rattled at the same time. Because, that’s what it is about for us all, right? We must take care and control of selves, to fight that which could adversely affect us in more way than just our health.

I went back to Lindora and was given this mantra: “Carbs are not your friend. They turn to sugar. They make you sick.”

Not all carbs, I know. But the carbs that I tend to favor are not good for me. Apathy is not good for me. Depression is not good for me. A slow death is not good for anyone. I do want to see 50 and 51 and as many years as I can count so I can still be part of this dialogue for change. As I told my friend, I will be here. Too much is at stake. And, you know, I think I actually mean it this time.

Day 2

262.7 lbs.

Glucose Reading: 213

This is the point where you tell yourself, “It’s not a sprint. It’s not a race. It’s for life.” I have to admit that I wasn’t thrilled to see not even a little drop in my weight this morning. Instead, it went ever so slightly in the other direction, dammit.

It’s been a struggle to engage with my rational sense of optimism today. All the white noise of our new president’s administration turning us into a Margaret Atwood novel is keeping me from focusing on what really matters right now. I can’t seem to focus on much else but post these angry missives on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. It’s like I want to reach out and slap the shit out of every idiot who thought Trump was the right choice. And don’t get me started on the former classmates who follow me on Facebook, who fill their pages with “We need to respect the President” or “We need to pray to God to help Trump show him the way.” Better yet, “I’m so tired of all the negative on my feed.”

Fuck you. Wait until we have to put our backs up against the wall, then tell me how God will deliver us.

I’m a fat, hungry, angry, gay Mexican right now. But through this haze of red, I can say thanks to Protein Day #1, my sugar was down a whopping 62 points. More, the famed Lindora Ketosis stick had some real color. Fat is going somewhere. I think it was the jeans I keep wearing as nothing else fits right now. Hahaha. Tomorrow, I’m wearing gym shorts for weigh-in. And the numbers will go down because I can do this. I even did a 1.86 mile walk around Hancock Park today. However, I can safely say during the next 18 weeks I doubt you will find me writing like Little Maria Sunshine.

You’ve been warned.