Category Archives: Health

May 03 6 comments
Health

Paging Dr. Drew

So back in the insomnia days, I mentioned in passing that I started taking an anti-anxiety drug called Effexor. Effexor worked wonders…for a handful of months. But during those  months, I had insomnia, and then felt no effect whatsoever, soooo…DRUGS?  Per Doctor’s orders I’m going off the Effexor, and guys, I AM DETOXING like WHOA.

I’m sure the drug has been a lifesaver to many. I’m just saying there are SUPPORT GROUPS for people going through Effexor withdrawal — kinda a red flag.  I have beef with my doctor, who prescribed what I now read is a “last chance” drug when I totally wasn’t “last chance” — I was like, first chance! I had all the chances!  She never so much as hinted that coming off of Effexor is often compared to coming off of heroin. What, she bone the drug rep or something? (T-shirt: “My psychiatrist went on a Wyeth-sponsored vacation, and all I got was this drug hangover.”)

The physical withdrawal — nausea (”Am I going to puke? No. No. Wait, I might puke. No I’m not.”), brain zaps (”What’s that over ther-zzzzzztt WTF?!”), and night sweats (”#fellas. . . “) are all bearable. Although I do feel like a junkie when I’m breaking down a tablet into EIGHTHS just to get a “fix,” but I bought an adorable pill box off of Etsy, so it’s okay. No, worst part of the withdrawal process has been an almost comedic cycle of mood swings that either send me into a crying jag or stir a desire within me to BURN SOMETHING DOWN.

Because I’ve been dealing with clinical depression since I was 16, I’m pretty familiar with the chemical makeup — and sometimes fuckups –of my brain.

See, when my brain is doing its job, it looks like this:

But sometimes, when my brain is a total chump, it looks like this:

The kicker is, you might never even know that SAD BRAIN IS SAD, because I’m damn good at masking it. I didn’t win “Best Actress in a Play” at the Rockford High School Theatre awards TWO YEARS IN A ROW for NO REASON, GUYS.

But this detox thing is the WORST, because it overrides any hope of me suppressing my raw emotions by making me cry, at the drop of a hat.

Seriously. Out of nowhere. It doesn’t have to be blatantly sad things, either! I cried at EVERY. SINGLE. SEGMENT. of CBS Sunday Morning, and they did a story on the US Pole Dancing Championships.

Here’s today, for example:

Why I Cried, Tuesday Edition

7:40am: Because of GMA’s segment on “Babies of 9/11.” (LOW BLOW, DIANE SAWYER.)

7:44am: Because I couldn’t get my bangs to lay right.

8:04am: Because a woman in the next lane drove too fast in a school zone.

11:33am: Because somewhere, “Moon River” was playing.

3:27pm: Because a disgruntled employee sent me a grumpy email. (I said early next week! It’s Tuesday! WHY YOU YELL AT MEEE?)

7:00pm: Because a young man was holding the crook of his lady’s arm until it was safe to cross the street.

6:16pm: Because I was in a Walmart.

I do have to laugh, which I suppose is all I can do. I’m just taking it day, b’day.

Oh, and about the Walmart — All was not in vain. Check out this AWESOME SHIRT I GOT FOR NINE DOLLARS:

It only came in XXL-XXXL and was merchandised above the high-waisted jean shorts.

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Jul 15 4 comments
Health

I Think You Need to Call Tyrone

I’m the mayor of the east side Gold’s Gym on foursquare.

If you know me, and the way I loathe getting into an exercise routine, you know this is quite a feat. See, between years 5 and 23, I was a dancer. When you’re a dancer, you don’t think about how many calories you’re burning when you’re pirouetting and arabesque-ing….it just works. I started dancing less and drinking more, and well, you do the math. Call it Ruebenesque all you want; I got ROUND.

I picked the Gold’s Gym not only because it was affordable, but because I pass it on my way to and from work. I can’t go home without driving by that big shiny sign and feeling guilty about it (eight years of Catholic schooling ftw!) Like any gym, they have you meet with a member of the staff whose goal is to convince you to sign up for personal training sessions. No way in hell, I thought, determined to stand my ground. I CAN DO THIS MYSELF. (Except for the fact that I hadn’t, four gym memberships later.) I met with this trainer who gave me a fitness test and made me run drills.

And I almost puked.

I ALMOST PUKED. You know those people you see on Celebrity Fit Club, and they barf after running for like three minutes, and you exclaim, “Ha! What a sad, sorry state to be in!” NO. A sad, sorry state is spitting into your own reflection in the toilet of the eastside Gold’s Gym. The membership was so cheap, I started to think tacking on a few PT sessions wasn’t such a bad idea to jump start my routine. After some haggling (turns out I learned a thing or two about negotiating from my media buying days after all), I was set up with a personal trainer three times a month.

Tyrone.

That’s his name. Tyrone is a black, cut, MMA fighter with a heart of gold. And there’s no way to say this without sexual innuendo, but: When Tyrone says he’s going to go easy on me, it will be a harder workout than I’d ever dream of giving myself. And if he says, “We’re going to have fun today,” it means I won’t be able to walk for three days. (Yes, I’ve made this joke before.) After the first few sessions, I realized that not only was I getting a great workout, but I was basically paying someone to cat-call me for thirty minutes while I lifted heavy things.  (That sounded less sad in my head.)

But for the past couple sessions, things have been getting…weird. Tyrone keeps talking about how it’s time I started dating black dudes. And I’m running out of funny things to say in response to that. Or how about this gem of an awkward conversation:

WHILST TRICEP-DIPPING:

Him: I’m scoutin’ for a white girl. I’ve never been with a white girl.

Me: No?

Him: Nope.

Me, Inner Monologue: DOO DOOT DOOT DOOO I’M JUST GOING TO CONTINUE WORKING ON MAH TRICEPS

Him: . . . .You ever been with a black dude?

Me: …Nope.

[HUGE CRAZY PREGNANT PAUSE]

Me: . . .

Me: . . . .Abs?

Him: Alright.

I keep telling Tyrone to help me sculpt a body so that dudes will want to have sex with me*, but is it possible that TYRONE wants to have sex with me**? TWIST.

In the meantime, whenever I’m feeling a little puffy or sluggish, I sing to myself, “I think you need to caaaallll Tyrooone, CALL ‘im!”

From one of my favorite songs, natch:

* I’m sorry, family members that read this.

** Obviously, our relationship is strictly professional, but c’mon, you don’t get told every day, “You could be my first white girl.” (Or do you? Do you? Let me know.)

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May 11 3 comments
Health

Chin Up.

I’m pretty sure Damon moved out while I was out of town this weekend.  At least he moved enough stuff to live on.  And by that I mean his computer is no longer in the bedroom. That’s as good as moved out, in his book.

So yeah. This is hard. This is much harder than I anticipated, if you can anticipate anything from such things.  The sadness and the mourning? I expected that. However, I could NOT have predicted the way my body would react to the situation.  Weeks after the fact, I continued to be a hot mess of nausea and fatigue and eye-twitching. [I suppose this is what happens when you continue to attempt co-habitation with someone who, assumingly, LOATHES you.]  I continued to hope: Okay, today, this is the day we actually talk again. Maybe not jovially share popcorn and chuckles on the couch, but maybe not do this passive-aggressive song-and-dance that’s been going on for three weeks.  But that day never comes. And the sadness turns into anger and the anger into guilt and the guilt into an ULCER, so I got myself to the doctor.  Not the “open wide and say ahh” kind, but the “tell me about your mother” kind.

I’m not surprised, as every major transition in my life has brought about some sort of imbalance. Regardless of whether the change is unwelcome (like when my friend died) or welcome (like when I graduated college), there is just something in my brain that goes, yeeaaah, not so much and totally wrecks my ability to function. I need to be kick-started. Neurologically.

Yikes, Debbie Downer. If the great musical deconstructor, Seth Rudetsky, was here right now? He’d DEFINITELY say that this blog entry needs to modulate up a half step.  You know, that moment in music when things have become too morose, or the big finale needs to be turned up a notch, so the key changes from minor to major or whateve—you know what, I think I’ve shown my band-geek layer enough for today…

I will say this: There is still an abundance of  hope in the simplest of things.  A touch on the shoulder, a “how are you doing” email or text, an almost Pavlovian turning-up of the mouth when I hear the opening notes of “Thunder Road” — these things.  The things that seem to say, you’re gonna be alright, kid.

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May 04 1 comments
Health, blogging

B00bz and Run-On Sentences.

While I’m not entirely sure my mom knows how to use the internet in order to GET to my blog, I write it as though she reads every single entry.  I know that may be hard to believe, since many of you have no doubt thought, “Does she speak to her mother with that mouth?” knowing that the f-bomb used to be my number one blogged word of all time. Aunts and uncles and other respectable adults have told my mom they’ve read my blog, and so I think she’s always nervous that I’m going to disgrace myself or shame the family or whatnot.  Running into my high-school-friend’s mom at the D&W, she’s met with: “Oh, yes, I read all about Jenny and how she threw up all over L.A. last month!” That day I will get a call: “Mrs. So-and-So reads your blog, Jenny! So be careful!” and I’m all “Okay, mom.” Eye roll.

This conversation echoed through my mind as I mentally started writing a blog entry about boobs in the sports bra aisle of Dick’s Sporting Goods.

Every person hits a point with their personal weight when enough is enough, and MY “enough” was when my bra size became too big to still be considered “cute” by consumer apparel standards.  I think I was at a Target and some little polka dot number caught my eye.  I fumbled to the back of the rack, pulling at tags, looking at sizes, until I realized that it only went up to a certain size, and I literally and disappointingly said “Ohhhh,”  out loud and looked to the bottom row, with the odd-looking 56 double-Gs or whatever — the bras that could be used to slingshot watermelons — and thought, THAT IS WHERE YOU ARE HEADED, JENNIFER LYNNE, IF YOU DO NOT TAKE ACTION.

“Action” means exercise, which in my case means running, something that I’ve yet to convince myself I really enjoy.  My current sports bras are of a lighter time, when my cups didn’t runneth over so.  After a couple not-so-comfortable runs, I literally had to pull one aside and say, “C’mon, brah. You’re really not even trying, anymore.” And it was all, “I HAVE A MUSTARD STAIN ON ME, THAT IS YOUR FIRST SIGN, BUSTY MCBUSTERSON.”

So there I was, in Dick’s Sporting Goods.  For once I was thankful that I was NOT helped by a sales associate — I didn’t want to reveal that I had trouble discerning whether my ladies needed “medium control” or “maximum control.”  I mean, how much boob movement distinguishes the two? I mean, I do want these puppies on lock-down, but if they’re gonna be large and in charge for a while, I don’t want them squashed into non-existence as I’m traipsing down the Monon Trail, am I right ladies?

Listen, it took a lot of macaroni and cheese and Jack Daniels to get me here.  It would be easy to get down on myself for having to pick the sports bra WITH the built in underwire (totally the special needs sports bra).  But I would be remiss if I didn’t have that Beavis-and-Butthead, sixteen-year-old-boy moment of, “Heh. Heheheh. My boobs are HUGE.  Awesome.”

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Feb 27 0 comments
Health, television

A Bunch of Posts I’ve Started

but haven’t completed because I’m too busy trying to distract myself from the fact that I haven’t eaten solid food in seven days…

1) I just started watching How I Met Your Mother and even halfway through Season One,  I’ve decided that it is WAY better than Friends. While I liked Friends, I was never one of those girls that was like Squee, best show evarrr. Friends was a great, timeless sitcom, but every episode I’ve seen of HIMYM has been brilliantly written and makes me want to write for television.

2) Damon and I were wandering around the Whole Foods the other day (getting my 324234 pound bag of lemons) and he pointed over at a huge chunk of parmagiano reggiano.  I mean, HUNK of CHEESE.

It was a block, like this:

So we laughed and joked about whether or not it was for sale. An employee in a white coat came out of nowhere and proceeded to tell us it would run us like $1250 or something.  Then, probably the best thing to happen to me that day:

Him: “I carved that myself, actually.”

Me: “Oh, really? Cool.”

Him: “I hold the world record for carving parm, actually.”

Me: **cartoon double take** “Uh-whaaaa?”

Him: “It’s a group world record.”

Me: “That’s the greatest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He then went on to recommend six or seven fabulous cheeses. And then I died. Because I was on the Master Cleanse. And you know what put me in the position to go on the Master Cleanse? That wheel of brie you’re touting, Parm Boy. I’ve learned from experience that people who are into cheese? Are reeeallly into cheese. (See Russell and The Cheese Cart, March 08)

3) Speaking of Master Cleanse, I am on Day Seven. This day is supposed to  be particularly hard detox-wise, but I think I felt worse last night. While my energy has increased and I definitely feel good, I still don’t have that surge of crazy new energy, that joie de vivre that I got last round.  A question I get asked often is how many pounds I want to lose or how much I have lost. The answer is, I don’t have a clue, because my scale is busted.  That’s okay by me.

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Feb 24 2 comments
Health

Wow.

I guess things are just…easier this time around.  With the Master Cleanse, I mean.  The Lemonade is less maple-y than I remember, I didn’t have to pray my headache away on day three, and I’m starting to see my one, true, original chin again.

Not to say that this is easy. While I’m not dreaming of cherry cobbler or obsessing over string cheese, I still could be heard today, shouting from my office, “IS THAT PIZZA? WHO IS EATING PIZZA?!?!” And while, unlike last time, I didn’t think, I should just quit, just get some pizza, smelling the aroma was like smelling the cologne of an ex-boyfriend — it holds fond memories, but I don’t want to go back there just yet.

The Master Cleanse might be the biggest mind f*ck you will ever voluntarily give yourself.  Because you’re making a choice, and sometimes? if you’re like me? you immediately want to choose whatever choice will get you instant gratification. And choosing to severely control how you react in such situations is kind of a big deal.  I’m sure everyone fights their own battles doing this thing, and that’s difficult to explain when people assume you’re starving yourself to look like Beyonce or something (FIERCE!).

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Feb 17 5 comments
Health

Spring Cleaning 2009

You may remember that I did the Master Cleanse last year with great results. Yes, the Master Cleanse, with lemons and maple syrup and cayenne pepper.  It sounds stupid and insane, and it is most certainly both of those things.  You can show me 2349827342 articles that say it’s unhealthy or pointless or placebo and I will still do it, because I came out the other side feeling more clear-headed and more fabulous than I have in a long time. Granted, it took at least three days to reach that plateau, as those around me may recall.  I may have asked to simply smell your nacho cheese sauce. You may have had to tear me away from an ENTIRE DAY of watching the Food Network because I was sadistic and obsessed. May.

On Saturday, I’ll venture into that territory again, and it couldn’t come at a better time.  Like many, I reach a point where stressful workday = pad thai and anything even mildly upsetting = where is that bottle of chardonnay oh yeah I drank it.

It’s a weird phenomenon, but I’m much more successful at resisting food altogether than choosing a nectarine over the noodles and water over wine.  I have a fridge stocked with glorious food (organic, expensive food) and last night I had a burger served on TEXAS TOAST.

(Okay, but can we talk about this for a second? It really was a glorious burger. Medium-rare and glistening and tender and awesome. It was at the Nickel Plate, in Fishers.  They don’t have a website, but here’s a dining guide, with only one review, and it simply says “Tenderloins,” so you KNOW this place is where it’s at.  Oh no wait. They have a website.  And I’m too lazy to go delete the thing about the Tenderloins.  Best parenthetical ever!)

Anyway.  I’m going through some pretty heady shit right now, and I’m just trying to get it together. I’m hoping this detox will help recondition me to come here and write my feelings, instead of my typical coping mechanism — washing them down with jack daniels.

From what I remember it, the absence of food/thinking about food frees up a LOT of time.  How else can I explain an entire series of self-portraits with lemons? I spent a lot of time with lemons.

Weird.

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