Lente, Lente

Lent has been upon us since March 5th. The idea is sacrifice.. as in, if you choose to not eat sugar, or fatty food, don't do it for those hot jeans.

I tried- am trying to give up anger, to be more patient. Anger has both just and unjust reasons: is someone being hurt? That's just. Are you being hurt? Then you MUST say something. I like to use the wholly unholy phrase, "Grow some big, hairy balls of steel." How to reconcile that... well. It's a headscratcher, and I'm afraid I don't have the answer.

This is no time for a perfectionist streak.

Put away needs for perfection, from yourself, from others. It's not happening. And human perfection is an illusion, normal is an insult.

How to reconcile lean diets when you have health conditions? Well, if, for example, you have an illness, are elderly, a child, you might not have carte blanche to either gobble down any glutton-y amount you might like, but fish and veggies aren't a sticking point. What can you have, besides meat? Tomato soup and grilled cheese (Dairy, broths- the taste of meat, without the substance- A-OK.)  Pizza. Pasta with almost any sauce.
But with health conditions, you may have chicken, meat, with no shame. What would I consider not limiting diets for? Children, the elderly, those who are ill- they need energy, not restriction, those with trouble maintaining calories, those recovering from eating disorders.

You are asked to put self behind you. You are not asked to make a martyr of yourself.

Remember that temptation is normal- indeed, we derive Lent (Funny how in Latin, you get the word, "lente" for "slowly"- but keep going!) From Jesus being tempted by Satan for 40 days.
There's a test, and oh, goodness, I'm feeling it! Above all, be careful what you pray for!

Ragtime and Jazz

When I was 11, I got my first bra...from Mom and Grandma on a shopping trip, while waiting for Dad to have yet another round of tests and surgeries. One of those little cotton balconets... my cousin, always on the bigger side, had had to start wearing a bra at about 4 or so. I was built like a slim 8 year old at the time... short, slim, bony... and still they were trying everything they could think of for nutrition, etc... it fit quite nicely, like a loose, cropped t-shirt.

My father, perhaps realizing time was running short, sat me down for the "father daughter talk"...he was as blunt as a whack to the head with a baseball bat, so seeing him a little embarrassed kind of shocked me.
"Soon, you're going to be a young lady"... he flushed. I reddened watching him. I think the seminary training had not prepared him for blushing 11 year old girl. "And with that, you'll grow." I sat, watching him while tucked into the recliner on his lap. "Well, baby, a woman's life is like this..." attempting not to be crude, he fished, looking for a way to say it without beating around the bush as well. "It's 1 week of ragtime, 3 weeks of jazz."

About 4 years later, working as a counselor for the youngest girls, I felt a tap on my shoulder, saw a sweatshirt being held out to me. I was wearing khakis...and well. Quick change done, a whisper from a cruder person... "So, how's your aunt Flo?" I don't have an Aunt Florence, so suffice it to say, I was flustered. Not being able to control the volume of my voice--- I don't hear myself talk... I actually squeaked "I don't have an Aunt Flo!" a bit more loudly than I should have.

That said, I quickly realized that 6 weeks of ragtime was an average for me... and I couldn't have gotten up to dance if I'd wanted to. What was this 28 day thing? Turns out I had ovarian cysts and endometriosis...so, it was massive appointments added onto my schedule. At 20, surgery was necessitated there. Now, with what options open to me, having had seizures and kidney issues, among others, I can't take birth control pills. Until I'm ready, a Mirena works. But... I go to Catholic Health for my needs...it's great, I finally have pretty much universal care, and no separate driving to a clinic for blood tests. But they don't give out birth control. So I had to peddle my butt into Planned Parenthood. Imagine my surprise... the one in the city is a bit dark and grimy, with bullet-proof glass, etc... and a sign on the door that said "Protesters have used cell phone cameras to take photos of procedures." So, in order to help myself, universally, I kind of have to take in dirt and grime, and all of that. It's cheery, oh so cheery and doesn't help my confidence in the least.