Comfort ye

Cindy wrote a great blog about thinking habits and eating habits. As someone who didn't really think about what she ate until she was nearly 26 (and at least the last three years leading up to 26 were straight-up denial) and didn't pursue serious fitness until 27, it's always interesting to read about other people's journey with food and exercise, pertaining to weight loss or no. Growing up in the South, food is not just a means of sustenance, it's usually an event.

Classic example: Christmas Eve at my grandfather's house. Every year, we would drive into Metairie, park the car, and walk up to the smell of roast pig. Now I'm not talking about a ham. I'm talking about a pig. An whole pig that had been roasting for a very very long time and then carried into the greenhouse at the back of my grandfather's garden (a garden of bananas and papayas and guava with an errant pen of goats and wandering geese, but a garden nonetheless) to be carved by many of my uncles and aunts, with my grandmother smacking their hands from nibbling while they carved. Tables laid with huge portions of black beans and rice, yucca root (to DIE for), fried plantains, and any number of delicious things brought by relatives. Miss Jean's family is large and enthusiastic, especially when it comes to food, and once you've tasted those black beans and rice, you would cross Lake Pontchartrain in a paddleboat to get to them. Gallons of frozen daiquiris (gotta love New Orleans - drive-thru daiquiri shops) and coolers of beer and bottles of soda for the kids. It's a foodie's fondest dream. Even now, when I go home, my grandmother cooks for a full day and implores me to have another pork chop, another serving of beans and rice, more yucca, and do I want ice cream because she's gotten some creole cream cheese just for me. And then she pinches my arm and tells me I'm getting too skinny.

Part of this is about the deliciousness that is on that plate. Part of it is about reaching back to my childhood with every single bite of creole cream cheese ice cream (it is of the Lord - look into it) that I remember taking from the carton, sitting on my grandfather's knee as he spooned it out for the both of us with a serving spoon. But most of it is about comfort. When people talk about emotional eating, I honestly can't think of any other way one might eat - eating is totally emotional for me. Beignets and cafe au lait say home to me. King cake on Fridays at school during Mardi Gras season says home to me. Fried shrimp po-boys (the best ones are found at the truck stop near my parents' new house) eaten off the paper with a glass bottle of Barq's root beer say home to me. Comfort ye, my people, saith my stomach.

What does this have to do with anything? It has to do with everything. The biggest deterrent to my personal/physical/mental well-being (because they are completely related to one another) is the nasty chain reaction that occurs during audition season. It starts early, in September, when I fill out the paperwork for those last few apprenticeship programs/competitions for which I'm eligible. Write, label, stuff, stamp. The auditions begin in October - I start booking my bus tickets and learning the rep that's requested. I go to the salon and get the hair touched up. New pairs of stockings, shine up the shoes, iron the dress, let the games begin. I go into this season with a good attitude, but when my inbox remains empty of offers (even though I know that most houses won't really make decisions till after Christmas) I start to get dejected. I allow my happiness and mental stability to enter into a relationship with my perceived level of success as pertains to work. I start to sleep later (I'm tired, I'm traveling, I tell myself) I start to exercise less (I don't have the time, it's hard to pack all that extra stuff and the shoes, I tell myself) I eat out more (I'm in New York, I'm visiting friends, I tell myself) and I wrap my hands around beverages that are warm and sweet and...that's right - comforting. (it's 9 freakin degrees outside, of course I want that latte with whole milk!)

The audition season is but one part of my year - an important part, no doubt, but still only one part. And yet, I allow it to take my progress down to a grinding halt. I allow it. I'm still in New York for work right now and it would have been so easy to keep up with this nasty progression of backwards two-stepping. But my husband put his foot down and told me that if I'm going to be there for five days out of every week, it's worth it for me to get the one-month pass to the NYCS and go. I hemmed and hawed, but he's right and it is, so I did. I found the one that's three blocks from where I'm staying (also conveniently one block from the subway stop I use) and I just did it. I bought the one-month pass, I packed my crap into my bag, and I went. And do you know what happened, dear readers?

I felt better. I felt more in control of my own destiny, more responsible for my personal success, and actually more likely to succeed. Singing engagements or no, I felt like I was taking steps to get back on track. I'm on the bus now, going back to NYC for another week of rehearsals which will be long and tedious, but I will pack my bag so I can go to the gym as soon as it's over. I will alternate my cardio and my weights. I will do the freaky Pilates shit that makes my stomach flat and happy. I will up the resistance on the elliptical to get my heart rate out of that very comfortable lazy place into the kicking my own ass place. And really, that's when I'm happiest - when I'm kicking my own ass.

And now, a little sidebar. The Met regionals are in two weeks. I was having this conversation with my dear friend Malinda, who is so incredibly insightful it sometimes makes me forget we've only been friends a year. We were discussing - of course - THE dress. Repertoire is set, I'm not going to mess with it. The venue is an old friend, and the pianist is a coach I've worked with before, so the only x-factor is the dress I'm going to wear. I was saying to her that it's very likely I'm the oldest woman, perhaps even the oldest singer, in the competition. Looking at the list, it seems there are quite a few younger singers, and I was worried that I might skew too "mature" to pique the interest of the judges. A 23 year-old soprano who has her shit together is exceptional, a 29 year-old soprano who has her shit together is expected. And we're talking about how if I wear anything that's too 'classy' it might skew me too conservative and maybe I should try for something a little flashier. And she says to me, "or, you could own your age and maturity and eat the little girls for breakfast."

Doctor, heal thyself. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in the headgame that I forget how I got here. I got here by being good at what I do. And what I do best is at the heart of the matter: I'm the best at being who I am. No one else is like me, no one else can do exactly what I do the way that I do it. And so, for the sake of being at my absolute best in two weeks (and every two weeks thereafter), I'm getting off the bus tonight, getting on the subway, and heading straight to the gym and THEN to the apartment. I'm putting myself first on the priority list instead of fourth or fifth after the needs sitting in my email inbox and after the requests for time or attention or instruction or whatever. It means seeking comfort in my own abilities, rather than in the refrigerator (or those seductive baked goods - Cindy, you are so right) and taking responsibility for what I put in my body and what I do with it afterward. Packing those right snacks (fruit and veggies yes, salt and vinegar chips NO) and planning for meals (delicious grilled fish yes, take-out Indian NO) and making time for exercise (90210 on the elliptical yes, 90210 on the sofa NO) and also making time for self-study. My friend Shirley suggested that I try to meditate to gain clarity. She's a smart cookie, so I'm going to try my best to clear my brain and make room for nothingness.

Here's to 2010. May it be the year we keep the most important promises made: the ones we make to ourselves.