Dethroning the Dairy Queen

I used to reign Queen in the Kingdom of Dairy.

Don’t believe me? Think that I’m exaggerating my personal importance to (and sway over) the dairy industry, when all along I would only eat a modest pat of butter every few days? Ha. Consider this: A typical breakfast for me consisted of two (or three) granola bars washed down with 500mL of milk at least. Every day. Lunch would include a cheese-flavoured bagel smeared with cream cheese and topped off with generous slices of cheddar. (No, I am not making that up.) Dinner would be homemade macaroni and cheese, a Greek salad tossed with large chunks of feta, or a large bowl of pasta topped off with a cream sauce and an avalanche of parmesan. My favourite desserts? Cheesecake. Ice cream. Frozen yogurt. Milk chocolate. Iced cappuccinos. Anything milky, creamy, and full of dairy.

There is a whole *magazine* called "Dairy Today". Who knew? Cover courtesy of Pentagram website.

It would be an extreme understatement to say that I simply liked dairy. I loved dairy, craved dairy, and clung to dairy with the fevered grip of a woman possessed. Even though it made me feel phlegmy, congested, and wildly bloated within mere minutes of consuming it, I refused to give it up. Dairy was my right, my vegetarian prerogative. And even when numerous health professionals advised me to take dairy out of my diet, I resisted vehemently. No way, man– I’ve already taken out meat. You can’t make me take out anything else, especially something as ‘harmless’ and ‘innocuous’ as dairy.

My Herbivore sticker

Dairy wreaked havoc on my digestive system, but it took me all the way up until last year to acknowledge and admit this to myself. Even as a young teenager, I literally sounded like a creaky old house when I tried to digest anything with dairy in it. My intestines would gurgle and sputter like rusty old pipes, and occasionally I even had to raise my voice to be heard over the groans of my churning bowels in conversation. (Classy!) Quite often, my belly would distend after eating dairy (which was basically after every single meal), and I would waddle around uncomfortably like an 8-month pregnant woman. Dairy did not agree with my system– at all– but I would not agree to cut it from my diet. At all.

Dairy also had its way with my complexion, but I didn’t realize (or respect) this fact until just last year again. I had a considerable case of acne from the age of 12 onward. New and painful sores appeared daily, and older ones scarred my face and neck:

My best friend and I in early university. Notice her gorgeous peaches and cream complexion. Notice my not-so-gorgeous fire ants in the olive grove complexion... This was on a "good day", otherwise I would have been too embarrassed to have my picture taken from close-up.

I hated having acne, and I tried (what I thought was) everything over the span of many years to get rid of it: special creams and face washes, zit-zapping lotions, specific brands of birth control pills, and even two courses of an incredibly potent (and expensive! and dangerous!) anti-acne prescription medication called Accutane. Alas. Relief was always temporary, and my acne would return with an angry vengeance soon after I discontinued whatever treatment I had been using to keep it at bay. It was a very discouraging and self-confidence-sapping cycle. (Because who wants to have fire ant replicas crawling all over their face?)

If somebody had told me in high school that dairy (not “my hormones” or “an oily constitution”) was the prime culprit for all of my skin problems, I probably wouldn’t have quit eating milk products. I wasn’t ready to give it all up at that time in my life (eating dairy = social acceptance), and I was more comfortable with the idea of just taking expensive, extremely abrasive medications instead– even medications that were correlated with birth defects, much-higher-than-average risks for blood clots, and depression/suicidal tendencies. Cut out dairy?! No way, José!! Look at pictures of horribly deformed fetuses and then sign a waiver that promises my doctors, their extensive legal teams, and Jesus himself that I won’t ever get pregnant while taking Accutane, forever and ever amen? Meh. No big deal. Give me those documents to sign! And bring on the celibacy!

Obviously, things have changed a lot since then.

After gaining some modest ground in the clear skin department circa 2006-2008, my complexion started getting more, um, rugged in late 2009/early 2010 again. I noticed more acne scarring and more pimples appearing on my cheeks, forehead, and along my jaw line. (So yes– basically all over my face.) While I was complaining to my dear mother about this, I discovered that she had a dairy sensitivity of her own, which manifested itself in breakouts on the skin. Who knew? Genetics! Well. I resolved to cut dairy out then and there, just to see how it would impact my complexion. (Screw my sorry-assed digestion– I just wanna be a Cover Girl!)

Lo and behold, eliminating dairy from my diet worked. Like a charm. (Or a genie!)

Within mere days of cutting dairy out from my diet, I felt lighter, less bloated, and way less phlegmy. By the 3-month mark, I had dropped nearly 15 pounds from my average-sized frame (and that’s without changing even one other thing about my diet and exercise habits!) Today, about 15 months after cutting out all dairy (even butter) from my diet, I haven’t gained any “dairy weight” back. It’s off for good (as long as milk, cheese, yogurt, and butter are off the menu). I’ll get the occasional breakout still, but only if I am very stressed out, tired, or if I’ve eaten a whole bunch of flour the day before. It’s incredible to see how much my skin gauges and reflects my diet and lifestyle as a whole– I really can read it like a map now, whereas before I gave little to no credence to the idea that our skin reflects our inner health.

Kimberly Snyder (she of “The Beauty Detox Solution” fame) recommends that everybody cut dairy out from their diets. Completely. She’s fine with people keeping some meat and eggs on their menus, but when it comes to dairy, she puts her foot down. Take it out. Too acidic, too congesting, too laden with hormones and antibiotics, too not-meant-for-adult-human-consumption, too calcium-leaching, too contrary to inner and outer health. (Of course, she is very eloquent, professional, and encouraging in her book when outlining her arguments against consuming dairy. She’s not nearly as tantrum-prone and ultimatum-laden as I’m making her sound in my overly simplistic summary! )

I consider myself very fortunate to have already cleared this particular hurdle in my personal Beauty Detox Journey. (I first came across Kimberly’s blog when I resolved to examine the connection between dairy consumption and acne on a personal level– her post “The Acne-Dairy Connection” confirmed what I was suspecting about dairy products based on my own body’s symptoms and inspired me to take dairy out for good.) Anyway. Eliminating dairy from my diet was difficult on many levels, especially because I loved it and also because it is so prevalent in restaurants and a surprising number of packaged foods. (Read the labels– dairy, milk, and sketchy “milk ingredients” are everywhere!) I do think that having a sensitivity to dairy makes it easier to cut out; feeling horrible and/or getting acne because of dairy makes for a pretty powerful motivator to take it out! The biggest motivation for me, however, has been noticing the drastic differences between my body “on” dairy and “off” of it. Clear skin, better digestion, not as phlegmy or full of mucous, plus 15+ pounds lighter without having to think or worry about it? I’ll take it.

The Dairy Queen: Off with her acne-ridden head!

Baby Steps to Better Health

My health has improved in leaps and bounds over the past ten years, and it has even improved significantly in the last 15 months. I have never been wholly unhealthy, at least in the sense that I have never had any major diseases, required extensive hospitalization, or broken any bones. Plus, my height, weight, and standard doctor’s office measurements (blood, thyroid, liver, kidneys, etc.) have always fallen within the “normal” range. (But what does “normal” mean, anyway?)

I’ve been doing a lot of reading on diet and nutrition recently, and all of this ‘new’ (to me) information has encouraged me to re-examine what I put into my body as far as food is concerned. Sure, I could probably continue on indefinitely without altering a single thing about what I eat or how I eat it, but at this point, I’m simply curious about the effects that certain dietary changes could have on my body. I’m not interested in undertaking any particular changes with the sole purpose of losing weight– I’m actually at one of the lowest weights I’ve ever been at during my entire adult life and adolescence right now– but I am interested in improving my ever-challenged digestion. Besides: the Latent Science Nerd in me never really got a chance to shine in school, and now she is (geekily) asking her turn. Can we please use the scientific method together, Dana? Please please? Pretty Puh-leaze???

My major motivation to make some changes has come in the form of a wonderful book: “The Beauty Detox Solution” by Kimberly Snyder. I have been following Kimberly’s Health & Beauty blog since January 2010 (when I cut dairy out of my diet), and she recently released a comprehensive book about her dietary recommendations, food combinations, and freeing up digestive energy for beautifying and cleansing purposes.

Kimberly Snyder demonstrating her impressive yoga skills. Image borrowed from www.kimberlysnyder.net/blog

I don’t know about you guys, but to me, Kimberly epitomizes the very definition of radiant health. (Doesn’t it seem like she’s literally glowing with health, beauty, and positive energy? What an inspiration! And way to lead by example!) She has extensive (and occasionally overwhelming) knowledge about nutrition– yes– and sometimes it can feel like there are so many little things to keep track of when it comes to diet– yes– but if there is even the slightest chance that some of her suggestions can work for my body and render me into a shimmering goddess of proper nutrition, then I’m willing to try it out. Healthy glow, here I come!

See? She's glowing! I will be, too. (Image borrowed from www.kimberlysnyder.net/blog)

Luckily for me, I am not starting right from Square One. I have already incorporated many of her recommendations into my daily routines without even realizing it– I don’t eat dairy anymore, and my meals are comprised of a whole lot of fresh vegetables and smaller amounts of whole grains. I actually consume ground flax seeds on a daily basis, and I already know what mysterious foods like “quinoa”, “millet”, “amaranth”, “dulse”, and “chard” are. That gives me a leg up, so to speak, but I’m also planning to take this opportunity to test out other recommendations of hers. It will not be a complete overhaul of my diet and lifestyle (at all), and I’m planning to incorporate her suggestions gradually, not overnight, so I can minimize any potential shocks to my body.

I am so excited to try this, though!

I’m going to create a new page at the top of my blog that is specifically targeted to the Beauty Detox Solution. (When I get around to it), I would like to make a list of most of the main suggestions that Kimberly outlines in her book, and then– as I incorporate them into my own lifestyle– I’ll cross them off like they’re on a Healthy To Do List and let you know how it goes!

Like I say, this is not simply a weight loss endeavour; it’s a more holistic attempt to transform my body for the better, from the inside out. I get very excited about good foods (as you might have already guessed from my humble blog), and I’m so inspired by Kimberly’s own true beauty that I’m ready to embark on this new program myself. Baby steps to better health, indeed– wish me luck!

 

Half A World Away

Believe it or not, today marks the 5-year anniversary of my escape from the Ivory Tower. (Well, I didn’t so much “escape” from university as I “successfully defended my Master’s thesis”, but the fight-or-flight hormones were pumping all the same that day!) I am so far removed from the person I was in grad school that it’s hard to remember even being there. Ever. Some of my friends like to tease me and say, ‘Hey! If you weren’t such a quitter, you could have finished your Ph.D. by now’, but I can’t imagine having spent the past five years still in school. Talk about torture!

Hmmm... five more years in university or a World Cup soccer game viewing in Old Town Square, Prague? Decisions, decisions!

Going to university after I graduated from high school never seemed like an option for me, and by that, I mean I always just assumed that I would go to university. (In retrospect, I’m glad I felt this way, but my parents would have loved me all the same if I announced I was going to take up semi-professional karate after Grade 12. Their love for me is the very definition of ‘unconditional’.) But yes: There was no choice involved in me heading off to post-secondary school– it just was. It was almost as though I believed that getting an undergraduate degree was as mandatory as attending K-12. So I got a Bachelor’s Degree in Communication Studies and then applied for a Master’s Degree in the same field, because WHAT’S ANOTHER $15,000 and 2 YEARS DURING THE PRIME OF MY LIFE when you’re already in that game?

Me (via dramatic re-enactment in Prague): Gee, I might as well keep hanging out here...

Well. My lifelong love of school and my mad academic skillz were put to the extreme test about 2 days into my MA studies. Listening to one of my peers babble on and on excitedly about some “critical issue” or another in my COMS of Biotechnology class, I realized with a mixture of surprise and boredom: Maybe I don’t love Communication Studies as much as I thought I did, and Perhaps I’d rather die a slow and grueling death than be a university professor in the future. This was not a fun (or timely) discovery to make, seeing as I had just started the graduate program, so I resolved to “give it some more time” and, failing all else, to force myself to graduate. Unfortunately, time did nothing to soften up my bad attitude, so I ended up undertaking, writing, and defending a 100+ page thesis, hating everything the entire time. I was a smart girl, and I was not a quitter. I would earn those “M.A.” initials behind my name if it killed me!

And it nearly did.

My personal Coat of Arms during my Master's Program. (Actually, this is inside one of the chapels in Kutna Hora, Czech Republic.)

During the 17 months it took me to complete my coursework and write/defend a 105-page thesis on women’s experiences with various methods of contraception*, I transformed from a positive, life-loving young woman into a anxiety-ridden, majorly stressed-out basket case. I carried a gigantic burden of PAIN and SUFFERING with me the whole time, and every. little. thing brought me to ugly tears. I remember my dad phoning to wish me a happy birthday after my first year of grad studies and not knowing how to react when I responded to his cheeriness with high-decibel wails and frustrated sobs (probably about discursive theory or something equally rage-tastic).

I couldn’t help myself.

Me vs. Me

I developed a considerable case of first-time depression during my MA program, and I worried constantly about alienating my remaining friends and even worse: losing my still-new marriage to Marty. (Poor man had a rough go when his blushing bride morphed, almost overnight, into a screeching banshee!) I became hyper-vigilant and continually monitored my behaviours and thoughts, which only made me become more robotic and Not At All Fun To Be Around. I should have more fun. Why am I not having fun? I’m no fun to be around. Why would anybody want to be with somebody so un-fun? I will lose all the friendships I’ve ever had because I’m not fun. BEING NO FUN IS NO FUN AT ALL!!

I can’t pinpoint exactly what it was about Grad School that caused me to become such a horrible shadow of my former self. Was it the workload? Was it the forced classroom dialogues over issues I could care less about? (Foucault again? Really?) Was it the extremely rocky relationship I developed with my former supervisor? The subsequent fallout I had with my former supervisor? The fallout that effectively burned a gigantic bridge between us and precluded me from ever using her as a reference again, forever and ever amen?

In any case, once I became so stressed out and apoplectic about everything, I had a very difficult time recovering. Marty would try to take me hiking on the weekends so I could have a few hours of *not* thinking about my thesis. Of course, the entire time, my panoramic views of the Rocky Mountains would be obstructed with thoughts like “I should be working on my thesis. All of my classmates are probably working on their projects right now. I feel guilty for not working on my thesis.” I’m not even exaggerating the extent of my awfulness. Somebody else from the Legitimate Science Department could have undertaken a quantitative study on “The Degree of Dana’s Horribleness During Her M.A. Program”, and the objective, hard data results would have come back: 98th Percentile of Terrible.

After months and months of withering away into a toxic, shriveled-up crisp of a person, the day finally came for me to defend my thesis. I was the first in my cohort to bring my thesis up for defense, and boy oh boy, was I a wreck! (Aside: I was not the first in my cohort to use academic-sounding words like “cohort”. Not a chance! I just threw that in there to sound smart.) Anyway. I had developed a severe stutter the night before my defense, and as I tried to rehearse my opening speech beforehand, I had poor Marty’s ears panicking (and probably bleeding). C-c-c-critical f-f-f-em-in-in-ist dis-dis-dis-course. I kept telling myself: Three hours and then it’s over. Three hours and then I can have my life back. Three hours of PAIN and SUFFERING and then everything can go back to normal… if I pass. (For the record: failing my thesis would have been soul-crushing. It’s rare for students to fail a defense, unless they plow ahead with the exam against their supervisor’s better judgment. Me? I had tickets booked to Europe for June, so I needed everything done and behind me before I left. PASS OR DIE!!!)

For the record: a nice, long trip to Europe cures any/all school-related blues.

I had allowed my exam to be “open”, meaning that anybody could come and watch. Yes, anybody! (The alternative was keeping it “closed” but risking tougher questions from the panel, who wouldn’t have an audience to hold them accountable for their meanness.) I ended up with an audience of about 5 people– Marty included– plus my panel, which consisted of my supervisor, the Department Head of Qualitative Psychology, and the Department Head of Women’s Studies. Tough. As. Nails.

I managed to get through my opening speech without stuttering, which was a miracle in itself. Then all I remember is saying “discourse” and “discursive” about 8 billion times over the course of a few hours. It was a blur of discursiveness. Marty watched on politely the entire time, trying not to let his eyes glaze over with the residue of Academese. What a champ! The tough questions came to a close. My panel conferred in private. It was announced that I had passed. Just a few revisions needed to be completed on my thesis, but then my program would be over and I could officially have my life back.

WHEEEE!!! Let's go and BE GYPSIES for a few months!

It took me a long time to fully recover from grad school. The program had pulverized my soul and heart with dramatic, overzealous kicks and stomps, so the transition from She-Beast back to Ordinary Woman did not happen overnight. I still have a difficult time staying out of my head, so to speak. It’s natural for me to analyze and over-analyze everything, and as much as I detest debating for the sake of debating, occasionally I find myself making a gigantic deal over nothing, just because I can. (I’m always so ashamed to catch myself doing this!)

If you can believe it, I seriously considered pursuing a Ph.D. in Sociology soon after I finished my Master’s Degree. (Yeah, a Doctorate in Delusional, maybe…) It wasn’t because I wanted to do it, but because I felt I should. My supervisor, channeling a Greek chorus, told me that I belonged in the university and that I could never escape my destiny, and for a while I believed her. But then my paltry iota of Street Smarts finally (FINALLY!) kicked in. I didn’t want to be in school for another 5+ years, and then possibly for the rest of my life!!! I wanted to travel, to work at a ‘real job’, and to just plain old live for a little while. Screw the Ph.D.! I would dig a hole out of my so-called destiny and chart a new path!

My starring role in "The Shawshank Redemption". Just like Tim Robbins, but with a darker tan. And only one leg in this shot (??)

Looking back, I feel okay that I pursued my Master’s Degree. It still doesn’t feel like the *best* thing I could have done with those two years of my life– and I definitely wasn’t rendered any more intelligent or competent by real world standards because of it– but then again, what would have been the best thing to do during that time? Take up semi-professional karate? I take comfort now in believing that I am taken care of by the Universe, even if I don’t understand the bigger picture at any given point (or at all– let’s be honest here).  Part of me also secretly believes that an opportunity will present itself one day and will demand a Master’s Degree (in COMS, no less) as a pre-requisite. Then, won’t somebody be glad she went through hell and back to earn those silly initials behind her name…

Anyway. This was a really, really long way of saying Happy Five Years Of Being Out of Grad School to me! I’m happy to be sharing the more cheerful version of myself with all of you, but I’m certainly not above signing this particular post off with the initials that rendered me decidedly less cheerful than I am now:

Dana, B.A., M.A

Inadvertently looking smug. I am the Master of Smugness.

*Don’t ask me how this topic relates, in any way, to Communication Studies. My logic: People spoke to me about their experiences, and Speaking = Communicating, therefore I win COMS thesis writing!

Writing School Dropout

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

I saw a pamphlet for some continuing education courses in writing at a local college, and I thought to myself “Gee! My two degrees and six years taking Communications Studies in university notwithstanding, I sure could use some Official Training In Writing.” I am an aspiring writer and I’m also one of those people who seems to believe that a person can only be a Professional Anything if they can put some institutionally sanctioned letters behind their name (C.A., R.D., Ph.D, M.D, D.D.S., etc– it’s ridiculous, I know). Therefore, signing up for a writing class or two at this college felt like the right thing to do. At the time.

The first thing I learned when I showed up for my College Writing Course was that I have spent a grand total of zero hours taking myself– and my dreams to write– seriously. Sure, I have impressive ambitions to write a best-selling book at some point, and a great number of my waking hours currently are spent writing on this here blog, but I’ve never actually uttered the words “I am a writer” aloud before. Especially in the company of other, Capital-’W’ Writers. Can you believe it? It’s always been “I would like to be a writer”, or “I love to write [casually? as a hobby? to occupy my time? just for fun?]“. I’ve never granted my love of writing the weight of professionalism or Viable Career Path Credibility when I speak about it in public.

On a related note, I might not be completely right in the head.

Everyone else in my class seemed to be comfortable calling themselves professional writers, even if (in my humble, though occasionally ultra-judgmental opinion), they were clearly NOT PROFESSIONAL WRITERS AT ALL. (Journal writing doesn’t count, people! Unless you are Anne Frank and your diary has been read by millions.) This was an eye-opening experience for me, to say the least. It made me wonder: What is it going to take for me to be a writer? When will I give up becoming a writer and just be one already? Will x amount of Continuing Ed courses get me there? Do I need to have a few Creative Writing credits under my belt? Or should I just print out some business cards and call it a day?

“Dana L., B.A., M.A.: Writer”

Anyway. The course itself was all about writing cohesive narratives using historical fragments (archival materials, objects, snippets of conversation, etc.) as a starting foundation. Like the book-smart, non-streetwise person that I am, I packed some looseleaf paper and a pen for the class and expected to take notes for a couple of hours. I was going to learn how to write narratives really well. After all, I am the best student, listener, and note-taker ever! (I’m just not a Real Writer, apparently.) Instead, the instructor spent a good half of the class talking about us, his students, and asking us to describe for him the historical writing projects we were currently undertaking.

Um.

Imagine how foolish I felt when everybody else in the class started speaking at great lengths about their intricate chapters on locomotive history in British Columbia, their enthralling recollections of the Fraser Valley floods, their gripping wartime memoirs, and their legacy family history projects. They were passionate, they were professional(ish), and they were clearly ready for this class. I, on the other hand, was one of only two participants in the room who were forced to confess, rather sheepishly, that I didn’t quite have a project on to go just yet. (My blog would have come up in this particular context over my cold, dead body. Totally not the right crowd for it.) Yes, I have ideas and plans and dreams and beginnings, but I am nowhere near as far along on any writing project as my classmates were on theirs. I fail Writing School!

To make matters worse, we were assigned a homework project that was to be completed at some point during my grueling trip to Calgary. Pain. And. Suffering. The homework assignment was to send a synopsis of our Genius Writing Project to the rest of our classmates, and then provide constructive comments for everybody else’s projects. Kumbaya! What should we do if we didn’t have a project in the works? Make one up. Obviously.

Sigh.

For my homework assignment, I sent some rough, preliminary paragraphs to my classmates about a project I really would like to work on at some point in the future (you know, when I’m finally willing to take that leap and commit myself to being an Honest-to-God WRITER): a sweeping diatribe on Marty’s artwork. It was not a masterpiece collection of paragraphs, by any means, and I knew that a lot of my initial points would require further elaboration when class resumed the following week.

But I never made it to the next– and final– class. Nope. I was stuck en route back from Calgary, stymied by some avalanches, an epic bus ride, a decided lack of sleep, and I’ll admit it: a bad attitude to boot.

My classmates and instructor ended up discussing my project in my absence (probably so I couldn’t demand a refund for not showing up to class.) My instructor e-mailed their collective comments to me tonight, and I have to say: I’m pretty disappointed with them. My paragraphs were rather off-the-cuff and spontaneous to begin with, so I knew there could be lots of room for misinterpretation. And boy, was there ever misinterpretation. My “constructive comments” ranged from “This project will not work”, to “Choose something different”, to “She has real issues she needs to work through with her husband before this project will go anywhere.” I’m paraphrasing a tad, but this is for real. Thanks, classmates!

So now I’m not sure exactly what I feel right now. Upset, in a sense: I can’t use any of these comments to move forward. Afraid: Maybe this project isn’t worth moving forward on at all? Defiant, in another sense: I’ll show you the best damn writing project YOU’VE EVER ENCOUNTERED!!! You will fall over from the sheer force of its narrative genius!!! I feel guarded and cautious and reluctant to get into any more details, at least with my classmates. They don’t understand. That much is clear. I needed to be there to elaborate and clarify my preliminary paragraphs.

If anything, though, I guess I can take some food for thought out of this class: What, exactly, is ‘good enough’ to be considered ‘good enough’ when it comes to writing and being a professional writer? When will I pony up and start acknowledging myself as a writer? (To your face, not just through your computer screen?) Do any of you find yourselves talking about ‘becoming’ something without ever letting yourselves ‘be’ that something? Or am I the only one?