Soviet Slim Down: An Introduction

Weight, it’s something we don’t openly talk about how we struggle with it, in most of the world. After spending a year in Georgia, my views on food, fitness, and health were changed. We, fellow teachers, talked about it a lot, almost as much as our bathroom issues. I adopted an “I don’t give a shit about what you think,” attitude. I started doing things my way and on a budget. This is an introduction to my Soviet Slim Down that I started in Georgia and am now carrying on during my vacation in Ukraine and will conical from here on out.

It started off as a joke. I was sitting in a Georgian restaurant in February 2012 with a newly formed friend, enjoying our snow day of freedom from our students, laughing about how my host parents put me on a scale a few days earlier, shocked that I weighed a whopping 107kg (236lbs). He said that they had to use the industrial scale, that they used for making Cha Cha, because I would have broken a normal one. I had known this guy for all of three weeks, barley spoken to him, but here we sat, making fun of my predicament and eating habits. For some reason I was ok with him making fun of me, anyone else I would have burst into tears and told them to fuck off. Maybe it was because we were in Georgia and had to laugh at our lives or we would have lost our minds or maybe it was because I knew in my heart that early on in our friendship that he cared and this was his way of showing it. 

I’ve always been fat, not chubby, plump, slightly overweight, or any other nicety phrase you want to throw at me. Something clicked, hard, in Georgia during my time there. I would sit in the teachers room, watching my co-workers, not so much older than me take each others blood pressure, talk about medications for controllable health conditions that were the product of unhealthy eating, and sip coffee that was mostly sugar, thinking that something had to change. It was like a PSA for what you didn’t want your health to end up as that just played over and over. One day I drew a food pyramid on the chalk board and they all started laughing at me, the silly America who thought she was teaching them something they didn’t know. They knew alright, but didn’t care, just like millions of people in America alone. I continued to bitch for a few months about how this country was making me fat, until my outspoken friend told me to shut up and stop blaming my wealthy host family with their sweets and fried chicken and take some control and loose weight. If I couldn’t do it in a country like Georgia, where every kind of produce was coming into season, that cost next to nothing, and I only worked 15 hours a week, was I really expecting that I could do it in America? Because my friend, who I love dearly, is an asshole and I am stubborn, we formed a bet. I had to loose a kilo a week or he got my prized food bag, normally a Kit-Kat, pear soda and some other horrible food, that I would eat on my journey back to my village every weekend from Tbilisi. I didn’t care if I would have to give him this food, because it didn’t matter I could have bought it in my village anyways, I wanted to win and shove it in his face.

Me on my way home to my village with a kit-kat in one hand and a pear soda in the other (Georgia March 2012)

I explained to my host family that money was on the line for me to get skinny. They laid off force feeding me, my well meaning host mother even tried to get me up at 7am to do ‘sport’ with my host brother, and my family would come running when they would hear me dragging the scale out to monitor their American daughter’s progress. Everyone in the village knew what was going on, everyone. My weight was no longer a secret. People openly commented on my figure like I was a livestock animal they were getting ready for the fair. My friend regaled our friends at dinner in the city with my struggles, making them guess my weight. No one could believe that I was above 100kg (220lbs). The odd thing was that after a while I didn’t care that people knew what my weight was. It was a fact of life that I was fat. No matter what I wear it does not hide the fact that I am not a size 2. 

The talks with my weight out in the open, not backstabbing whispers, were more productive then the years I spent as an adolescent in Weight Watchers or trying some quick weight loss diet, which clearly didn’t work in the long run. After that spring, when I went back into western culture I put on weight again, and fast. After getting down to around 100kg (220lbs) I was back up to around the 107kg (236lbs) that I had started at. it was a mix of traveling a lot, eating food that I hadn’t eating in while (years in the case of Denmark), drinking, and generally not caring until it had caught up with me yet again. 

When I got back to the States that summer I had to buy new pants and I squeezed myself into a pair of size 16 jeans that had no right to be stretched that far and have me say that they “fit.” Six weeks later when I went home to Georgia I couldn’t even get them on.

Arriving in Georgia, I was going to be living on my own, in an apartment, for an extended period of time for the first time in my life. After paying my rent I only had about $135 to last me the month on food. I quickly discovered that almost all western brands of prepackaged food wasn’t an option and local produce was cheap. I gave up on any meat I would have to cook at home and almost all forms of dairy, to avoid explosive bathroom issues that semester. I couldn’t eat out of boredom anymore, because it wasn’t in the budget, but I never went hungry. I drank water, flavored with minimal amounts of my valuable Chrystal Light, to add variety, gone were the sugary drinks, again not in the budget. 

I got myself weighed on the street by old women, and their scales who would question if 103kg (227lbs) was really something to be proud about. I had women at a bazaar flat out tell me that they didn’t have pants big enough for me. The friend that I was with, another American, asked if I was ok emotionally after having all of them basically tell me that I was too fat. I said I was use to it. They didn’t need to be any less honest. I knew that I was the one who had to change, not them. I was the one who was screwing with my health, being stupid, and staying depressed because I had decided to eat a whole cake, not just a piece.

Every visit back home to my Georgian village to see my family that fall, I was greeted by them telling me that I was still getting skinny slowly, but surly. They had faith that their America could do it, even if they couldn’t. My host mum set my goal weight at 85kg (187.3lbs). She had no past background history on me, she hadn’t seen the struggles. She was blissfully unaware and thought that I had never thought about loosing weight before. There was something refreshing about this and her blind faith that I could do this. When I came back from a summer away, she blamed my weight gain on America.

When I left Georgia, I got myself weighed on the street by an old woman for the last time in December and I was back down to 100kg (220lbs) after an extremely inactive semester. When I landed back in the States food was over processed and I felt like a freak for complaining. I struggled with eating what my family ate and what I ate. Not a lot was matching up. My mother started calling me her vegan daughter, I still didn’t trust meat and dairy for the fear of toilet explosions. I again had to battle against that American stereotypes of weight and how it was talked about. A few weeks ago my boss spoke with me, right before I felt for Ukraine that when I got back from Georgia I was the “tiny,” the smallest he had ever seen me and then again I put a little back on, but slowly it was coming off again. He spoke honestly about my plans and goals, nothing was hushed. I talked numbers. I don’t know where I want to end up, because I can’t remember the last time I was ever this skinny. Yesterday I got myself weighed on the streets of Lviv by an old woman and I was at 90kg (198.5lbs). I got off the scale and went on my way to the market to buy some more produce and didn’t think much of it until this morning. My license that I have had since I was 18, that says 200lbs (90.7kg) is no longer a lie and for the first time has even come close to being true. I don’t want a medal or a party. I just want to keep going on with my journey, slowly chipping away enjoying throwing out old clothes, because they are too big. Most of all I can’t wait to see my friend from Georgia further down the road, healthier, and being able to say, “I told you I could do it, you ass!”

Breakdown of the numbers:

Fall 2009: 

February 2012: 107kg (236lbs)

June 2012: 100kg (220lbs)

August 2012: 108kg (238lbs)

December 2012: 100kg (220lbs)

May 2012: 90kg (198.5lbs)

February 2012: Barley squeezing into a size 18 in Gap

May 2012: Comfortably a size 14 in Gap 

Break down in photos:

January 2012 (Georgia)

June 2012 (Armenia)

November 2012 (Ukraine)

May 2013 (Ukraine)

One Year...

A year. That is how long I have called Georgia home, and in a week it will all be over. One part of my life, that is so uniquely mine and forever will be mine. Bits and pieces will be told, but the whole story will never be heard by one person, and it’s not intended to. 

None of this would have ever been possible without my family, my Georgian family, Tamariani, and all my friend scattered around the world, esp. those who took me in, fed, and entertained me. Without all of you I would forever be the child sitting alone, in a corner with a balloon tied to her wrist. 

Ok, so maybe I was that child the other weekend...

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for helping me have the most amazing year of my life, even if I just met you for a brief moment. I have nothing but radiating love for all of you!

Emily 

New Years Eve (Lviv, Ukraine)

Christmas (Lviv, Ukraine)

My first Georgian dance (Mid- January 2012 Tamariani, Georgia)

My first Georgian drinking horn (Early February 2012, Lagodekhi, Georgia)

My host dad's birthday supra with Simon, my Georgian husband, if I would only say yes. (March 7th, 2012 Tamariani Georgia)

Azerbaijan Border with J. (Late March 2012 Lagodekhi, Georgia)

Armenia (mid-June 2012)

Volunteering as Roskilde Music Festival (Roskilde Denmark, Late June/ early July 2012)

Mumford and Sons with my sister cousin (August 4, 2012, Portland, Maine)

Sam thought it would be funny to get me wasted on my birthday. Enjoy this picture Sam. (September 28th, 2012 Tbilisi, Georgia)

Davit Gareja Monastary (Early October 2012, Georgia)

Thanksgiving 2012 (Lviv, Ukraine)

Born In The U.S.A.!

Being an American living abroad on an anniversary of September 11th is an odd experience and perhaps has given me a broader perspective of the events. It’s a day that to sound totally cliche, but every American remembers exactly where they were and what they were doing. 

I am no exception. I was 12 years old and our grade was spilt into our respected two groups that had all of our meetings together. The morning had a strange feel to it as kids were randomly getting pulled out of school, so we knew that something was going on. A little before noon they put us in to the two 7th grade science classes and told us what had happened. I didn’t even know what the Twin Towers were before this, but I knew it was bad. The one question I had that day was, why?

This morning in Tbilisi I woke up to my alarm going off on my iPod to and the date came up. September 11, 2012. This feeling of just wanting to be alone came over me and in America where it’s “safe.” It is a day that I don’t like to talk about, mostly because I think if I had to pin point where my childhood might have ended this day would be as close as I could get. When I was getting ready to go to a meeting I tried deciding on to wear I was going to go with my red cowboy boots, navy cardigan and light grey dress (I try not to own white clothes. I destroy them) to show support for America.  

I read an article the other day about how Americans often lie when they are traveling about where they are from out of fear and how we need to reclaim pride of our nation. So when I was on the metro coming home this evening Bruce Springsteen’s “Born In The U.S.A.” came on and I rocked out to it mouthing the words and dancing a little. I didn’t care who starred at me, if there was one day to say “I am an American and  proud of it” today was the day. Maybe signing the Star Spangled Banner would have been more appropriate, but this is me and I will reclaim my Americanness in anyway I see fit.

Also the events of that day have made me push my boundaries. Horrible over generalizations were made because of it, like “all Muslims are terrorists,” “the world hates America,” and so on.  My parents taught me to think for myself and I started to question this almost right away, unfortunately, maybe, for them this had fueled my desire to travel. When I first started traveling solo I was careful for a little bit to “hide” my Americanness, lying and telling people I was from Canada. Now I’m completely open and honest because I have never gotten a negative response from anyone, beside maybe someone from England or Australia. Generally I find most people, especially in Eastern Europe where I’ve traveled the most lately, to be curious, over welcoming, and wanting to know everything. I also am compelled to visit countries that people generally cross off their travel lists because of miss conceptions. Being surrounded by two Muslim countries and Muslim territories in Russia may put some people on edge. When I walk by a Mosque I look at it with curiosity and wonder about the unknown of them to me, but I never see a training ground for killing or hate.

One of my roommates this semester is from Iran and without a doubt is one of the most interesting people I have ever met. I sit like a child listening to him talk about his travels around the world and most of all about Iran. It is such a misinformed subject in America and people tend to write it off as every citizen from there hates us. For the most part they don’t hate us, just our governments don’t like each other to put it simply. It is not as restrictive and primitive as the media makes it out to be. There is Facebook, sex out of wedlock, drinking alcohol, free thinking, consumerism, and more similarities then differences between the people of the two nations. 

This isn’t a day for hate, but remembrance and understanding, because without exposure to experiences and ideas we will never know what we are missing. Not so long ago people were not so fond of the Irish and Italians, but without them there would be no Guinness or any Italian food that most of us love. I just want to ask one thing of you on this day of remembrance, go and talk to someone from a different culture that you normally never would. It doesn’t have to a conversation filled with politics, just things you would talk to a friend about. You’ll probably be surprised. If you aren’t motivated by what I’ve said, think about me in Georgia and how when I first got here I knew no one.It always makes things a little bit easier when a Georgia wants to know more about my culture and share some of theres with me. There are probably thousands of Emilys out there right now who are away from their friends and families and that one person could make all the difference and change their perspective.

 

And Bruce Springsteen for your listening pleasure.

Because This Problem Is Going To Last More Than The Weekend: Part Three

Last Sunday morning (May 13th) I woke up around 7:30am and looked out the window to blue sky and I thought about the night before when I was sure Tbilisi was going to explode. I got on my laptop and spent some time downloading movies, music, and random TV shows that I will probably never get to watching or listening to, but the thought of having over 250GB of entertainment comforts me. I dealt with some of my friends back home and their drunk Saturday night issues that made me wish that I could be there with them, but I’m half a world away and it’s going to be like this for quite some time. 

I started to feel a little sad over this and the fact that I was missing Mother’s Day, again. Last year my mother had been mad at me over buying a last minuet ticket to go to Ukraine to see a guy that I missed. My grandfather gave me his blessing so I won that fight and proved my point, but I still felt like shit that she was fuming at me. The year before that I spent working all day at Gap then Bath and Body Works, which spurred me to quit the latter of the jobs. (What store that is dedicated to women makes their employees work after store hours to move bottles of lotion from one tower to another?) I know I was just missing another brunch were, ok food was being served, but being away from Maine for so long now has put in perspective just how important spending time with family is. I was also still a little upset about a stupid fight I had, had the night before.

I sat in my bed for the whole morning, trying to save the world back in Maine and write a Mother’s Day blog for Mama Otter. I got a text a little after noon, from the moron Jamie, saying that him and George were heading to one of the main streets in Tbilisi. I read it and threw my phone on to my bed and stayed there typing away, not wanting to be near him. I eventually took a shower and packed all my stuff up as the internet at the hostel was acting up and not wanting to upload my pictures and set off in the direction that the guys were. 

I got another text asking were the hell I was, as when both of us are in Tbilisi on Sunday mornings we have brunch together and then take the marshookah back to our villages together. I told him that I was on my way. I stopped in my favorite cafe to get a large coffee to go (It tastes like American coffee) and took it to the cafe where they were eating. When I walked in Jamie verbally assaulted me for having a drink from another establishment with me. I just looked at him and said “It’s Georgia, no one gives a fuck.” George just sat on his MacBook doing what ever he was doing, and sided with me that no one probably cared. (No one does. I sat at a bar last night drink vodka from a bottle that I had bought and chasing it with my juice from my “Adult” juice box. It’s half a liter, that’s what makes it adult.)

In this cafe you can see into the kitchen where they are making pastries and I spotted their massive meringues that they have. I declared that I was going to get one in honor of Mother’s Day, because Mama Otter loves them and ran as fast as I could to order. I came back to the table with it and started to giggle at it’s sheer size and being over caffeinated. Jamie looked at me in horror as I started to eat and said, “Well there goes your diet!” (I bet him that I can loose a kilo a week for my last six weeks here to shut him up for always making fun of me for being fat.) He kept going on and on about all the sugar in it and how I was basically asking for diabetes at that point. We had a fight over how bad it was and I googled it and declared myself the winner, on what I’m not really sure. I started to feel really sick about a third of the way through and had to put it away and started cursing getting it. Mama Otter would not want me to feel this ill for her, but then again she may have laughed over this and found it funny.

"Oh haha, so funny! Look at this massive meringue!"

"OM NOM NOM!" 

"I am going to vomit everywhere!"

We finished up at the cafe and walked George to catch the metro, so he could get his marshookah home. Jamie and I walked to a market to get some food for him and water to wash the sugar out of my mouth. I wasn’t my usual self, joking with him and making fun of everything in sight. I was too nackered and I felt the odd rage coming back again. He confronted me about it and I tried to brush it off and just said that I was tired and didn’t feel well after that stupid Mother’s Day meringue, which was also true, just not the real issue. We were mostly silent on the way to get our marshookah and stayed quite for the first bit of the ride, until I started in again about my friends back home and being sent texts and Facebook messages, asking me to come back to Maine and stay there. Jamie just turned and looked at me and said, “Oh waaaaa! People miss you and want you to come back home. That is just so horrible!” He turned away and looked out the window, leaving me there to think for a moment and wanting to ask wasn’t it the same for him, but I knew the answer. It donned on me that not everyone came to Georgia, for the same reasons as me. Some people left where they were from, because they had nothing left there and when they leave here, some won’t go back to families that missed them, friends that missed drinking with them, or jobs that missed them showing up not matter how hung over they were. I get to go back to all three, whenever I decide that I’ve had enough and want to call Maine my place of residence again. 

I put my headphones in and listened to Emily and The Woods “Steal His Heart” (music video included for your listening pleasure).

The landscape passed by me in a blur, the marshookah driver seemed to be doing his best to go the fastest he could, which I wasn’t too comfortable with as there had been torrential rains the night before and there had been flooding and roads partially washed out. I did not want to die. I just sat listening to my “girl” music and thinking. I thought about the advice that I had given Jamie earlier in the week, about us all only having five more weeks together until school ends and then we go our separate ways and trying to make the most of it, and enjoy what little time we have left, because even for those of us who come back in the autumn it won’t be the same.

I remember taking my headphones out and looking up and smiling at him. He asked what I was smiling at. I don’t blame him, I usually am up to something, and I told him nothing. It was a quite marshookah ride home that day, no one told us to shut up like they normally do. He read his book and I listened to my music. I caught myself smiling in his direction a few times. I couldn’t be mad at him, just because it felt right to be for some odd reason. I didn’t know how many more rides I would have with him. Saturday morning ones, where he has always saved a seat for me when I get picked up in my village, spent eating peanut M&Ms and Bounty bars and talking and laughing endlessly about our weeks until we get to Tbilisi. Sunday afternoon ones where we are much more silent, tired from Saturday night spent out, dreading the week we will have to spend in our villages, and for me a little bit of dread that I have to say goodbye again.

When the marshookah stopped to let me off this weekend I let go of any pointless, meaningless anger that I felt towards him and gave him our usual hug goodbye. I got my bag from the back and walked a little bit and then turned around and saw him giving me a goofy wave and I couldn’t help but smile and be sad at the same time. I only have four or so weekends left of rides with him, if we go into Tbilisi every weekend until then.

Monday night, I took my nightly shower, just standing under the hot water going over what I was going to put in my blog and it hit me, I’m mad at my friend because I don’t want him to go home at the end of June. I don’t want this period of time to come to a close. I’ve already thought about the autumn and how I am going to feel about being able to look and see his town in the distance from mine and if it will sting a little like it does now, out of knowing soon he won’t be there. I think about the new volunteer who will be placed there, if someone is placed there again, and if I will silently hold it against, whoever they are, that they are not him. Trying to push him away with my rage, hoping that it will make the final goodbye not as hard, if he’s mad at me for being mad at him. It’s not working like that, though, he hasn’t stopped caring yet and it’s too hard to stay like this, now fully aware that I am using my old defense tactic of pushing people away by hurting them before they hurt me, especially when all I want is him to give me a hug and tell me that I will be ok, life won’t end in June when school does. I’ll still have him and all my moron friends, they just won’t be as close anymore. It’s not a new concept for me.

One last song for your listening pleasure: 

However Far Away, I Will Always Love You

I can't spend this mother's day with my mom because I am away in Georgia, still, and I can't buy her something like dirt this year, she gardens, but I still wanted her to know how much I love her, so I came up with 17 reasons and I also wanted to share some of my best moments from the past year

My mom and I. (Yes she is wearing an eyepatch. We were at an eye patch party!)

1. She is completely honest with me a lot of the time, if I can deal with her criticism I can take anything. “You are going to work dressed like that?!” “Why the hell did you that to your hair?” “
2. She supports my leisurely approach to finishing higher education, she knows I will get there, I just have to do it my way.
3. Everyday I thank her for “cutting me off” at a young age and making me pay for everything I wanted to buy so I learned not to depend on someone else, which in turn made me a hard responsible worker... Most of the time.
4. She is really cuddly.
5. I’m happy she never let me have a pet lived a long time (I got fish) so it’s one less thing to miss when I travel, she did however get my a little brother, I guess that’s like a dog.
6. Teaching me how to cook. I am so happy that I am not one of those kitchen spazes. Also on the same note I love all of her delicious cooking experiments, except the fish ones.
7. Having amazing confidence and not caring what people think if it means embarrassing one of her children or making someone laugh. Like when Ben & Jerry’s came out with the flavor “Schweddy Balls” and she went around to at least one grocery store a day for a week asking loudly “ DO YOU HAVE ANY SCHWEDDY BALLS?” 
8. Teaching me that family is one of the most important things in the world, not matter how dysfunctional.
9. Reading with me when I was little from books with strong females, people from different cultures and with good morels that allowed my imagination to explode and me to dream.
10. Being there for me when a “stupid boy” was mean to me.
11. Even living half way around the world I can count on her to always be there for me for everything from asking if she watched last nights Glee, shipping me random things, or calling her in a panic because I am afraid that I am making homemade macaroni and cheese for my roommate wrong.
12. Letting me have the friends I want to and always welcoming them at house, but scarring the crap out of them at times, so they won’t stay forever.
13. Packing anti-diarrhea pills, even though I thought it was really stupid. I thank her silently every time I have to use them. I live in Georgia, you are going to need them.
14. She loves Adele as much as me, making road trips much more successful without me having to sit with my headphone jammed in my ears and my hoodie pulled up trying to block out her music.
15. Letting me be my own person and make my own way in the world, even when I am sure she questions if I even have a “plan.” Although I sometimes wish she hadn’t let me be my own person when it came to spelling.
16. Making me understand from a young age that other people have feelings and that it is unacceptable to bully or belittle them for any reason.
17. Supporting me in all my travels, even if she doesn’t agree with some of the places I go, because in the end it makes me happy and able to grow in ways that we both could have never imagined. In the past year I have spent half of it away from her in, in Georgia, Ukraine, Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, and a night in London, traveled countless hours on planes, trains, and buses accomplishing things I don’t think she could have even dreamed of when I was born. It is a massive credit to her parenting (and my father’s) that I am, where I am today. Without her I wouldn’t have a best friend and a constant source of support. I know that whenever I do end up back in Maine she will be there to welcome me with a hug, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, and a hot bath to wash off all my travel grime. You can say that you have the best mom in the world, but I don’t believe you, not one bit, because she is mine and you can’t have her. I love you mom!

Eating Georgiana nutritious meal in the main square in Lviv (May 2011)

Saying goodbyes at the train station in Lviv after volunteering at a film festival. (May 2011)

My adopted Ukrainian grandfather I met on a train that wanted to take Chad and I to his village for a fishing weekend. (May 2011)

I got to see London (End of May 2011)

Who is this pretty lady? I think it's her birthday! (June 2011)

Yea I'm pretty badass taking my little brother out to dinner (July 2011)

He's a badass in training. (July 2011)

Lunch at Benny's (September 2011)

Christmas wasn't quite the same without you, but we made it work (December 2011)

Maybe it was a good thing I didn't spend New Year's Eve with you because I am sure you would have out partied me. (2011-2012)

Ukrainian Christmas (January 2012)

Me doing my first Georgian Dancing (January 2012)

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Me getting excepted by the locals (February 2012)

My kids being silly after school (February 2012)

My host mother (right) and neighboug making Georgian food, I helped! (March 2012)

Me with new glasses (March 2012)

My host dad with Saba, the neighbor baby (March 2012)

Me at my host dad's birthday supra with Simon, on of my village friends (March 2012)

Me in a marshookah on my way from Tbilisi to the village (March 2012)

Me by the border of Azerbaijan (March 2012)

Enjoying a nice sunny day in Lagodekhi, drinking soda. (April 2012)

Me in Tbilisi by an advertisement for Gap (April 2012)