Tuesday 22 February 2011

Parents Just Don't Understand

My dad likes to get credit for everything good he does, no matter how small. When he brought a friend in England some sugar-free jello—and she thanked him for it—he kept on asking about it.

“Did she say anything about the jello?” he asked a few days later.

“No, Dad,” I answered. “I’m sure she’s enjoying it, though.”

A few days after that he asked the same question again.

I got weary of it, the same way I occasionally get weary of his revisionist history. (“I think you’ll remember I was a huge supporter of your studying abroad in England,” he said as we wandered around Budapest several years ago. In fact he hated the idea, thought it was ludicrously expensive, refused to pay for it, and only agreed because my mother put up a huge fight on my behalf.)

“Um, she asked for that jello because she knows she likes it, and she thanked you for it,” I said. “I’m not sure what else there is to say.”

But for some reason on Saturday I felt like being nice and so decided to let him know how much I was appreciating the toaster oven he brought me from his basement.

“I was somewhat doubtful I’d use the oven part of the toaster, but it does a pretty bang-up job on frozen pizza! Thanks!” I texted him.

He responded: “Not the best thing for you to be eating, but OK. You’re welcome.”

This filled me with about four kinds of rage. My father may be a medical doctor, but like many men, he is wholly unaware of basic concepts of calories, fat, etc and his own eating is no healthy paragon. Also, um, I’m 35 years old and he’s telling me what to eat? Never mind that I’ve also lost some 90 pounds successfully and he thinks I need him to tell me what to eat? And let’s add in that I wrote an entire book on food, bingeing, weight loss and generally my own f**ked up relationship with all of it and still he thinks it’s acceptable to make comments?

Also, for the record, it was an individual Amy’s Organic low sodium spinach pizza, with about 12 ingredients, all of them pronounceable. 450 calories for the whole thing.

I stewed about the comment all afternoon. I tried to decide whether to let it slide because he’s Dad, then decided that I was tired of letting everything slide because he’s Dad.

“Dad, I’m sure you didn’t mean for it to hurt me, but I was really upset by your comment about my pizza,” I said. “I have enough problems with food without feeling like you’re judging what I eat, and I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t comment.”
“I think you’re being a little bit sensitive,” he said in this patronizing tone.

“I have an eating disorder,” I said. “That’s the definition of sensitive. I’m just asking that you please not comment on my food.”

“It’s just not the best thing for us to be eating,” he repeated.

“Dad!” I snapped, on the verge of tears. “You don’t know anything about it. It’s a 450-calorie single-serving organic pizza. And I just asked you not to comment.”

The conversation did not improve from there. So this is what I get for (a) trying to be nice, and (b) trying to behave like an adult? Makes my previous ways of coping (copious amounts of cake, preferably with buttercream icing) certainly seem appealing…

Speaking of which, 44 days clean!

***

I called today to disconnect the phone at my grandmother’s apartment—a number she’s had for more than 30 years. It’s the most familiar number in the world to me. I never used to program it into my mobile because I always enjoyed dialing it.

I choked up cancelling the service.

“Sorry,” I said to the guy on the other end of the line. By way of explanation, I told him it was my grandmother’s number and that she’d died.

He was clearly reading from some script or just flat out didn’t care.

He answered: “If AT&T customer service calls you, tell them you’re ‘very satisfied’ with the service.”

***

As I mentioned, I’ve very quietly started blogging on my employer’s website -- there will be a splashier launch of it in a few weeks. The blog is called Diet Like Me, and to be honest, I’m not delighted with the editing process for it. But we shall see. Anyway, the link is here—please do check it out and feel free to pass on!

4 comments:

  1. I've had to ask my dad repeatedly not to talk about my weight when I am in the room or to critique my eating/workout habits. Every single time it's like I'm asking him to cut off his right leg. It's absurd. I can't figure it out.

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  2. My dad and I have a long history of him saying things about my weight or food choices that he thinks are helpful but really they are just hurtful... when I started losing weight and getting fit, we were able to have a lot of honest conversations and he doesn't do that anymore. That is a relief. HOwever, I am disappointed that your dad couldn't have the kind of conversation you wanted to have -- I'm sure he wasn't trying to hurt you, but I wish he could have HEARD you when you told him what you (don't) need...

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  3. My mom is the one who has commented on my weight over the years, for the most part. A few years ago, I lost it. I told her that her comments didn't help, but in fact made me want to eat more. I said that I would no longer tolerate any comments, whatsoever, and that if she did, I would make myself and my children scarce; that finally did the trick. Drastic? Yes. Relationship saving? Also, yes. If she had continued, I would have stopped talking to her, I was that upset. All that to say, I totally get it. I hope your dad realizes the harm he's doing to you and your relationship with him.

    44 days clean! YAY!!!!!!

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  4. ARRGGGHHHHH! YES, I LIKED THE JELLO! Would he like it in writing? Blood maybe?

    I think your dad just has your share of skin - he's very thick skinned I think and has that male obliviousness in quarts.

    Blood is SO not thicker than water. Or not thicker than West End cocktails anyway.

    Px

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