Tag: diet
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Running Nowhere Slowly
My town’s annual 5K was last week. I started at the back of the pack. This was strategic. I prefer to pass slower runners than be overtaken by quicker ones. It’s a mental thing. So I lined up between a grandma in jogging culottes and a teenager drinking a smoothie. Granny, I wasn’t so sure about, but I figured I could outpace Jamba Juice.
The race started with the usual cheers and hoopla, and adrenaline carried me the first half-mile. As weariness set in, humiliation quickly followed. Had I really become the kind of grown-up who could not run a 5K? I shrugged off the doubt and picked human pace cars to keep me moving. For a while, I followed a guy with a dragon tattoo on his calf. I fantasized that this was ninja training and he was my sensei. But Ralph Macchio slowed to answer his cell phone, and as I passed him, I noticed the dragon was actually a hefty mermaid.
Next, I set my sights on a woman with the most beautiful butt I had ever seen — round, strong, jiggle-free. As I matched her pace, I believed that with every stride my own backside was firming up. When she and her running companion slowed to walk, I realized she was about eleven, and running with her dad.
But mostly, I was passed. Passed by a woman dressed as Minnie Mouse. Passed by a gentleman in a grape soda costume. Passed by a three-year-old pushing her own stroller.
Part of the problem was my soundtrack. At the start of the race, I clicked on an old playlist titled “Exercise” that should have done the trick. Def Leppard kicked things off. I flashed back to high school and channeled my younger, more athletic self. But as I started to fade, so did the playlist. Eminem gave way to the title song from a Barbie movie, Billy Joel’s “Piano Man,” and excerpts from The Sound of Music. Julie Andrews can do no wrong, except when it comes to motivating a tired person to run. I tried to click away from “Do-Re-Mi,” but my fingers were too sweaty.
I used to be a runner, before the kids. I started jogging in college as an attempt to curb the Freshman 15, then kept it up because I loved the way running made me feel. Since the children, it has been harder. Harder to train. Harder to enjoy. Harder to fall into any sort of rhythm. I do other things, but I miss the way I used to slip on my shoes and lope out the door.
The last time I ran a 5K was two children ago. I ran it with my Dad on the 4th of July. That time, I was the pace car for him. But, of course, I had trained, gone out a couple times, practiced the course. Why hadn’t I prepared better for this?
I lurched past a port-o-potty and briefly considered hiding in it. If it had seemed better ventilated, I surely would have. But a woman entered as I got closer, so I kept moving.
At the beginning of the first big hill, I gave up and walked, chiding myself with every step. Why had I just quit? Isn’t that always the way with me? Why do I stop things just when they are getting hard? As I caught my breath, I got even angrier at myself. Why does it matter? You are here. Just do your best. Jogging was easier than listening to arguments in my head, so I picked up the pace again and let gravity send me down the next hill.
One of the things I have always loved about running is how you can settle into its discomfort. The second and third miles were not as tough as the beginning. I found my working breath. It did not sound pretty, but luckily, nobody was running with me, and if I cranked up “The Lonely Goatherd” loud enough, I did not have to listen to my gasping either.
Other folks seemed to have goals that involved time and pacing. I’d like to run 8-minute miles. I want to finish in under 30 minutes. I had fuzzier objectives. They were more about personal dignity than physical achievement. And I dumbed them down as the race progressed.
Just don’t walk.
Just don’t walk too much.
Just be sure to run when you cross the finish line.
Just don’t be last.
Just don’t be last by too much.
By the time I approached the finish line, Billy Joel and I were in a bit of delirium. As I crossed, I fought the temptation to look behind me. I felt fairly certain I was not the only straggler. But I realized that was not the point. I felt lucky. Lucky to have the use of my legs, the health of my lungs, the gift of my mind to swirl with nonsense as I trotted the streets of my town. I stopped thinking about how many people had passed me, and instead gave thanks. Then, I slumped on the grass and drank a smoothie.
I know plenty of friends who have given up. This is the way I will always look. This is the way I will always feel. Parenting, aging, a lot of things can do that to you. But it does not have to be true. I saw folks along this course, ages two to eighty-two. But he is younger. She was in better shape. Hogwash. The only person I raced today was me. And though I very nearly lost, Julie Andrews carried me through. Just start at the very beginning…a very good place to start….
So my husband and I have begun another diet.
We lost weight years ago with Atkins, and then again with the South Beach craze. We slimmed down with Dr. Oz, a Hollywood juice cleanse, and even that bizarre Suzanne Somers thing back in ’09. But recently our efforts have been less successful. We both gained weight on a metabolism diet, got totally sick of our raw food plan, and had to ditch Paleo because cavemen discriminate against waffles, cookies, and cake.
I had all but decided to live out my days just a little bit huskier than the average girl. I mean, I am confident and funny. Do I really need to be skinny, too?
“I love you no matter how you look,” my husband says. For years, I have taken this as a compliment.
But last week I couldn’t button a pair of Mom jeans, so I fished out the scale from under the bed.
I weighed 190 pounds.
Yup, 190.
I’m 5’4”. The only time I have ever seen that particular configuration of three numbers on a scale was in a doctor’s office when I was eight months pregnant. Even then, it seemed astronomical. But I am not pregnant now. I am fat.
As is often my tendency in a crisis, I ate a bowl of chocolate ice cream and then launched into Fix-it Mode. After shockingly little research and fistfuls of money, I found the answer to my scale problem: I ordered a weight-loss program online.
My girlfriend sells multi-level-marketed, quasi-Scientific protein shakes and herbal remedies. Everyone has a friend like this, right? Someone who does not just drink the Kool-Aid, but sells it to fund a lifestyle. She was psyched to share products with me, and three days later, a box larger than my five-year-old appeared on our doorstep. I dragged it inside and promptly hid it in my closet.
After days of stalling — during which I ate pepperoni pizza, cooked linguine alla carbonara, and sprinkled both Junior Mints and Milk Duds into my popcorn during a late-night showing of Mad Max — I finally tore open the box.
It overflowed with pamphlets, testimonials, and a multitude of glossy Before and After photos. The plan, it seemed, was to ingest these drinks and pills, cleanse yourself of demons like sugar and self-loathing, get skinny and awesome, and then sell the stuff to other large people so they could get skinny and awesome, too. Or, if all that failed, you got your money back. Already hundreds of dollars into this scheme, I was banking on option two.
Day 1
I have tried meal replacement shakes before, but often supplemented them with, you know, meals. I’d wash down my pancakes with a protein smoothie and figure the kale-infused chaser would still do me some good. I guess they were more like meal enhancement shakes. This time, I vowed to play it straight.
My program allowed snacks, so I fell into the shake-snack-shake-snack rhythm pretty easily. But by dinnertime, I was ravenous, and ate two chicken breasts with my bare hands. That’s one more than I would ordinarily have, but it was chicken, not a pretzel dog, so I figured I was safe.
By 7:15, I had consumed all of the food permitted. The program suggested heading off cravings with delicious herbal tea. But I detest herbal tea. So even though it was an hour and a half before my toddler’s bedtime, I went to sleep. I dreamed of sandwiches.
Day 4
Maybe I should just be okay with being fat. Be empowered. Love my body, no matter its shape. That’s totally a thing now. I should take selfies of my bikini rolls and Tweet about how important it is for my children to see a real body and not some airbrushed amalgamation of how women do not even look.
Except I still think I need to lose a little weight before I do all that. I was a good-looking gal once, before all these children. But when I look at myself now, it is as though I physically consumed that other person, opened my mouth and swallowed her whole. This image helps me stay the course.
Day 8
We began the two-day cleanse portion of our program today. Every hour, we drink something terrible, swallow pills with spurious claims, or indulge in one tiny square of approved ‘chocolate,’ which, from its lingering aftertaste, must be at least one part seaweed. Or battery acid. I think my husband is skipping the drinks and just eating the chocolates. When I confronted him, he shook his head. I wanted to discuss the matter further, but I forgot.
I felt foggy most of the day, like my head was covered in bubble wrap. After dinner, I stood in front of the dishwasher unsure as to whether I was putting dishes in or taking them out. There were dirty bowls in the sink, which led me to believe I was loading, but the plate in my hand looked clean, which made me think again. I abandoned the project altogether and went to bed.
My husband calculates that, if we sleep for seventeen hours, we will only have to forgo food for eight or nine more tomorrow. As difficult as this has been, I am glad to have someone with whom to share the suffering.
Day 9
He cheated on me. He ate Pad Thai for lunch.
I went a little nutty, shrieking, “Why, why, why?!”
“I was hungry,” he said. I had no argument for that.
In the mean time, to reenact some forgotten circle of Dante’s Inferno, my daughter and I baked chocolate-chip cookies for her school bake sale. The smell both tortured and exalted me. I have become a woman who bakes goods I shall not eat. Who does that? I am crazy. All-powerful. I am the saint in this diet.
My husband is the slut.
Day 10
He brought home a box of French pastries for breakfast. Was this an apology? A ploy? I retaliated by not eating any of them.
Day 15
I do not yet feel the exuberance the brochures promised. Thirty days sounded totally doable on the infomercial with the happy, plastic, zombie people. They were all svelte and bikini-clad. No one looked hangry.
I shopped today and had to restrain myself from fondling the pork chops, sausage, and steak, all verboten on this regimen. I loaded my cart with food anyway because buying felt almost like eating.
Also, it turns out that I do not actually believe in diets. Even if I drop a few pounds, I always gain everything back as soon as I stop any program. Knowing this, what am I doing?
Day 19
My husband came home around noon and asked if I wanted to have lunch. But ‘lunch’ today was two brownish-gray pills. We went for a walk instead.
When we returned, the children were peckish. Why must they always eat? I have never made love to a peanut butter sandwich with my eyes, but I did today. I slowly undressed the jelly, the nuts, the bread.
Day 23
As it turns out, I do not really need food. Whenever I am hungry, I drink a glass of water and imagine myself digesting my own butt. I could live off of my arse for years, I think. It could feed a small village.
Speaking of butts, I have spent a fair bit of time in the loo during this journey. The lady on the website encourages us to call it a journey, not a diet. Folks who complete this voyage don’t talk about the weight they lost. They talk about the weight they released. This language makes sense. I have not lost any weight. It is not missing. I know exactly where it has gone. So far, I have flushed seven pounds.
Day 26
Without food, I am quite productive. My children and I gardened this morning. We biked to the library and then to the park. We cleaned out our closets and had friends over for coffee. I drank delicious peppermint tea. I think tomorrow, I might write a play.
Day 29
I took the kids to an ice cream stand and did not order anything for myself. I am afraid. If I let in even a little sugar, will the floodgates open to the 190-pound girl, my own personal Kraken? I licked the smell of waffle cone with my tongue, and we walked away, Cookies ’n Cream dripping down the kids’ hands.
Day 30
It is finished. Thirty days — done. Throughout the last month, I had so many menus planned for today, an outfit I hoped to wear, and heaps and heaps of questions. Most of all, I wondered, would it work? Am I skinny now? Am I awesome? Have all my problems been solved?
Kind of.
I lost 11.5 pounds.
Which is great. Although, when you are a big girl, the release of roughly ten pounds is pretty much only noticeable to you. My pants feel better. My cankles are less pronounced. But otherwise, I look the same.
My milkshake coach assures me that if I just complete another 30 days, I will be much closer to my goal weight. In fact, the website recommends that I stay on the system for life. If I live to be 90, this will be an investment of about $180,000. I don’t have it yet, but if I find a few husky friends to sign on, maybe they can finance my slenderizing. After all, how much would you pay to look the way you want to look?
I intend to ponder this question tonight over a tub of popcorn. And maybe, just maybe, a little ice cream.
Categories
Running Nowhere Slowly
My town’s annual 5K was last week. I started at the back of the pack. This was strategic. I prefer to pass slower runners than be overtaken by quicker ones. It’s a mental thing. So I lined up between a grandma in jogging culottes and a teenager drinking a smoothie. Granny, I wasn’t so sure about, but I figured I could outpace Jamba Juice.
The race started with the usual cheers and hoopla, and adrenaline carried me the first half-mile. As weariness set in, humiliation quickly followed. Had I really become the kind of grown-up who could not run a 5K? I shrugged off the doubt and picked human pace cars to keep me moving. For a while, I followed a guy with a dragon tattoo on his calf. I fantasized that this was ninja training and he was my sensei. But Ralph Macchio slowed to answer his cell phone, and as I passed him, I noticed the dragon was actually a hefty mermaid.
Next, I set my sights on a woman with the most beautiful butt I had ever seen — round, strong, jiggle-free. As I matched her pace, I believed that with every stride my own backside was firming up. When she and her running companion slowed to walk, I realized she was about eleven, and running with her dad.
But mostly, I was passed. Passed by a woman dressed as Minnie Mouse. Passed by a gentleman in a grape soda costume. Passed by a three-year-old pushing her own stroller.
Part of the problem was my soundtrack. At the start of the race, I clicked on an old playlist titled “Exercise” that should have done the trick. Def Leppard kicked things off. I flashed back to high school and channeled my younger, more athletic self. But as I started to fade, so did the playlist. Eminem gave way to the title song from a Barbie movie, Billy Joel’s “Piano Man,” and excerpts from The Sound of Music. Julie Andrews can do no wrong, except when it comes to motivating a tired person to run. I tried to click away from “Do-Re-Mi,” but my fingers were too sweaty.
I used to be a runner, before the kids. I started jogging in college as an attempt to curb the Freshman 15, then kept it up because I loved the way running made me feel. Since the children, it has been harder. Harder to train. Harder to enjoy. Harder to fall into any sort of rhythm. I do other things, but I miss the way I used to slip on my shoes and lope out the door.
The last time I ran a 5K was two children ago. I ran it with my Dad on the 4th of July. That time, I was the pace car for him. But, of course, I had trained, gone out a couple times, practiced the course. Why hadn’t I prepared better for this?
I lurched past a port-o-potty and briefly considered hiding in it. If it had seemed better ventilated, I surely would have. But a woman entered as I got closer, so I kept moving.
At the beginning of the first big hill, I gave up and walked, chiding myself with every step. Why had I just quit? Isn’t that always the way with me? Why do I stop things just when they are getting hard? As I caught my breath, I got even angrier at myself. Why does it matter? You are here. Just do your best. Jogging was easier than listening to arguments in my head, so I picked up the pace again and let gravity send me down the next hill.
One of the things I have always loved about running is how you can settle into its discomfort. The second and third miles were not as tough as the beginning. I found my working breath. It did not sound pretty, but luckily, nobody was running with me, and if I cranked up “The Lonely Goatherd” loud enough, I did not have to listen to my gasping either.
Other folks seemed to have goals that involved time and pacing. I’d like to run 8-minute miles. I want to finish in under 30 minutes. I had fuzzier objectives. They were more about personal dignity than physical achievement. And I dumbed them down as the race progressed.
Just don’t walk.
Just don’t walk too much.
Just be sure to run when you cross the finish line.
Just don’t be last.
Just don’t be last by too much.
By the time I approached the finish line, Billy Joel and I were in a bit of delirium. As I crossed, I fought the temptation to look behind me. I felt fairly certain I was not the only straggler. But I realized that was not the point. I felt lucky. Lucky to have the use of my legs, the health of my lungs, the gift of my mind to swirl with nonsense as I trotted the streets of my town. I stopped thinking about how many people had passed me, and instead gave thanks. Then, I slumped on the grass and drank a smoothie.
I know plenty of friends who have given up. This is the way I will always look. This is the way I will always feel. Parenting, aging, a lot of things can do that to you. But it does not have to be true. I saw folks along this course, ages two to eighty-two. But he is younger. She was in better shape. Hogwash. The only person I raced today was me. And though I very nearly lost, Julie Andrews carried me through. Just start at the very beginning…a very good place to start….
New DadvMom on New York Observer today.
Categories
Resolve to Fail
In 2012, I joined a gym. At first, I even went there. Sometimes to work out. Sometimes for sandwiches. But I grew tired of elliptical machines and turkey burgers, and by 2013, I faked an old track injury and finagled out of my contract.
In 2014, I started running again. I bought plush socks and shoes with impressive treads. I downloaded an app to chart my progress, and figured I’d knock out a 5K by Memorial Day. Or Labor Day. Or Thanksgiving at the latest. According to my log, the last time I jogged was June 13th, and I sustained that run for a total of ninety-three seconds.
And so it goes with resolutions. This year, I set out to lose the baby weight, and by next year, I’m pregnant again. On January 1st, I swear off dairy products, but by Valentine’s, I’m hiding chocolate around the house, and eating cheese fondue for dinner.
I had come to view yearly promises as an absolute waste of time. But something happened yesterday that turned my cynicism upside down. Literally. Because yesterday, I held my first handstand in yoga.
I know, I know . . . yoga. Every time I hear someone ruminate about the virtues of chakra and chi, I feel like running from the room. But as those who know me can attest, my pear-shaped figure and copious rear end do not flex easily into any yoga pose, especially the airborne variety. So hear me out. Yesterday, aided by guilt over the apple pie I ate for breakfast, and urged on by an instructor skilled at breaking difficult exercises into manageable steps, I stood upside down on my hands. And smiled. For a few blissful moments, I ceased to be a middle-aged mother of three. I was a child tumbling in the front yard. I daydreamed about the circus, the Olympics, the moon.
Afterwards, my teacher shared the following tidbit: “It was absolutely impossible, so it took a little longer to achieve.”
It is easy to dog on resolutions. But that is such a cop out. I have been practicing yoga on and off for fifteen years. The first fifty times I attempted a handstand, I failed. I blamed weak wrists and shoulders, and flabby post-pregnancy abs. I failed so often that I gave up trying.
But yesterday, I remembered why I had begun yoga in the first place. In my early twenties, I worked at a rehabilitative program for juvenile offenders. Gang members, drug addicts, kids who had been tossed from school. Failure was what brought them to me. And one of the first things we did was set goals. Goals for the month, the day, the week. Sometimes they were loftily worded psychobabble: Beatrice will use ‘I feel statements’ to express anger and opposition about her quality world. Sometimes they were basic: Jackie will wear clean pants every day. In the beginning, most of those mouthy, broken teenagers screwed up their goals before breakfast.
But every day, we helped them try again. And in the end, after months and sometimes years of failure, many kids ultimately triumphed. They graduated high school, got jobs, had families. I read a note recently in which a young lady named Shannon credited the program for saving her life. One of her first goals had been to brush her hair and teeth.
Maybe the trouble with New Year’s resolutions is that we assume they are to be completed within a single calendar year. Or maybe we have simply forgotten that in order to rise up, we first have to fall.
As I stand on the precipice of another new year, I am tempted to channel Janus, the ancient Roman god of transitions and passageways. He is often portrayed with two faces, one looking forward and one looking behind. I am torn between idealistic hopes of the person I might become, and backward glances at the only person I have ever been.
But this year, I am channeling Shannon instead. And I double downward dog dare you to do the same. Toss the cigarettes. Give that white bread a break. And when you flub up next week, figure out why, and try again. Make New Year’s resolutions and St. Patrick’s Day resolutions and Arbor Day resolutions. Set goals for yourself the whole damn year. It does not matter if you achieve them today, tomorrow, or ten years from Tuesday. Just don’t quit until you reach your handstand.
Originally appeared in the New York Observer, Tuesday, Dec. 29, 2014.