11.11.17

“Let me give you some counsel, bastard,” [Tyrion] Lannister said. “Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.”

Jon was in no mood for anyone’s counsel. “What do you know about being a bastard?”

“All dwarfs are bastards in their father’s eyes.”

That’s the quote I was thinking of yesterday (from “A Song of Ice and Fire” – aka Game of Thrones – by George R.R. Martin, and used without permission, of course) when I posted a photo of my posterior.

Like Tyrion, I seek to own what I am – to make it my strength. I am a fat lady – healthy, strong, tough, kind, decidedly wide in the posterior.

But unexpectedly, I find that the sight of my own tail (so easy to ignore when not presented with photographic evidence) has quite severely demoralized me. And I did it to myself; posting that photo yesterday was my choice.

Oh, believe me – I can hear you. You’re saying utterly lovely and kind things like “don’t be so hard on yourself” and “you look great” and “you’ve made such progress” and “be in the now, man” (no, that’s me – I say that), and I’m grateful, but I’m not actually terribly needy in my demoralization…

…rather I think it’s part of the process. I’m up and enthusiastic, something happens I can’t control (or worse, something I do wrong – like thinking posting a picture of my own ass is a good idea), and then I’m down. It happens; it’s normal; I don’t fight it. I just feel bad about how my butt looks, and then I keep going.

(Butts are so deceptive. Since I rarely see mine, I can envision it as one of those beautiful, heart-shaped posteriors that makes me stare rudely at pretty women on the street. Dang. That’s a nice butt. Oh – sorry, madam.)

So owning my own weakness, as Tyrion suggested, hasn’t helped me turn it into a strength YET… but give Barbara (and Grace and Chad and Chip) at Body Dynamics another 18 months and THEN we’ll see.

Tyrion Lannister. Played by Peter Dinklage. Seriously – yum. And that voice. Hubba.

11.9.17

I am beset by paranoia.

It’s not CRUSHING paranoia… but like anyone in relatively unfamiliar surroundings, I do tend to wonder if I’m making an ass of myself and the people around me are simply too kind to laugh out loud.

This was terribly evident yesterday. I bought new work-out wear because all my pants are capri-length, and going outside in this newly-chilly weather with bare calves feels… like I’m making an ass of myself.

So I went back to the same place where my sister Twig found great work-out clothes for me (which is Full Beauty, online) and bought some long pants, and some shirts with sleeves.

They arrived and yesterday was the first day I’d broken ‘em out. But the capri pants – a nice, not-too-heavy cotton mixed with just enough Lycra to hold them up – are very different from the long pants, which must be nothing but pure spandex from muffin-top waist to pudgy ankle. I look like Michael Phelps after decades of inactivity, squeezed into one of those body suits for swimming.

I look like I’m wearing long underwear.

So I begged Grace (one of my two trainers at Body Dynamics) to tell me if I looked ridiculous, but who can believe her? She’s by nature supportive and kind; that’s what she’s doing there. “No! I love your outfit – you look cute!” Paranoia.

(I’m wearing some fat lady long-johns to balance class in a few minutes; I’ll post a photo in my next blog so you can venture an opinion, if only to your computer.)

Wait – I had an entirely different reason for posting. Title “Three Times…” Oh, yeah. Paranoia.

Barbara, my own personal Gandalf, may work very differently with other people; I’m paranoid that to others, she says “Do this impossible exercise twenty times.”

But to me she says “Do this impossible exercise,” and then watches me because she knows that when I’m just about at the limit of my endurance, I’ll cry out for her to tell me to stop.

“Barbara!” I’ll implore, at which point she says the SAME THING EVERY TIME:

“Three more!”

I have no idea if I’m supposed to do twenty and are only making it to eight, or if I’m supposed to do twenty and she’s watching me grind through forty or fifty repetitions (that’s SURELY what it feels like!), but I do know that when I’m about to fall to the ground shivering as my only defense, Barbara will say “Three more!”

And by damn, I’ll do three more. How does she know?!

I’m off to balance class. More later!

See? They’re GREAT-looking pants… but there is a definite sausage-casing effect. Wait until you see the look where my body tends to, um, blossom.

11.8.17

I skipped the fries at lunch. I ignored the rolls at dinner. I complimented myself that I was getting on top of the ‘I need something sweet to end the meal’ habit.

Two things happen.

First, every time I say “I’ll have the steamed veggies instead of the chips,” I carve a fractionally deeper groove in a new habit, which makes it just a little easier to do it again next time…

…and second, an unsuspected bean-counter in my brain takes a tiny little bead from a pile and puts it on a scale. That’s one. That’s another one.

Two nights ago, apparently the beads on the scale had reached a critical mass and the balance tipped. I was in the grocery store, tired after a long day. Demoralized by my empty house. Overwhelmed by the thought of more raw chicken breast sitting in my kitchen, all needy and pathetic and requiring of many pans, much ingenuity, and assorted spices in ill-defined quantities.

So I bought ice cream instead. And ate it for dinner.

I had simply denied myself too many things that I just flat-out wanted, and I was unable to deny myself any more.

I hadn’t eaten a good lunch; you know that’s a trigger. If I get too hungry during the day, by dinnertime I’m guaranteed to make a bad, fast, immediate choice.

As I stalked from the fresh produce side of the store to the ice cream side of the store, my inner justification panel heard the case. Among the defenses tried were “You can’t go through life without ice cream; there have to be occasional slips;” “this is a test of determination; you eat ice cream tonight and get right back to eating well tomorrow;” and “how bad is it, really?”

But the one that won out, as noted, was the denial defense. For months, I’ve turned away from tempting option after tempting option; I’ve lived a life of purity and virtue – my forays into decadence were planned and thoughtful. I’ve stood on the scale and felt proud. I’ve bought new pants that fit. There are constant, continual reminders of the benefits of doing better…

…but the new grooves I’m wearing into shiny bright habits are still dwarfed by the trenches through deep mud caused by 57 years of eating the entire container of Ben and Jerry’s. And that’s the groove that won out.

But yesterday I paid attention, and went back to scraping tiny curls of new habit into the obdurate hardpan of my brain, and I’ll do it again today. To do anything else would be denial of the worst kind.

That’s the one that got me. Ben and Jerry’s Oat of this Swirled. I ate the whole thing in one sitting. No bowl. Just a spoon, a book, and ample gluttony. And I liked it – I liked it! Father, please hear my confession…

11.6.17

I love the thought of Cibola and Atlantis and Brigadoon, and I’d be happy to watch Indiana Jones go after each one. Among the best stories: The fountain of youth.

It tickles the armchair adventurer in me to think of Ponce de Leon slogging through Florida swamps, fighting off alligators and venomous snakes and mosquito hoards big enough to carry off small children in order to find a mythical fountain that would restore youth.

(As any traveler knows, poor Ponce was a good bit younger before the trip began than he was when it was over, and I’m not counting time. As Indy says, it’s not the years, honey – it’s the mileage. If anyone needs a fountain of youth, it’s voyagers through Florida!)

For me, the water of life is… well, it’s water.

When I drink enough water, I’m less tired. My digestion is regular and kindly. I’m more likely to see progress on the scale.

Of course, if my day is busy and I don’t want to make time for every-other-hour trips to the can – or I’m too sleepy and don’t want to wake up once or twice a night – then I might deliberately cut back on the fluid intake.

That’s at least a conscious choice. It’s more annoying (and less useful) when I simply forget to drink my water, and find myself gasping for liquid at the end of the day (which guarantees I’ll gulp too much before bedtime and be peeing all night long.)

The water of life is just water. In my opinion. Here’s to your health!

11.4.17

“If I eat something sugary, I can pretty much feel the effects cycling through my body for about 24 hours.”

That’s what Chip told me. Chip is a former professional ballet dancer and a seriously-trained nutritionist; when he eats something delicious, you know he’s overcoming LONG YEARS of conditioning to simply enjoy good food… and yet Chip is so cool that he DOES enjoy good food, and never ever judges others who do as well.

However, his system is so fine-tuned, and he’s so aware of it, that when he eats an ice cream sundae (which he loves), he feels sort of ill afterwards, and he can feel his body cycling between an insulin dump and a resulting (I don’t remember; some other hormone designed to balance the excessive insulin).

I crave that knowledge. I want to have the negative feedback of feeling bad when I make bad food choices. I want the indulgent eater’s equivalent of Antabuse.

Last night, by careful planning, I went with my friends to Artie’s in Fairfax Circle, where one can (if one chooses) get the most decadent and delicious ice cream sundae. Three overly-generous scoops of ice cream, a luscious, silky, tongue-orgasm dark chocolate sauce, whipped cream, and candied pecans. I am reduced to excited coos as I savor every sybaritic little spoonful…

…but last night, I ordered ONE scoop. (No candied pecans with a one-scoop sundae; instead, a crisp, moist almond cookie that is even better.) I ate it with the reverence of a true believer. I spooned up the last succulent drops.

And then I waited to feel a little sick.

And waited.

And waited.

Not yet. I felt FINE. I felt happy. I felt quite disgustingly well.

So I’m not hypersensitive to sugar yet, alas. But I know that I can make better choices (like – one scoop, not three [cookie reward for good behavior!]. Like – planning for the indulgence instead of surrendering to it on the spur of the moment.) and maintain at least a partial grip on my sugar jones. I’m still a Chip wanna-be, but the waiting feeling’s fine!

PS: Sorry if I waxed a little too rhapsodic on the subject of bad-for-you food, but if you’re going to indulge, may I personally recommend an Artie’s sundae?!

11.3.17

There’s an awesome quote I’m too lazy to look up. Mark Twain or someone said “I always assumed that if anything interesting was going to happen, it would happen at night.” As an inveterate night owl, this has always felt like truth to me.

I always like where I am the MOST. If I’m awake, I don’t want to go to sleep yet. If I’m asleep, I can’t bear to get up yet. If I’m writing, I don’t want to clean out the garage. (Today’s chore, and really very satisfying; I really ought to get to it.)

Among other ripples that this general situational contentment creates in my life, I’ve always stayed up way too late, and gotten up equally late. (Before I became a freelance copywriter, every boss I ever had could summon up the annual review with two statements: Please put on your shoes and please get to work on time. The last boss who said it to me was astonished when I thought about it and said “No. I’m sick of lying about it; I’m going to be barefoot and I’m going to be late. Can we dock my pay, or something?” Life is better as a freelancer.)

Where was I?

Oh – morning. By the time I finally got out of bed, I was far too late to even consider breakfast – and who needs it anyway? I have things to do that I’m late on!

That was me. A rebel. A bare-foot rebel; don’t fence me in, man.

Now I look back on this through the eyes of Chip the nutritionist at Body Dynamics, and what he’s taught me about burning fat versus burning carbohydrates.

If you burn fat, your body has a steady supply of energy all night long. You wake up fairly easily, all other things being equal, and look forward to breakfast mildly.

If you burn carbs, then you have the typical boom-and-bust cycle that comes from a fast-burning energy source. (Chip will talk about blood sugar and insulin and cortisol and I don’t know what all; this is my uneducated version.) You go to bed fine; then maybe in the middle of the night you wake up and want a midnight snack.

…or maybe you wake up in the morning filled with lethargy and need coffee RIGHT AWAY to offset it.

Some people wake up ravenous.

All three are signs that the body is craving carbs – a fast-burning high that is utterly addictive. That’s a more-more-more cycle that is not going to end well…

Of course, eating fewer carbohydrates is MUCH HARDER. It takes more time. It never comes in convenient foil-wrapped pouches for consumption on the road. It’s more expensive. Last night I made myself chicken with fresh celery and tomatoes, cooked in onions in butter. Delicious, yes – but it took time. Dirtied pans. Required attention and energy. A pizza from the fridge would have been FAR easier (and cheaper, too).

But I just spent more than two weeks on the sugar reduction diet, teaching my body to burn fat, not carbs. (And I think I can see the difference; I have a lot more energy than I used to.) And I’ll be damned if I’ll give up THAT particular lesson without a fight.

“How do I know?” I asked Chip. “What if my body goes back to burning carbs and I just don’t notice?”

Soothing Chip. WISE Chip. “Once a week, do a mini-fast of 12 to 18 hours. Have juice or something for dinner, and go to bed. When you wake up in the morning, see how you feel. Are you lethargic – or ravenous? If you are, dial back on the carbs because that means your body has gone back to old habits.”

Whether I’ve fasted or not (and I keep forgetting to do it), I now pay attention to how I feel in the morning when I first wake up. And then I make my breakfast – whole fat, no sugar organic Greek yogurt; a tablespoon of wheat germ; some fresh fruit (today six ripe strawberries); a fistful of walnuts (so tasty); and that powerhouse of zinc-y goodness, the raw pumpkin seed – a fistful and then a pinch because they make me happy.

This takes forever to put together (when compared to, say, ripping open a Pop Tart)… but it tastes so delicious.

Then the dog gets to lick the bowl. He deserves good gastrointestinal health, too.

As do we all!

A tableau! I have made a tableau – a non-copyright-infringing tableau that will anger no one! (Unless Stony Field Dairy and Kretschmer Wheat Germ get pissy about it, in which case OH COME ON!) I did NOT eat all the walnuts after taking the picture. (Well… not ALL of them.)

11.1.17

Have you seen those videos where color-blind people put on those glasses that correct their color-blindness and suddenly they can see all new colors? I cry every time, for thinking about the astonishment they must feel. Imagine being able to see NEW COLORS.

Or people with cochlear implants, who can hear all of a sudden. Yeah, like I can watch THOSE videos without blubbering.

The thought of going through your life, perfectly content and utterly capable, and then suddenly being given MORE… well, it’s sort of breath-taking.

The wizards at Body Dynamics in Falls Church, VA have apparently been hobnobbing. They all agree that my thoracic spine is, as they say, “locked down.”

(It’s because I’m lordotic – my hips tip downward. So my low back – the lumbar part – has been very flexible all my life, making up for that…and the thoracic spine (more or less all the stuff behind the rib cage) has made up for the flexibility by being rigid. See? It’s all connected. The hip bone’s connected to the… THIGH bone.)

When I walk, I can now use my abdominals to pull up my hips, relieving the pressure on the lumbar spine. But the thorax hasn’t gotten the word yet, and it’s still rigid. It’s pulling back so tightly that my rib cage pops outward. Barbara aping the way I walk is NOT flattering, but it IS highly educational.

So two days ago, I went in for my massage with Gwynn, and she said – with a real gleam in her eye – “It’s time for THORAX!”

(I love the word “thorax.” It would be a hell of a Scrabble word. But I think I’ve only come in contact with it in biology class, in a discussion of the parts of a bug’s body, and EW. But okay – I’m good with “thoracic” being based on “thorax;” I just hadn’t thought of it that way before.)

Having your back massaged is more fun than having the aductor magnus, deep in your thigh, worked on, so I greeted this plan with happiness… and then Gwynn got IN there with her fingers (and then with a probe-y wooden thing when even her super-digits couldn’t force a surrender).

“You have the ridge down your spine – that’s the [DAMNIT I’ve forgotten the term]. And then out to the sides are the transverse [word I’ve forgotten]. And in between is the lamina groove.”

Earth Wind and Fire began playing in my brain. Let’s lamina groove tonight. Share the spice of life. Trumpets and harmonies and spinning men in variously colored jump suits.

“In the lamina groove is a whole web of muscles – it’s absolutely beautiful. They let you twist and arch and bend – there’s a whole range of movement all tied into this spider’s web in this tiny groove back here.” She was digging with the wooden thing by then.

“And mine is…?”

“Oh, absolutely solid – walled in tight.” She seemed quite pleased about it, too. Gwynn likes a challenge.

When she was done, she declared, “Yeah! That’s better!” And then her fingers began doing that same thing little kids do when confronted with tangles of ribbon; she was doing that “grab and wiggle” move with real glee. “I can’t wait to see how you feel when you get up!”

Me, neither!

And then I got up, and it was – just like before.

I admitted that I felt no different, so she had me do “Cat-Dog” on the table. (I think the actual term for this is “Cat-Cow,” but “Cat-Dog” works better for me… why should I let reality interfere with my perceptions?!)

So I got on all fours and arched up as high as I could (that’s cat), and then went as swayback as I could (that’s dog, or cow depending). “Yes!” she cried. “So much better!”

“Really?”

On the way out, we passed Barbara. “Hey, Barbara – does my thorax look any different?”

“I dunno. Walk for me.”

I did; I heard them whispering. “Oh, you’re telling her to tell me it’s MUCH better.”

“Am not!”

“It IS better! Your ribs aren’t all sticking out like this!” (That was when Barbara did her impersonation of my stride.)

Today I worked out with Grace. “Thorax!” she said, the way many women say “Tiffany!” “That’s been on my list for a LONG time!”

It turns out that two days is long enough for all that disco party in the lamina groove to solidify again, so my exercises turned into passive stretching; I’m to do more of that at home every night, supporting my head with my hands and lying across the foam roller so it hits me right across the wing bones; just five breaths, and then some twists; repeat ONCE, no more.

Now that I’m aware that I have a thorax – and that it apparently doesn’t bend – I’m wondering. If you discovered your spine was supposed to bend in a way that it hadn’t before, and people told you they could GET it to do that… wouldn’t that be an astonishing gift?

I’m feeling that lamina groove!

That’s Earth, Wind, and Fire in the photo, of course. Used without permission, but if you go download “Let’s Groove,” then maybe they’ll forgive me.

10.31.17

If it was a movie, the music would be building from something light and ALMOST harmonic… but a tiny thread of atonal would be weaving through the melody. And you’d know: Something bad is coming. Something wicked…

CARDIO.

Our heroine bites her knuckle and braces herself for the nightmare. Oh, no! Not cardio!

I’m healthy. I have the numbers to prove it. Weight and cholesterol dropping. Blood pressure enviable. Fasting blood sugar not so sweet (get it?). Waist? SMALLER.

Really, Maud – shouldn’t that be ENOUGH??

No. Barbara is never satisfied. (Well, she’s never satisfied with me… but I’ve got a long way to go!)

Alert readers (both of you) might recall that when I first threw myself on Barbara’s mercy some 17 months ago and begged her to train me, my original statement was “I’m ashamed of my cardio conditioning.”

That’s been true for just about all of my life. I remember insisting on playing fullback during endless, broiling nightmare days when “gym class” took place on the field hockey field. Why? Because at least half the time, I could SIT DOWN while all the action took place on the other half of the field. The rest of the time, I stood around looking thick and dumb while getting in the way of other, more fleet players.

No, cardio has never been my “thing,” man. It’s just not ME.

But I’m forced to admit: It ought to be.

If I’m serious about securing my health, then IT IS TIME. Barbara agrees. She’s built up in me the muscles I need to try for cardio health, and I’ve had such surprising success working with her that I’m going to dare to hope I can make cardio progress, too. My friend Steve says it builds up quickly, but I’ve never known that to be true… still, where the wise ones lead, I shall follow.

I asked Barbara – I’m the idiot student who reminds the teacher to assign homework – what she wanted me to add to my HEP (home exercise program) that would boost my cardio endurance.

“Any stairs in your house?”

“Two flights.”

“Good. Go up the stairs and then come back down. Do that three times.”

“Am I running up the stairs?”

She looked at me skeptically.

“No, not running.” I interpreted, and then admitted, “Good. I don’t think I could. How many times?”

“Three times.”

“Every day?”

“Once a week.”

“Once?? I’m doing my HEP every day I’m not here. I only have to do the stairs once?”

“Once, but three times.” She watched me; Barbara is getting very good at reading my tells. “And no fair doing it over an entire day. You have to go up and immediately down, then up and immediately down, then up and immediately down.”

While I think that will leave me sweaty and panting, I really DO think I can achieve this pathetic, remedial goal. I’m going to try.

Cardio. My Moby Dick. Call me Ishmael.

 

 

10.30.17

Will you do me a favor?

Put your hand on the small of your back. Best if you can worm your hand through whatever late-October clothes you’re wearing to reach actual naked skin.

Note the temperature of your own flesh against your hand.

Now slide your hand down until you’re about halfway down your butt.

Is THAT flesh a different temperature? Just give me a one-word comment to my one-question survey – say “warmer” or “cooler” or “same temp.”

I’m interested because I’ve discovered that while most of my amply-fleshed body is warm, there’s a strip across my tail, from about side seam to side seam (if bodies had side seams) from below the waist to almost exactly where the chair hits my butt that is noticeably cooler than the rest of my flesh.

Now, who do you ask if that’s normal? Who else? Gwynn, the most experienced, most knowledgeable therapeutic masseuse at Body Dynamics in Falls Church, VA. (Who else can you honestly ask to judge the variation in temperature from your ass to your elbow?)

Gwynn said “I’m sure it’s just a factor of how you were sitting.”

I shook my head firmly. “It’s not. I’ve checked.”

She left so I could strip down and slip naked under the sheet. I know this question interested her for two reasons: First, when she came back into the room, she went straight for my butt. “You’re RIGHT! It’s much cooler!”

Second, she then said “Mine is, too!”

So I know that wherever she goes while clients are changing, she was back there groping her own flesh.

We don’t know if it’s normal or unusual or evidence of some horrific butt malaise that we need to seek treatment for right away… so tell me what you think. Is your butt warmer, cooler, or the same temp as the rest of you? Thanks for letting me know!