10.17.17

“It must be my fault.”

Maybe I never said it out loud about my weight, but I always thought it. I come from slim people, and the fact that I was “plump” or “pudgy” or what nice department stores in the 1960s and 70s horribly called “stylishly stout” had to be my fault – right?

I tried dieting. I tried exercise. I was miserable and every mouthful of food came with a looped tape of self-recrimination. Shouldn’t eat this (want it) shouldn’t eat this (want it) shouldn’t eat this (eating it).

So I thought it was me.

I WAS WRONG.

There was no way I could have gotten a handle on my weight or my health with the information I had. I was doomed to failure.

Now I work with Barbara at Body Dynamics in Falls Church, VA, and she doesn’t LET me do exercises I’m not ready for. She builds the muscles I’ll need before she asks me to use them. Not only do I not fail – but I don’t lose heart, either.

Barbara is slim and athletic by nature; she’ll spend this Sunday running the Marine Corps Marathon in DC because running is who she is. She’s never been fat… but somehow she knows how my body works, and she knows it better than I do. Her knowledge is changing my future.

(As are Grace and Gwynn and Chad and Chip.)

And what I realize now, after working with her and her team for over a year, is that THERE IS NO WAY I COULD HAVE DONE THIS ALONE.

Nobody can go solo – and it’s not our fault. We aren’t equipped to make the transformation. YOU HAVE TO HAVE HELP, and you can’t blame yourself.

I’m watching a pudgy, stylishly stout cocoon become a fantastic butterfly of strength and confidence and courage. I know this is a lifetime commitment, but as things get easier (and as Barbara equips me for more challenging exercises), I’m replacing self-blame with pride. This way is better!

Gorgeous rainbow butterfly digital art by Klara Acel, Fine Art America

10.16.17

I was flat on Gwynn’s massage table today, staring at ceiling tiles as her hands did their thing. (I had a flash that I knew what a Braille sign must feel like if a maestro comes along to read it.) Were we discussing just how far the obliques extend?

(It’s farther than you think; those pretty little indents over the ribs of very lean, very fit men are but the icing on the oblique cake.)

Were we discussing the effects of sugar on muscles and fascia? (Gwynn knows. Without being told, Gwynn knows. She could FEEL that I’m on the sugar reduction diet.)

Were we considering the range of motion in my hips? (If I lifted my knee to the aforementioned ceiling tiles and drew an imaginary circle, why is the 12:00 through 6:00 so smooth and curvy, but 6:00 to 9:00 feels like a straight line; same with 9:00 to 12:00?)

Well, yes, we were. All of that.

But we were also discussing how challenging it is to get enough plain old calories on the sugar reduction diet. Unless I mosey up to a massive slab of steak, it’s hard to eat so much salad and leafy greens that I even come close to the number of calories Chip wants me to be eating each day.

So Gwynn had offered me the idea of mashed cauliflower.

And that RUINED me for further discussions of obliques and hip circles and whatever other genius thing she was solving. All I could think of was buttery, creamy mounds of hot, savory, delicious mashed cauliflower. Golly – just like Mom used to make, if Mom was Gordon Ramsey.

So I went right from Body Dynamics to the grocery store. I looked up a simple recipe (the only kind I can cook). AND I MADE IT.

It’s delicious. It’s waiting for the kid (home from college) to cook up the aforementioned massive slab of steak. I’ll throw in a little sautéed onions and spinach and we shall dine like KINGS. Sugar-reducing kings.

Massage genius AND recipe tips. Body Dynamics is a full service opportunity!

“Mon petit chou-chou,” one of my very favorite endearments in French, either means “my little cream puff” or “my little cauliflower.” I am MUCH happier thinking of the cauliflower variety… and of course, that’s the only possible solution whilst adhering with great determination to the sugar reduction diet. Cream puffs begone!

 

10.14.17

She woke wreathed in guilt, she told me. She’d been dreaming that she’d baked warm, fragrant rolls and was waving them in front of me, asking repeatedly if I didn’t want some.

My dear friend Sarah reads my blog, and she’s an unusually sympathetic person; she was so distressed that she’d had such a guilt-inducing dream that she emailed me this morning to apologize. She knows my current, temporary mantra is “no grains, no dairy, no sweeteners,” and that fresh rolls are a complete derailment to my two-week plan. Hence her overwhelming guilt when she woke up.

Isn’t that funny – and extremely kind?

It made me think that perhaps I’ve been hitting the Sugar Reduction Diet gong a little too hard of late. Really – I’m doing very well. Just tonight, while scrambling eggs and heating up a large slab of ham, I sang a little paeon of praise to the substance that makes all life better:

We love you, butter,
Oh yes, we do
We love you, butter,
And we’ll be true.
When you’re not near to us,
We’re blue.
Oh, butter – we love you.

Now, butter on fresh, homemade rolls is good, but it’s also pretty sensational for scrambled eggs and even for the caramelizing of ham.

But here’s what’s even better: As the fall weather has finally cooled, I put on a pair of slacks and discovered that they were… well, slack. There’s a fold of cloth over my hip. My HIP. That’s the biggest part of my body (well, the one I can see, anyway – cough, cough, butt) and NEVER gets any smaller.

So day six is proceeding with me in good spirits; I’m almost halfway through the two weeks and not in need of the concern that might inspire guilt-inducing dreams. My friends, all is well!

This handsome artwork, lifted from Google Images, seems to be from “Medical News Today.” Nice for the topic of dreams, nuh?

 

10.13.17

I think I figured it out – how the sugar reduction diet works.

Mind you, this is MY concept of how it works. Chip the nutritionist explained it to me, but of course it slid off my brain like I was made of Teflon. Amazing new non-stick brain; get yours now!

I’m on day five. I’m not growling at strangers, but I did look with warm, almost lustful affection at a basket of bread today at lunch with me mum. And every time I’ve been just about to stand up for whatever, I find it requires a fierce summing of energy to undertake that simple action.

“Okay. Here I go. I’m standing. Any minute now. No, really – I’m just about to stand up. Here I go.” Huge sigh; application of a force of will, aaaand… I’m standing. Phew.

I’m lethargic. Tired. Apt to look for any short-cut, or the quickest path to the next chair.

And I think it’s my body going “give me a CARB. Give me something I can burn RIGHT NOW – where’s the fast juice you used to give me? It was so good!”

Of course, what I want is for my body to set aside the magician’s flash paper and throw a square of peat on the fire. Take FOREVER to burn; provide heat and energy for hours.

That’s protein, of course, and body fat. A better, higher-quality energy source, but not as easy to access and nowhere near as much fun as a carbohydrate, with that sudden burst of energy – so addictive – and the sharp fall-off of power, requiring the next nibble. Hey, that basket of bread looks pretty good, huh?

By grimly and constantly chanting “No grains, no dairy, no sweeteners,” I have made it to the doldrums. Five days in. I wonder if that’s typical?

And I wonder how long before my body gives up begging for the quick fix and surrenders to the other options it has. I’m rooting for you, metabolism! You can do it!

Oddly, I stole the image of a fainting lady off another Word Press blog. That author didn’t offer a credit, either. One day I suspect this disregard for copyright laws may prove ill-advised.

 

 

10.12.17

A low, feral growl erupted from my throat, its only intended victim a quite innocent-looking man caught in my headlines as he loped through the crosswalk.

“That’s right,” I muttered through clenched teeth, “take your time, there, honey. No one else in this world but you. Grrr.”

Suddenly I stopped. What was WRONG with me?

Then I realized the trigger. This poor, unaware schlub was sucking what looked like a milkshake through a straw. Or maybe one of those frappuccinos that has no place in a Starbucks but omigawd, I may need another one.

It wasn’t me loathing that guy; it was the sugar monkey on my back – now morphed into a dragon. Not a pomegranate free-radical-fighting dragon; I’m talking about an “I’m coming for you, Jamie Lannister, and your wagon train of Diana Rigg’s gold” dragon.

It’s day four of the sugar reduction diet. I thought it had been going well until I found myself wondering if I could just tag the guy in the crosswalk; not hard, just enough to knock him over – and then, leaning out of the car like a rodeo trick rider, score the milkshake from his outstretched and desperate hands and keep on going.

I shook myself mentally and restored order. What was I doing? Right – grocery store. What did I need? Dishwasher tablets. A nice bottle of olive oil. Some white balsamic vinegar, the kind that doesn’t make your salad look sooty. A pint of Ben and Jerry’s, no, not that. No ice cream.

It’s creeping into my subconscious. SUGAR, MAN. Just a little taste.

Teeth gritted, I headed to my dinner at Cava. Good ‘n healthy… but wait. ARE LENTILS GRAINS? They’re delicious, so they must be a grain. I want them (bad), so I guess I can’t have them.

In fact, I put together a salad so nasty (and dressed it with simple oil and vinegar) that there it sits, uneaten, mocking me. NOW what will I do for dinner? How will I get my 2-6 minimum ounces of protein NOW?

Great big sugar monkey fangs are sunk into the back of my neck – which is EXCELLENT. The cravings have begun; now I only need to go a few more days resisting ALL grains and ALL dairy and ALL sweeteners and… uh… then something good will happen. Can’t quite remember what at the moment, but in Chip we trust.

Probably smart to give me a bit of a wide berth for a few days.

Mm. Milkshake…

10.11.17

Here’s how one smallish monkey can level a corn field:

“Ooh, corn! I love corn! I’ll take that ear! Wait – there’s another one!! Fortunately, I have another hand. O Great Monkey God – another ear of corn! But my hands are full… no problem. I’ll drop whatever is in this hand and GET THAT CORN. Holy Simian Overlord – there’s another one!”

In this way, ONE monkey can destroy months of work.

I think I have a monkey mentality.

I can hold two things and ONLY two things. I was working with Grace today at Body Dynamics. By furling my brow in fierce concentration, I can (1) zip up my abdominal muscles (the zipper begins at the base of the neck, goes down the spine, around to the front via the Cape of Good Hope, and up to the belly) and also (2) envision my obliques as angel’s wings descending from my ribs and being flexed and rolled down and in. But I cannot add in (3) keeping my shoulders wide and down, and as for (4) use the glutes to raise the hips and (5) keep my knees straight from where they’re holding tough above my feet, poised on a large exercise ball – forget it. I have to drop one ear of corn to pick up the next one.

My theory is that sooner or later, at least one or more of those actions will have to become instinctive. In the meantime, I am lost if Grace isn’t standing next to me reminding me of what I’ve forgotten – which is everything.

Grace and Barbara have been (as usual) discussing how they’re going to unite to wake up and strengthen muscles I didn’t even know I had. Barbara explained to Grace that I have very little flexibility or strength in my thoracic spine (wait – is that the mid-back? The bra line part?). They’re conspiring to do for my back what Barbara has done for my belly (and which Grace is now refining.) (I THINK I can flex my transverse abdominus on demand. Maybe not, but I FEEL like that’s what I’m doing.)

But it’s going to take a while because – as noted – I apparently cannot multitask. I can dualtask. Like a monkey.

But like a monkey, I am DETERMINED to get that corn!

 

Oct. 10, 2017

Them young’uns don’t know how good they got it, she grumbled. I remember when I, too, stood up out of bed in the morning and felt FINE.

Now when I stand up, it’s time to take a little inventory.

How’s the back? Good? Excellent. Take a few steps – knees complaining? Ankles feel like they’re carved from a solid, inflexible block of wood? Do I hobble just for a few feet or for more than a few? Does going down the stairs involve both arms braced to either side to ensure the joints don’t have to reach TOO far all at once?

The warm-up phase of the day can be MOST informational!

Since I’ve been working out with Barbara, my most chronic problem (knee pain on the stairs) has vanished, and now I hobble for a step or two but it fades quickly each morning.

But THIS morning I inventoried a wicked pull in my back on the right side. Of course my first thought was – KIDNEY INFECTION. I’M DYING. You know; like you do.

But I went to see Barbara and she had me run through my “HEP.” (Home Exercise Program. I’ve done it for five evenings in a row! So if I was doing something wrong, I was REALLY doing something wrong.)

It was the bridging part that caused me to wince. “Youp! Not doing THAT again!”

Do you know bridging? It’s one of these ridiculously simple movements that’s taken me months to be able to do to Barbara’s satisfaction. Lie on your back, knees up and feet flat on the floor. Tilt your pelvis up. (This, by the way, was where I was failing. Took FOREVER to figure out how to do that and build the muscles that made it possible.) Now lift your hips up – don’t let your pelvis tip down again. Use your butt muscles to push up, not your thighs. Hold for a bit… then SLOWLY lower your hips. Rinse and repeat until Barbara is satisfied.

But not today. Even before I lifted, the pelvic tilt caused me to yip.

I looked to Barbara, trustingly.

“Your ribs are way up. Tuck them down. No, more. More. They’re still up.”

Finally Barbara had me pressing my spine into the mat like I was a hydraulic press, trying to crush vertebrae. MAN, I had that mat imprinted! My obliques, over my ribs, were glowing like coals on a chilly evening; I had the SWEET gym burn going on in my core.

Sure enough, my back hurt less. So we did quasi-bridges (no pelvic tilt) until my back loosened up enough to do them right; then we did the real ones for a while more. By the end, no wincing. No pain. Barbara is a genius.

Then I went to stretch class with Chad where I realized what I’d done to cause the back problem in the first place. I’ve been doing my HEP and then straddling the foam roller while I watched Rachel Maddow each evening, trying to stretch out my adductor magnus (which goes right up the inside of your thigh from knee to deep in the groin; it looks a little ugly-pornography to be rolling it out, but I’m determined to loosen the muscle in my left leg, which is taut enough for a tightrope act).

And as soon as we started that stretch in Chad’s class, my back got angry all over again.

Oh. Duh. I was doing it to myself; all that time almost on my belly with a foam roller hiking my leg and hip to the left was crushing the will to survive in the muscles on the right side of my back.

Maybe take a few days off the adductor magnus stretch. (Although I DO love that name – adductor magnus. Definitely a Danish soldier in a high-collar uniform; very upright and starchy and brass-buttony, with a tremendous blond mustache and a belligerent attitude. He could USE a little stretching… but not for a few days!)

There’s no larger point here. I’m just thinking about how all these things are connected.

Grumpy Grandpa Simpson picture provided (without permission; thank you, Google images) as an illustration of how old I am for a few seconds when first getting out of bed in the morning.

Oct. 9, 2017

Epiphanies never seem to happen like in Renaissance paintings or Cecil B. DeMille movies, where clouds part and shafts of light beam down upon the astonished recipient, bringing enlightenment along with a nice shot of vitamin D for all that thirsty skin to absorb.

No, my epiphanies involve me staring slack-jawed at Chip (Body Dynamics nutritionist) when he hits me with truth bombs. He had two for me today.

The one he said he was reluctant to share with most clients is “When you aim for the stars in your fitness/nutrition plan, the only one who believes that’s going to happen is you.”

This whapped me upside the head because I ALWAYS believe I can make sweeping, grand changes, turning away forevermore from every bad habit. And of course, I fail. Always have. That’s why Chip’s philosophy is: We start SMALL – we make incremental changes. Get a little success under your belt before you try to revise something else.

The second epiphany was when he said “It takes about two weeks to make a new habit; it takes about two days to break it again.”

Whaaaaat??! Say that again!

Yes, he said calmly. You can work for two weeks to create a good habit. You can blow it in two days. So don’t be surprised, don’t assume something that lasts for two weeks will last forever, and don’t beat yourself up when it happens to you. Keep trying. It’s worth it.

To complete his use of the number two, Chip says since I’ve been making my incremental changes for the last four to six months, I’m ready for a new project. He’s assigned me a two-week “sugar control diet” – a temporary diet (and I’m quoting now) “designed to help recalibrate the body’s sugar control mechanism. It will increase your energy and vitality if followed closely. It is not a healthy diet for all times, but it is beneficial for you during a trial period. Most people will lose cravings for unhealthy foods within 1 to 2 weeks.”

So, okay. If it takes two weeks to set a new habit, I’ll take the Sugar Control Diet as my two-week challenge (starting Wednesday – exactly two weeks before I see Chip again) and use my two epiphanies to inform my attempt.

Could it be possible that my craving for sweet foods can be dialed back?? I’m skeptical. Chip says yes. We’ll see!

Oct. 8, 2017

I have an idea for the next M. Night Shyamalan movie: A small, adorable, doe-eyed child leans toward the camera and whispers “I see stress.”

And then, from the child’s point of view, you can see the gibbering, capering stress demons that follows people around. Little miniaturized ones for people who generally have their act together but are freaked by the idea of an increase in the cost of health insurance or the fact that the roof has begun to leak. Huge, slimy ogre-like monsters for anyone who works in the service industry and has to smile politely at jerks day in and day out.

Skinny, saucer-eyed vampire monsters with mouth like straws for sucking the life away from anyone who is caring for a sick person who isn’t getting better – an aged parent, a mate sinking into depression, a child with an addiction.

Unlike a movie, no-one can see the stress in their lives. You know it’s there, but you can’t measure it; you can’t throttle it, you can’t truly understand just how invasive it is to your physical health and sanity…unless it suddenly vanishes.

My husband’s decline was slow and hard to track; then he died. That was horrible; it’s the price to a different kind of life that I cannot recommend paying. But the departure of a huge stressor was like releasing the pull on a high-tension line. I was made to hold up under that pressure; I could have continued. I WOULD have continued.

But the sudden absence is – well, it’s the reason I can spend so much time taking care of my health.

It’s odd that spending all this time and money at Body Dynamics would feel selfish. I’m still working through the fact – no, the emotion; I’ve got the logic firmly in hand – that I’m taking time away from something important; something I probably ought to be doing instead. And that’s self-defeating, because nothing relieves stress like exercise (as long as the exercise itself isn’t a stressor).

I believe that every single person is doing the absolute best he or she can every day. We take on what we can handle, and we have to prioritize. Sometimes staring slack-jawed at the TV is critical for down-time, and to add to the padding around nerve endings too often rubbed raw. We find our relief where we can…

…but from my position on the other side of a big stressor, I can say that (a) the time I spend caring for my body is important and hugely valuable and (b) I really like the relief of giving up something that made my brain wrinkle in a MOST unattractive way – that is, stress.

And now I’m making other changes to reduce stress in my life. They say stress is a killer; that may well be true. I think stress is a demon – always hungry, always on duty, always right behind you, draining your joy and your energy and your determination.

If you can find a way to reduce your stress (by exercise or by some other life change), I hope you can make that work for you. To state the very obvious, less stress is better.

 

Oct. 7, 2017

If you put the heels of your hands on your temples and your fingers in your hair, that’s generally accompanied by a sort of “Arghh!” soundtrack – right? Maybe you’re massaging in the fruitless attempt to banish a headache. Or maybe your great big skull is just too heavy on your neck and you’re looking for a moment’s relief.

I can’t remember which of the above motivations caused me to assume this pose, but there I was, doing a melodramatic, thrilling little pantomime of Oh What I Suffer Through For You, and I suddenly felt something…

My temples divot inward.

Not like I took a two-by-four to the head; more like a never-before-identified little puddle of fat had quietly evaporated, leaving the contours of my head a tad more in-and-outy.

(Yes, I am a professional writer. Kids, don’t try to pull off a phrase like “in-and-outy” without parental supervision, and certainly not without stretching first.)

My scale is stubbornly stuck at 236; it seems determined to sit there, mocking me for the fact that I was 234 a few days ago… but I’m also feeling like my belly muscles are made of that super-dense goo they put in heating pads; the kind you microwave. Even at rest, my stomach muscles are… I’m searching for a good word to make up for the dismal failure of “in-and-outy,” and the best I can come up with is “quick.”

Not “quick” as in “I had to be quick or someone else would have grabbed that last chocolate chip cookie.” No, I mean “quick” as in “quick with life” – vibrant. Vital. Very much alive. (This now-archaic definition makes sense of the phrase “the quick and the dead.”)

My stomach muscles feel quick. Dense and strong and lively. And I think all this focus on working on the core is burning fat but adding muscle, which of course weighs far more than fat, as any fat person will rush to tell you. My pants are baggy, my belts are on the last notch, and my temples dent inward. So giving vent to a deep and heartfelt “argh!” wasn’t as satisfying as it might have been, as I was suddenly bathed in a feeling of victory and startled delight.

And I’m good with that!

The image is from the time Jonathan tried a chiropractor, who x-rayed his Atlas bone; isn’t his skull gorgeous? And isn’t it curious that once you get past superficial things like skin color and weight, we are all held up by this stunning, elegant skeleton? Just below the skin, we are every one of us absolute marvels, and very, very beautiful. That’s a nice thing to remember.