The Diet of the Lambs

The posts seem to only happen monthly these days. Partly, it's summer, and getting two brain cells to cooperate seems impossible. Second, it's summer and getting two kids to cooperate and give me 5 minutes alone seems impossible. Third, it's summer, and--oh, hell--I dunno.

I'm currently depressed over the return of my weight. Apparently, it's summer, and the only things I CAN get to cooperate are gin and tonic, bourbon and Coke, and vodka and lemonade. Fortunately, or unfortunately--as the case may be--those spirits find themselves mixing just fine.

Unfortunately, they're building an inner tube around my waist. Oh, well. I can starve again in the winter. Upon very careful study, I have decided that I need a getaway to one of those fat farms. Like The Biggest Loser, only less yelling.

I want to be pampered while I work out. So, in exchange for a near-death experience on the treadmill, I'd like an hour-long massage. This would be motivating. Fact is, a day alone would be motivating. It's hard to be sober and thin when surrounded by kids and their greasy snacks. Children are like the grit and dirt that irritate an oyster to make a pearl. Only the pearl isn't a precious gemstone, but a giant cocktail at the end of the day. Fine...it's a crappy metaphor.

So, at my fat farm, I'm going to wake up early and eat a nutritionally sound breakfast. Then, I'm going to train for 4 hours. Then, a nutritionally sound lunch and training. Then, a very small dinner, some form of spa reward for my hard work and then sleep. Like a movie star in a detox program: I need coddling.

Of course, the side benefits would be temporary asylum from the kids, proper training and encouragement, and of course, skinny thighs!

Naturally, you're thinking this is WAY to excessive for me. Too much luxury, too much pampering, too much indulgence. So, I propose an alternative: The Buffalo Bill Diet.

Remember Buffalo Bill? He was the villain in the Silence of the Lambs, Clarice. He kidnapped fatties, kept them in a hole, lowered lotion to keep their skin supple, starved them 'til their skin hung lose on their bodies, slayed them, and then made himself a transgendered skin-suit out of their remains.

So, what I'm telling you is this: if a psychotic killer wants to kidnap me & starve me, I'm okay with that as long as I get to moisturize. Rather than die, though, I'd like to escape and live to have some dinner with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

Exercise for the body and mind

Yah. I hear ya. Send all complaints in the form of compliments, and I might respond. If you have no complaints, you're not human.

So, it's been a while. Like 3 weeks. I know. I've been sublimating all of my creative energy into working out. It sounds stupid, but it's not. I have to get up and force my body to do one thing each day...type and be funny OR run like there's a mean dude chasin' me. Lately, the latter.

If only blogging burned more calories. I need jlogging...a healthful combination of blogging and jogging. Can you imagine how fiercely slim I would be if I burned calories being bitchy? Holy cow.

So, in the vein of burning calories, CC invited me to a Pilates class at her studio. CC was actually taking the class as well. But the thing is, CC doesn't understand the TREMENDOUS pressure (for some one like me) involved in going out to exercise.

First, there is the outfit. Flattering. (There goes half the closet) Exercise sensible (There goes 49.5% more). Fortunately, my very supportive Valentine bought me workout clothes for the upcoming chocolate fest of a holiday. So, outfit in place.

Hair? Certainly no washing, but it can't look bedraggled. There will be SPRING HILL MOMS THERE! Low pony with headband.

Face? Nice washing and waterproof mascara. I don't want the tears to leave pathetic black smears down my cheeks.

There are people there, man. They might be watching me. I might fart with exertion. I might fall over while standing. I might cry a little. ALL KINDS OF THINGS CAN GO WRONG.

In all, of course, the class was challenging and invigorating and positive, especially since I have been working so hard at home. I could tell a HUGE difference since last summer when I took my first class, and that is after just about a month of work.

Back to CC, though. It's not that she doesn't understand the pressure, it's just that she doesn't relate. So, in order to help my dear friend understand the mental stamina involved in heading to a pilates class in public, I create the following scenario:

Imagine I have invited you to a convention of crossword puzzle afficianados. Now, imagine ALL of them have a New York Times Saturday puzzle in front of them. They all do the puzzle regularly, so they already know words like ORT and RIV and all the other obscure crossword-only words.
Now, they give YOU the puzzle.
And ask you to solve it.
In front of everyone.
In a fat suit.

Which is exactly what going to Pilates class is like. It was good for me. I'm better off for having gone. But for a while, there, I wanted to curl up into a ball and hide, like a nine letter North American Dasypodidae.

Auld slang lyin'

I'm relieved that I made, and failed to keep, my new year's resolution early. It really saves me from the crowds at the gym the next couple of months. While I have exercised on and off since my kids were born, I was in a real, um, inert phase there for a while.

Now that I'm back into either walking or 'running' every day, I feel
a) entitled to eat a little bit more
b) more aware of my health in general
c) I should do other small things to be healthful

and, I don't dare tell CC about this, because someday when I'm off this kick, she'll use it to try to motivate me (curse her and her positive motivation):
d) like I kinda look forward to exercising each day.

Shh. It's totally the kind of thing I don't want to get out there.

But don't expect to see me at the gym or the health food store anytime soon.

I have one simple goal, for one simple reason:

I want to be skinny.

For vacation in March.

I finally have a deadline. I hope I have the willpower to make the goal happen. I doubt it, because let's be honest; seasonally available Oreos are both rare and delicious. Also, unless there is a global run on cheese and bacon, there is still a TON of food out there that I love.

I don't want to have abs or anything. I want to weigh 8 lbs (ideally 10) fewer than I weigh right this second. Well, not this second, but what I will weigh in a few days. (I've got the major PMS bloat, which makes me both heavy and MEAN.) This is not an unattainable goal. As long as there is somebody around to duct tape my mouth shut after a single helping of every meal. And as long as somebody invents a calorie-free way to approximate the nearing bliss of cocktails. (Let's keep it legal. Heroin would be great, of course, but the track marks would really distract from my figure in a swimsuit. No matter how much weight I lose or don't.)

Look. I'm vain. I get it. Do I care about my heart? Not really. Blood pressure's fine. Cholesterol is manageable. I visit doctors when I'm supposed to, and promptly ignore them. I don't want to run marathons or be a fitness model, or have washboard abs or be able to wear sleeveless dresses again. I just want the clothes I already own to fit better.

The journey of a 10 pounds starts with a single step. Maybe if I write everything down, I'll eat less.

I'm even drinking water right now.

Actually, that's not true. I'm drinking diet soda.

I need to work on the honesty of my food journal.

I guess I broke that other resolution early, too.
Shit. The whole new year's shot already.

You don't care that they're laughing...

So, in mid-September, you may remember I wrote about the idiocy involved in fouling up my knee cap. Which, by the way, is still not 100%, but apparently I was misled by the whole 40 is the new 30 crap, so I should never expect to be 100% again.
I have decided to begin "exercising" again. Yes, I DO know how scare quotes work, but in this case, they are clearly needed. Exercising up to this point has meant going for a walk. It's a brisk walk, and 45 minutes long, but still. It's walking.

People have been doing it for tens of thousands of years. It's not a sport: no crowds fans behind ropes cheering (verrry slooooooooooowly) for their favorite walker. Jersey sales for the walker league are next to nil. Nobody wants the #8 trading card of the 2000 walking season champ. So what I'm saying is, I have resumed doing what every person in Manhattan does every day for a living.

YAY ME!

The thing is, it takes up too much of my day. Stop laughing. For real. I have important stuff to do: pick up my house, put away laundry, iron, errands, blog, drink.
That 45 minutes is a big chunk. So, I've decided what I need to do is cover the same distance, only faster. You know what they call that? Running.
Homey don't play dat.

The many, varied reasons why I do not run:
1. It hurts
2. I look like Phoebe from friends (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E_0Ta_DIWuU&NR=1 ) copyright? What copyright? Thanks, NBC.
3. It hurts
4. I might fall and hurt myself
5. It makes my nose run
6. My unusual running style (see #2) means that my armpit rubs up against my sports bra and causes chafing.

BUT, I do have a treadmill, which we have had since Ethan was born. It has been used sporadically, (but during those intermittent exercise jags, I do use it regularly) which is surprising because of its readiness to use as a dry cleaning rack.

So, on my treadmill, the Phoebe style doesn't matter because there's no one to see. I can run with a soft cloth tucked into my sports bra to protect my delicate underarms, I keep a box of tissue in the cupholder, and while falling is not out of the question, the odds are reduced.

Unfortunately, I STILL cannot run. The kneecap does not abide. But I can walk a heckuvalot faster on the treadmill. So, two days ago, amidst the pouring rain, I decide to hop on that sucker. No more uneven sidewalks, rogue dogs and sprinklers for me! I'm exercising in comfort, if one can call it that.

But, it's been a while since I had my last exercise jag. The treadmill is in the playroom, so I have to unearth it. Much like a paleontological project, I can see how long it's been since my exercise regimen went extinct by the layers of crap that are on top of the treadmill:

Pool noodles (August)
S's 4K graduation certificate (May)
E's Santa hat from last year's school play (December, '09)
...it's been a while.

I put on my ipod, and press "start" and that baby hums to life. But as the belt loops around at a neck-snapping 2 miles per hour, dust flies up. Like primordial layer of actual measurable thickness kind of dust. I'm walking exceptionally slowly and sneezing. Are those FOOTPRINTS in the dust?!?

THIS is not what I had in mind.

I pause, get the dust rag out, wipe it all down and start again. I finally get the hang of it. Armpit insulators are working well, tissues staunching the snot. Everything's going just right.

In the end, I finish my 3 miles in under 40 minutes. I snap a pic of the display screen and email to CC. I know my personality, and I know that after that fiasco, I need a cheerleader.

CC promptly calls and says, all flattery and encouragement, "I can't be seeing this right! You are smokin' fast!"

I don't care that she's just being nice. I don't care that there are 100 year old tortoises who could move faster. I don't care that CC herself probably ran 8 miles in that time, in the rain, uphill both ways, that very morning. I don't care because she is my cheerleader and I need that.

Every Phoebe needs her Rachel.

Rubbed the wrong way

This weekend, CC is in Louisville, KY to support her husband as he participates in a triathlon. Not an Olympic, or "Intermediate" triathlon of 1.5 km swim, 40 km ride, and 10km run; but an unholy trinity of the Ironman triathlon of 3.8 km swim, 180 km ride, and 42.2 km run. I wish him luck.

I was gonna participate this year, but y'know, I'd die.

However, I DO appreciate the efforts towards fitness and healthy living. And, since I'm suffering through an hour-plus long carpool every afternoon, I've run out of excuses why I can't exercise. I can easily park my car, walk for 40 minutes, and return before the line moves an inch.

But my inertia is of Herculean strength. Being of good sense, I decided not to a) rush into anything and b) set reasonable expectations. I am totally one of those people who, in the event of rain and a missed walk, tosses in the towel, claims all is lost, and eats two dozen cookies. My goal is to walk three days a week, which I consider a very modest exercise goal.

Also, being of good sense, I had to do first things first: buy some clothes in which to take my walks. The Spring Hill Walker's Uniform is standard issue to women in the 36608: visor/cap, formfitting v-neck or tank top, black and white running-type shorts, ipod, shoes. Being both anti Spring Hill Women, and not a walker, I had only the ipod and the shoes. I have a cap from when I was at Northwestern. It'll do. I bought a cute walking skort, v-neck shirt, and made the shopping trip Monday's exercise.

Next, I had to actually walk. I parked my car and, indeed, walked for the designated time by myself through the streets surrounding the boys' school. Despite heat rivaling Satan's sauna, things were progressing satisfactorily.

Except. Except for one mortifying detail. My thighs, having not been exercised regularly in the last 35 years or so, rub together. And, in this devil's steam room of a climate, there is substantial sweat. After a brisk walk, my thighs boasted giant strawberries from chaffing. That was nearly it. As I said, it doesn't take much to discourage me. And certainly matching rashes on such delicate skin and so perilously close to my under-manicured nethers, are no small matter. Wednesday was out.

Thursday, on my way to carpool line, I stopped in at the drug store because I'd heard tell of a new product that reduces chaffing. Embarrassingly, I had seen it on TV. I think it's made by Gold Bond and the ad features heavy-set people happily throwing up their arms, skipping, and moving their limbs jauntily, freed from the discomfort of chaffing. Maybe, though I lack significant creases and folds, the anti-chaffing product could work for me.

Unfortunately, drug store did not carry said product. HOWEVER, they did carry a similar product, made by Massengill (?!?) that might suit my needs. The product isn't with athletic products like Icy Hot, or with skin remedies like Caladryl, or even with lotions. It is conveniently located with the feminine hygiene products. So, there I am, scouting past Astroglide, powders, douches, condoms, lube of all varieties, remedies for ewwwww, and lo, there on the bottom shelf. Silky gel to reduce chaffing in the "delicate bikini area." My bikini area cheered with optimism.

I lubed up my thighs and prepared for my walk. In the heat. Alone. But then, I saw SB and LE, and suddenly my lone trek was a laughing, upbeat trio. The walk was less boring, the company enlivening and I was (shh, it'll ruin my rep) having fun! And my lady bits didn't complain at all.

Friday, however, rain prevented me from achieving the hat trick I was aiming for. But I'm not giving up hope. Monday will come again, and I will oil up my thighs and start anew.