Eating My Way Back to Healthy?

The Strong Years

Random strong woman. (Not me. Nor my double.)

For almost 10 years, I taught eight to 12 group fitness classes per week: kickboxing, step aerobics, body sculpting, interval, spinning, treadmill trekking, even yoga (as a sub).

Along the way, I took lots of workshops and picked up certifications for the latest fitness crazes at any given time: urban rebounding, mat pilates, body pump, zumba, and on and on.

During my pregnancy, I continued to teach, even my spinning classes. Teaching helped with my swelling ankles. Teaching helped me feel fit. Strong. Healthy.

The Long Slide Down
After I had my baby, I continued teaching. When my son was almost two years old, I rejoined Corporate America -- on a part-time basis -- and continued to teach on my days off. Until I went back full time. Until I was promoted to officer. Until my job became all-consuming.

So I picked up running.

Then walking.

Then I stopped exercising.

I have since left that all-consuming job. But I'm still not exercising, and haven't for about a year. I'm still living on the benefits of my earlier teaching days. Or at least I was.

The Wrong Year 
My weight is still about the same. The jiggling is not. Nor is the thinning hair.

I think this hair loss is happening because I have no outlet right now for the stresses of the day.

My husband thinks it is due to my diet. My poor one, of course.

For years he has exhorted me to take a multi-vitamin. To eat healthier foods.

The Solution: GOMBS?

GOMBS. Mmm. Appetizing.

Anyway, here is what he says I should be eating every day (from the teachings of Dr. Joel Fuhrman on PBS):

• Greens, especially kale, collard greens, broccs, cauliflower
• Onions, either raw or chopped up small and cooked
• Mushrooms
• Berries and Beans
• Seeds and nuts, especially flax, sesame, walnuts

My husband, the apostle, calls it a diet of GOMBS, "chock full of micronutrients that act as immunity boosters."



I can eat other stuff, too. I just have to make sure I eat these particular foods every day.

Really?

Where's my multi-vitamin?

Where Art Thou, Little Bird?

I miss my little bird.

No, I'm not talking about a pet bird. Nor Angry Birds. Nor a certain part of my husband's anatomy. (Besides which, he'd object to the descriptor!)

Little brown bird.

Rather, I'm talking about a tiny wild bird that used to live in an enormous prickle bush outside my kitchen window. As I would make my coffee and fix my breakfast, he'd chirp away, while his delicate feet took his portly body hopping from branch to branch. And I would take soothing pleasure in his presence.

I'm reminded of my little friend as I sit in Montgomery County Community College's new art gallery. Above the latest exhibition, in the gallery's loft, there's a brown bird in this converted barn with me. He's flitting from window to window, perching here then there. As he picks his way across one of the exposed beams, his movements and his chirping bring to mind my little bird outside my kitchen window.

A few years ago, we had a patio installed outside my kitchen. There was no room for a large prickle bush. I really hated that ugly old bush. But I really miss my happy little bird.

In honor of my friend, here's one of my favorite Emily Dickinson poems. I'm hoping that my litttle bird was able to find another home, one where he is bringing soothing pleasure to another.

254
Emily Dickinson

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.

My Mixer

I finally started making my holiday cookies last night. Yeah, I'm appalled at myself, too.

Anyway, I started easy. Viennese Kiss Cookies. Only six ingredients. I wasn't sure whether my mixer was still working, so I dropped flour, butter (chilled and cut into 1-inch pieces), and sugar into my food processor. That did nothing but make a mess since flour and butter fell through the hole of the bowl and onto the food processor base itself. Meanwhile, the food processor couldn't seem to catch hold of the ingredients to process them. I ended up with the flour, butter, and sugar still in the same state as when I put them in.

So it was with some trepidation that I dragged out my mixer. Last time I used it -- last year -- the motor sounded like it was straining.

The mixer's old. In fact, it used to be my mom's. Her first mixer from back in the 1960s. A Sunbeam Mixmaster.

My mom's old Sunbeam Mixmaster. Now mine.
(Please ignore snorkle mask in background.)

I remember watching my mom use it when I was a little kid. I remember her turning the control on the end and watching the mixer speed up as she did.

I remember being fascinated by how the beaters got released. When you rotated the handle on top, down to the back of the mixer, there was a clicking noise as you rotated the handle. Then there was a second clicking noise when the beaters pushed out of their holders. You could then pull the beaters out one at a time to lick the batter off. I remember wondering why the second beater didn't fall into the batter while you were licking the first one, and being a little anxious that it would.

I remember thinking how cool the bowl size lever was. To move it between small and large, you had to push the lever down first. And when you did move it between bowl sizes, the whole top of the mixer moved in and out so that the beaters could move along the edge of the bowl, whether the bowl was large or small.

I remember that the beaters were shaped differently from each other; the one that went on the outside, along the edge of the bowl, was rounded, while the one on the inside was square. And when you put them into the mixer's holders, you had to put them in just right so that the notches lined up and clicked in. So sometimes you'd have to rotate them around a little 'til you got it right. I remember loving that clicking sound as they pushed into place. I still do.

The mixer is quite heavy, as it's almost all metal. Its weight reminds me of the old heavy cars we used to drive: our Country Squire station wagon (which I crashed when I was a teenage driver) and my dad's prized Mercury Cougar (which my mom gave away without consulting my dad when it was rusting in our driveway). Both of them boats.

As I was saying before I interrupted myself with a walk down memory lane, I plugged in the mixer and transferred the ingredients into the large mixing bowl. Then I moved the speed control from "OFF" to "1 Add Dry Ingredients/Folding." 

And that trusty, old, heavy mixer of my mom's began mixing my ingredients. 

And mmmm. Those Viennese Kiss Cookies were yummy.

How Ebay and Amazon Saved My Son's Christmases

Ever since my son got it into his head that Santa Claus can make anything, he's really put me to the test.

Three years ago, he asked for a Harry Potter action figure that could bend and move his arms and legs. Yep, he'd been burned by Santa in past years, who gave him "collectibles" instead of toys. He also wanted a Jango Fett action figure, which was nowhere to be found in any local stores. Ebay saved Christmas...and my son's belief in Santa that year.

Two years ago, he really wanted a Roxas action figure. If you don't know who the heck he is, he's the hero of a video game called Kingdom Hearts. At the time, these things weren't in any toy stores. Or else they were sold out. I can't remember. Damn stupid memory. Anyway, amazon was our saviour that year. (In addition to J.C., of course.)

Last year, he asked for baseball action figures. Enough to field two teams that could play each other. And which had arms and legs...as well as wrists and ankles...that could move and bend. (I've learned to look for "fully posable" in the product descriptions.) He also wanted them to have equipment: bats, gloves, balls, oh my! Amazon!

This year, my son's at it again. He has asked for a full-size car that has a gokart engine that he can drive around our neighborhood because "Santa can make anything." I'm hoping I can find this on ebay or amazon. Or that my son will forget he wanted this. Or that I can convince my husband that maybe it's time to tell my son the truth. I'll be happy with any of the above.

It's the Journey

I'm all about the results. The final product. The destination. It's usually only after I've got the results that I can then look back on the journey. And only if the results are good do I feel good about the journey.

My son brought home to me how short-sighted, how...unjoyous...this type of approach is.

Creepy Incredible Edibles. Note the
kids on the box having a blast. The liars.

Recently he saw a commercial for Creepy Incredible Edibles. In the ad, the kids are mixing these concontions then "daring to eat or drink" them. Things like Bio Brains and Green Goo and Gummy Body Parts. And they're having a blast doing so.
His excitement -- his sense of wonder, and of the possibilities -- was contagious. He's been a really good listener lately. So I found myself agreeing to bring him to the store to buy these incredible edibles. I paid for half, and he paid for half with his own money. We brought the box home and he made the easy stuff first, the stuff that didn't require equipment that needs assembly. Stuff that only needed measuring some water and mixing with packets of powder. At first it was fun. The Fizzy Drink changed color like it was supposed to. It fizzed  up just as it was supposed to. But then came the time to drink it. And my son took a sip. Then had to hold back the barf. And the disappointment. It tasted terrible.

We made everything else in this box. And each one tasted awful. And after each one, the disillusionment on my son's face grew. I became obsessed with getting the measurements perfect, the process letter-perfect, the timing exactly right. Hoping against hope that if we just did it correctly, that this would magically make the conconctions taste good. And remove the look of utter disenchantment from my son's face.

Until we finally made a Gummy finger. He became so scared to do any of the steps himself, for fear of doing it wrong. So I took over. And of course it still came out tasting like crap, at which point, he promptly burst into tears. Sad and feeling bad, I asked him what was making him cry. Was it because they tasted bad and he'd been thinking they would taste good, based on the reaction of the kids in the commercial?

No.

Sniff.

He was crying because making them wasn't fun.

Oh.

Ouch.

I washed all the equipment. Then, I suggested that he make the next batches himself.

"What if I do it wrong?" he asked.

Oh. Another stab of pain.

There is no wrong, I told him. You just do it and have fun. You're free to do whatever you want with them. Make whatever you want.

"Okay," he said. "But throw away the instructions."

Gladly!

Beginning Where I Am

I'm an all or nothing kind of gal.

If I'm running really late for an event, often I'll end up not going. I tell myself I'm so late, why bother. Never mind that I might have enjoyed the second half of the event...or had fun connecting with the people there once I arrived. 

Or I'll stubbornly tell myself I need at least a whole week off from work to clean out and declutter my walk-up attic, even though the Flylady tells me I can accomplish the same thing in 15 minutes a day. Of course, I have yet to prove to myself that this 15 minutes a day thing works because I have yet to DO a 15 minute boogie with a trashbag.

My latest ridiculousness is around my writing. I'm convinced I need several hours in a day to devote to my writing -- I can't write in any less amount of time. Since I don't have several hours to devote to my writing (who the heck has several hours to devote to anything?), I don't write.

And another day goes by without my having added any new scenes or pages to my story.

And another day of not working toward my dream slips by.

So I've decided I'm going to try something new. I'm going to Begin Where I Am. I forgive myself for all those days of not writing. In fact, I'll forgive and FORGET about them. I'll just put those days out of my mind and focus on now. Where I am. And put pen to paper. All I need is one new thought. One new sentence. Maybe even one new paragraph. And tomorrow, same thing. Until hopefully one day I'll look up and find myself at the end of my story...and ready to start another one.

This, Too, Shall Pass

It's already mid-October, and I dressed my son in shorts for school yesterday. I know that soon enough we'll be bundled in winter coats and shoveling snow and ice from our porch and driveway. But right at this moment, with the sun shining warmly down, it's hard to believe we'll be doing that.

I'm reminded of a sermon I once heard by a priest at the University of South Dakota about 20 years ago. It was the year after I graduated from college, when I traveled for my sorority as a leadership consultant, developing and advising our college women. The priest was a bit theatrical, and he started his sermon by standing right in front of us and pouring salt into his hand. His theme: This too shall pass.

The priest's salt pile has grown in dimensions in my mind,
or at least in importance!

It was a sermon about how everything that happens to you in life, both good and bad, will pass. It was his interpretation of "to every thing there is a season." And he ended it by reading various scenarios, and after each one, we repeated, "This too shall pass." He had us giggling when he'd read a sentence about becoming president or acing an exam, and we'd have to say, "This, too, shall pass." And he had us thinking when he'd talk about a loved one dying or experiencing a breakup with a boyfriend or girlfriend.

I struggle with how to share this important lesson with my eight-year old. Especially when he's sobbing and says he wants to die after events such as the Phillies losing in the first round of the playoffs, or when we can't find the book that was advertised at the end of one of his Captain Underpants books because it looks like the author never wrote it.

I worry that if he's feeling that way about relatively trivial things, how will he handle something truly tragic? And later, will he be able to survive his teenage years when life is so narrowly defined by a small high school peer group?

How do I honor his very real feelings of despair and disappointment, while also helping him understand that while it seems like dark times now, this too shall pass?