Sloth + Gluttony = Sluttony

(In our family, cake doesn't have a chance.  There are scavengers everywhere.)

In the old days (last month), there would be treats or candy or ‘fun’ food in the house, because there was always something to celebrate around here.  Take the 6-month-long ConFest (Festival of the Confections) which you and I just survived: the season from Halloween to Easter where society opens its Fructose Floodgates and hitches ‘candy’ to the caboose of every holiday.  To make matters worse, I knew I was hooked when my husband would announce to the family that the dessert was ready, and the voices in my head would hiss at him to say, “Shhhh, don’t tell the kids.  Then there will be more for US.”  Perhaps I did say it out loud.  The treats and snacks, even just sitting quietly on the counter, had a presence about them; a siren’s call of happiness.  “Join us,” they’d whisper.  Sometimes, they had a French accent, and I’m a sucker for the French. 

And yes, there was also plenty of healthy food and comfort food.  My husband and our kitchen are in love, madly, and the results of their unions are known all over our friendship circles.  He loves the science of inventing things that romp on one’s taste buds, and has been known to make sauces from a vidalia onion, peanut butter and bag of nails.  When I invite people over to eat, their polite faces silently hold their breath, bracing for the beige meal sure to come from my efforts, but when they hear my husband is cooking, they give silent thanks, for Mardi Gras has arrived again and another angel has gotten their wings.  

Perhaps many of you can relate to similar temptations in your life.  Well, pair that with the impossible list of Necessary Things That Experts Tell You To Do In Order To Live Correctly.  “Floss; pluck eyebrows; sunscreen; do a breast self-examination in the shower; donate to 401k again; call parents; take a look at any worrisome moles and lock in their exact dimensions so as to remember changes in eight months; shave; take vitamins; say brief prayers for family and friends who are suffering today; breakfast and lunch the kids; fret about their spiritual life; remember to call the plumber; pull spoon (with dried yogurt) off the carpet; I think I smell a gas leak; what stinks in the car?”  You name it.  You could all insert 345 things on this list that burns you up before you leave for work.   

What’s the casualty, over and over and over? One’s health.  It gets Last Place, last thought, crumbs, the sound of crickets.  Is it any wonder I’ve been grabbing the easiest food, blasting it in my mouth and not even tasting, using it for fuel so I could keep moving through my 18-hour day?  Most days, it’s like triage in a war zone.  

Knowing this bleak picture, I walked into the fire: the first five days of my weight loss.  They were really hard.  Those are the days where one is motivated with the crisp promises to oneself, but also the days where it is so easy to backslide.  Why?  Well, I still had my feet touching both worlds… the “Eating With Poor Choices” and the “Ready To Eat Better” worlds.  I was still so close to the starting gate, so that I could streeeeeeeeeeetch and reeeeeeeeach and sliiiiiiiiiiiiiide my foot back and still touch it, able to take a rear lunge into the wicked regions of gluttony from where I had just left.   I mean, it’s right there for the picking.   Right there. 

“Just start over tomorrow," whispers Sluttony.

Suddenly, when you hit Day Five, you’ve got some distance from the starting line, and Day One can’t touch you anymore. 

So, anyway, here I am, Day Twenty.   Here is how my weight loss has gone:

2-4 pounds lost, depending on the humidity in the house and the tilt of the earth.  There’s no denying it; my body is hoarding it, socking it away in the basement and behind the fireplace, like the old European way of saving money.  She’s not ready to give it up yet.

I can wait her out. 

But, I DID yell at her last night as I measured my waist quietly, so my notebook wouldn’t know.  My waist had gained an inch.  Sigh.  Note to self: don’t do that again for a while. 

“Beans.”  That must be it, I said to no one in particular. “I’m just a little more puffy because of the ‘air’, like a potato chip bag at high altitudes.”  I looked in the mirror, finger pointed with betrayal and blame for five minutes (allow me that luxury; I'm not a saint), then we kissed and made up. 

Despite all this, the last three weeks have taught me something which may hold the key to my personal success.  The five to six times a day where I have been placing food in my mouth, I have been forced to be mindful.   It’s been the act of taking the time, of thinking about what I’m putting in my body and WHY.  It’s not the counting of each calorie, servings or points that will help me lose the weight.  It’s the ACT of stopping six times a day among the sparking wires in the train station of my mind, and putting myself first for just a few minutes.  It's ignoring obligations and having a purpose to eating.  Because I'm forcing myself to focus on that one thing, I have time to adjust the portion, swap out better options, respect the fuel.  I have time to plan my food and write the proper things on the grocery list.  I figure I have been given six chances a day to do the right thing, and I’m shooting for 90%.  I’m going to give myself a high-five. I trust that my body will follow shortly and lose what it needs to lose, especially when I crank up the exercise.  And family, prepare yourselves.  If this works for me, I'm going to convert you.

So, next time my husband displays another dessert masterpiece, I will not hiss and hoard.  Now, it’s time to share. 

Next up…my continuing epiphany on 'calendar clutter' and weight.  It's kept me up a few nights.

Evolution

(pictured here…the very moment I came up with my blog idea. Captured forever on celluloid.)

This morning, I had a wide gulch of possible ideas for my blog post.  But during a short walk, I felt the pleasant sting of a good blog topic, much like a satisfying sunburn.  It happened when something triggered it during a mundane moment.  This always happens.  A key phrase, a funky smell or sound gives me a 950-word essay.  Today, my trigger was a rock.  Don’t ask.  So gather by the fire, friends.  I have stuff to tell you.   

During the enormous energy it took setting up a blog about how I’m going to live healthier, it hit me that I had to spend the rest of the time actually living healthier.  But I knew I needed to start the blog first, to give me a launch point in my mind.  However, I’m hampered by technology; we have scorn and contempt for each other.  Everyone who knows me, would agree.  I just want to write, even if it’s with lipstick.   My brain likes to run free with the unicorns and squirrels, but my husband is the guy who builds the barn that holds all the critters in a safe place.  We can make a good team, provided we’ve had sleep.  So, after two days of labor and some choice words together, we had the beginnings of the blog.   

I looked at him through bloodshot eyes, and said, “Well, we birthed it.  Now, what do we name it?”  I knew we needed a good site name, one that I could yell out of a car to a friend so they could easily remember it when they got home.  Here’s how the ancient, time-tested Naming Ceremony went. 

Me:  “How about Egg?  That’s an easy name to remember.”

Him: “Egg?  You want to call your site Egg?”  (type, type, search search.)  “Sorry.  It’s taken!”

Me: “Sunshine?”

Him: “TAKEN!”

Ten more great words, all Taken!

Suddenly there appeared a twitch on the left side of my face.  I narrowed my eyes at him, because it was somehow his fault.  All of this.  I get like this when I start slamming the door on treats during the first few days of ‘eating healthier.’ 

Me: “How about Bastard?” as I looked right into his face.  He knew it was nothing personal.

Him: “Taken.  And besides, it could be spelled many different ways, like Basturd, Basterd or Bastird. So, it’s probably not a good choice.” 

This is why I love him.  Did you see how he stepped right over it and kept moving?  Then, he tossed this little gem back to me in all its foul glory:

Him: “Oh, here’s one that’s not been taken.  'BigEffingComplainer.'” 

This is why I really REALLY love him.  And it’s an available name!  I mean, that was a bonus afternoon. 

But somehow, we got trapped into “freddiesmom50x50.”   This is because we littered the blogosphere carelessly and unknowingly, and the blog fairies clamped their jaws shut on it.  After all that work, we still ended up with a confusing name to yell from the car window.  That’s been my only regret so far. Oh, and the fact that I spelled ‘scurvy’ wrong on my last post.  I don’t know how that got by me, but I may have blown a spark plug during the proofread.  

And for my next act…

Like most of you, I like to be busy.  But I’ve had a year-long epiphany on clutter and weight and how I am finding them to be strange bedfellows who are actually cousins.  By clutter, I include the huge, but underestimated culprit: “Calendar Clutter.”  Give me a few more days to firm up my thoughts…I’m almost there.  Thanks for stopping by for a quick sip.

(yes, when you get this via email, my words are run-on in some places.  I abhor technology.)



They Shoot Horses, Don't They?

(Sheri's actual "Heart Behaving Badly")

Fall of 2011: a rough season.  There were many traumatic events in my circle of family and friends and it felt like there was a curse in the air each day I awoke.  I know the universe has a right to hiccup once in a while, but it was endless and intense.  Because I internalized it, stress started doing funny things to my heart and stomach during the days I was trying to hold it together for myself and others.  

Suddenly, I developed a weird heart rhythm, chest pains and dizzy spells.  What was next, scurvy?  I had already been sidelined for six months because I blew my knee out in a horrific beach-volleyball-spike-gone-awry accident (but I STILL made the shot, baby), and hadn’t been able to run.  And running would have been SO right for this kind of stress.  Since I couldn’t run, I should have just taken a whack at our fence with a 9-iron.  Everyday, at 3 p.m.  Since I did none of those things, my ailments stayed.  Finally, I put myself first (after of course getting the washing machine fixed), and started the mind-numbing month of seeing specialists.  When your heart is in danger, the mother-lode of tests awaits you.  You get taken very seriously.  And you are told you can't be a runner yet, until you get cleared.

So, enter, The Stress Test (Treadmill Of Damnation.)  Just two weeks ago.

I heard about this beast.  Last year, I could run for a whole 44 minutes straight, and I was never once distracted by the vultures drafting off of me.  Surely, with the right treadmill test strategy, and my physiologist/husband’s obsessive need to be Fully Informed Before Walking From The Kitchen To The Living Room, I knew I had this covered. So, the hour before my stress test, he gave me the full description of what would happen.   I gathered a saucy playlist on my iPod, to mask the sounds of my own hoofs on the treadmill.  He made me a lunch so I could carb-load.  He tried to have faith in me, but I swear I heard him mutter, “That’s what a ‘last meal’ looks like.” However, we still had faith that I could hang on for at least 15 minutes; maybe 15.5 minutes, tops.  

I arrived to be admitted by a grandma-type.  I signed my forms and she blinked and said, “Well thank you.  You’ve just signed over your Rolex here, and your BMW here.”  I looked at her anew, full of the delight and interest one would use when seeing Joan Rivers in a cubicle.  She then hit me with this gem, “I’d love a Harley, but it would have to be a three wheeler,” and at that moment, I knew I was in love with her and it was going to be a magnificent day. 

But not so fast. 

I then entered the cardiac waiting room with a ‘Vacancy’ sign flashing overhead.  I saw a staff of beautiful nurses and technicians, who were upbeat and ready for me.  One technician, who looked genuinely happy to see me, readied the room for my great moment.  I heard lotions, seat covers smartly snapped and put in place, drawers opening, tools being clinked together.   

I felt my high wear off as I suddenly realized: this doesn’t sound like a spa.  It sounds like surgery---the heinous signals of an experiment.  

Then, my name was called in a “Sheri, party of one, your table is ready” kind of voice, as my heart cowered in its cage. 

Courage, courage, I thought, as she led the Clydesdale into the small room. 

The room!   NORAD, with wires, monitors and machines, but no lavender or candles. Anywhere.  Within minutes, I was efficiently plugged into things with bundles of telephone cables, jump ropes and dynamite fuses.  Suddenly, like when they discovered the Titanic, my heart image and EKG readings came into view on the monitor; the stock-market numbers raising and lowering, letting us all know my every thought.  I cast a sideways glance at The Treadmill, and thought….this isn’t a leisurely run through the forest to impress them with my stamina…their job is to run this horse into the ground until it drops.  Final comprehension is a wonderful thing if you catch it in time.  I was dying for them to ask me if I had eaten a light lunch, so I could answer, ‘Yes, a sausage on a hoagie roll!!!’ because sarcasm was pretty much all I had, what with being naked under the paper towel I was wearing.  I wasn’t allowed to use the iPod.  Please, I just wanted to make them laugh.  

We had to wait for the doctor, so I was alone in the room for a bit, with my numbers splayed open like the Book of Life.  I wanted to write down something in my ‘one-day-I’m-going-to-blog’ notebook of ideas.  Because this was good stuff. 

I saw my heart rate go up.  Simply reaching for the pen. 

I am hosed. 

I also had just bought a new set of running shoes in honor of this new era ahead of me, and as I stuck my feet in the mouth openings, I swear the shoes spit them back out in disgust as they muttered, “Imposter!”  Then, suddenly, the room came to life, as Team Sheri came in to lead me to damnation.  They were truly a positive group and I felt calm, even as someone's hand hovered over the trigger.

I whispered…bring it, proud of my resolve, like right before you birth a child or yank on that extra sunburned skin flap. 

It was all a blur.  My playlist wouldn’t have helped, because they hit “Incline” fairly quickly.    Six crazy minutes later, they seemed to have seen enough and the treadmill stopped, leaving only dust and smoke.  The Sheriff has left town.  The gunfight is over.  

Six minutes?  Not even enough time to save the world, and they already figured me out. 

“Your heart is perfect.  You can start being a runner again.” 

Wha?  Oh, sweet Mother of Mercy.  I looked at the image of my heart and bestowed that beautific look of love.  You know that look.  The one you give your pet or your child when they smear something sticky on the floor, and it is ART. 

Good girl.   All the way home, as I drove, I just kept saying,"Good girl."  I don’t know if I meant me or my heart, but both of us were cleared to start moving again.  Which makes me both happy and agitated because gosh, I HATE running. 

Many of you have sweetly told me my blog has inspired you to start your own exercise routine.  I’m sorry about that…I didn’t mean it.  Unless of course, this is how you want to do things around here. 

In that case, can I tell you how much pride I have whenever one of you emails me to tell me you are making little changes too?  

(The program that emails my posts to you, has run-on some of my words.  I am so sorry….we’re looking into it.) 

'Nobody Sat On It' Isn't A Good Reason To Eat Something

My friend Kerry said this to her kids.  Isn't she a genius? I howled because it made me think of when we act like anteaters, sucking up anything during our day, unrestrained, too busy to care if we just ate an ant or a rock.  Okay, maybe you don't do this, but I boldly admit I have had my anteater days.  Like on Easter Sunday.

Anyway, when last I left you, I measured my body.  Then, I brought out The Tools.  Simple ones so as not to frighten me:  a measuring cup, a piece of scratch paper, a pencil and measuring spoons.  These will be my most influential and important pals for a while, so I consecrated a small spot on my counter as “Sheri’s Space.” Then, I started my day of normal eating. 

But there was a catch….I put myself on a budget, because that seems to work for me.  Some people count points, servings or have a food journal.   I respond to the actual counting of calories.  So, that being said, I played “Banker” and gave myself 1500 ‘dollars’ a day to spend. 

Everything was counted as it passed my lips, so that pretty much made my mouth a toll booth. 

I wrote the calories on the scratch paper which was on a clipboard, because it felt so official.  Every time I ate something, I was a nurse, charting at her station.  For this week, I just focused on eating no more than 1500 calories, no matter what it was.  And I found quickly that the cookie or few leftover Cheetos just cost me too much, threatening to use up valuable currency before dinner.

For some reason, there was comfort in seeing the numbers.  Since many things are labeled anyway, and some things I could quickly look up on Google (adding it to my Rogue Food list), I’d just eat, and add.  I didn’t even write down raw vegetables, because they are so low, and if I had to estimate anything, I’d estimate high. 

I became good at conversion pretty fast (4 tablespoons equals ¼ cup, 3 teaspoons equals 1 tablespoon, etc.) which I wrote down on a little strip of paper.  Our normal spoons are basically also 1T or 1t sized, so I could use those if I had caked the measuring spoons with butter or olive oil in the desperate rush to get a lunch together during the ‘low blood sugar’ tremors.  When I’d have a meal with multiple items, I’d start swapping things out if they tilted the numbers too fast.  It was like a little game.  Because weight loss is so damn much FUN. 

I was also counting on laziness to appear, because at some point, I’d think of a snack but it would be too cumbersome to measure.  I'd sigh and reach for something easier, like an apple.   

Pasta sucks when it comes to measuring it.  Try having a bowl of whole wheat spaghetti..."2 ounces or 1/7 of this box equals 180 calories--uncooked."  What crappy food labeler decided to punk us all with calculus equations?   Well, by day three, this pissed me off.  I was hungry and didn’t have time for this.  So, I took out my dissection kit (don't look at me that way; my husband teaches physiology), and I played the game.  I counted, divided, boiled and measured in my little kitchen lab to get to the bottom of this.  Cooked whole wheat spaghetti is about 160 calories per cup.  High five. 

Within one day, it became clear two things had been sabotaging me.  I have healthy food lying around but I’ve just been eating too much of it AND waiting too long to eat it.  That’s why I’d go from Extremely Satisfied to Ripping-the-Door-Off-The-Pantry to grab a fistful of triskets, leaving a cloud of cracker dust in the air from eating so fast.  

If you try this method, it would be interesting to see what starts to reveal itself to you about the past.   

I’ve done this for about a week to lock in some habits and get a better feel for portion sizes.  When I eat at a friend’s house and go commando without labels, I’ll be able to judge things better.  

As for the photo above, I tend to be very hard on myself, too tenacious with crisp and colorless routines and a punishing pace; just so very…German (I’m German, so I can say that.)  I’ve recently been having much more success when being gentle with myself and honoring anything that peacefully helps my body and soul become healthier.  Thus, I tossed my utilitarian measuring spoons, and bought those beautiful, medieval spoons.  They make me happy to use them and look at them and hold them.  

There will be days I'll hiss at myself in the mirror, but let’s hope there are less of those and more of the “How YOU doin’?”  

For my next post: She starts moving.

     

Numbers Are Cruel, Just Like Third Grade Girls

Week One  (pronounced "Weak One")

(Warning:  Mental Images are Visually Graphic.  Eat lunch first.)

Measurement day!  Before I started anything else (well, besides this blog), I had to get this evil out of the way.  Time to document my starting point.  I began with my feet, because I wanted to start with small numbers (for my morale), and because I suspect even they’ve gotten bigger.  My poor feet:  they have NO idea what I’m about to ask of them next week.

Simmering. Can You Smell The Garlic?

(I'm sorry, that was cruel.  I'm not really cooking this right now.  But this, this masterpiece is my husband's doing, and it's exactly why I love to eat.  It features vegetables from the gardens of several friends, which makes me think of all of you, my support.) 

Other Uses For Your Chin-Up Bar

I turn 50 next year, on Easter Sunday.  I love the symbolism of it all…rebirth, a new life, a second chance.  I’m also carrying an extra 50 pounds from life choices and having two kids.  I can no longer say “I’m carrying baby weight,” because she’s almost eight now. I am not ashamed to say I enjoy the occasional apple fritter, because when the perfect one comes along, it needs to come home.  My husband is a great cook and I am not.  I love the smell of food, the sound of dishes and the gathering of friends.  Yes, I am known to forget to eat when I write for hours, and then can devour half of a baguette like a wood chipper.  When my son accidentally rolled his car a few months ago after he got his license, I was known to reach for a few slices of whatever was on the counter.  Boredom and stress are my triggers.

Prior to that, I never had a weight problem, ever, until I turned 32.  I am actually okay with my dress size and I don’t mind the actual pounds.  What does bother me, is that I can’t paint my toes because I have a fanny pack which has spun around to my front, and it makes it hard to bend.  I also miss wearing my wedding ring.  My fingers used to be long, making my hands my best feature.  Also, I take blood pressure and cholesterol meds…my heredity is partly to blame, but my choices aren’t helping.   I hate taking pills and want to eventually stop.  I love my doctor and I just want to show some good numbers to him at my next physical because he’s an authority figure and I need to make him proud.  And I just want to be able to cross my legs at the movies.

But the biggest problems with this weight, are my eyes.  My son looked at ‘before’ and ‘after’ pictures, and he noticed the difference in my eyes.  He was right.  My eyes look so much better when I care.  

I won’t reveal my ‘before’ photo and weight, until I make some progress.   I’d like to greet my 50th birthday with my best self.  I want to walk up to it, face it and say, “How YOU doin’?” 

Will I peel off 50 lbs?  I don’t know.  We all know how to lose weight, but why do we fail?  For me, it’s motivation.  I think I represent that average Joe who just doesn’t have the time or energy to make it the #1 priority, with the intensity and focus of all those super bloggers who work really hard to keep it high on their radar.  I can put it #1 on my list some days, and try to work it into my week, but I fully acknowledge there are so many daily distractions that exist to derail me.   So, since I am motivated by shame, I will try it out loud, in front of the world.  There are sure to be ridiculous, poignant and revealing moments that I will stumble upon, and I am anxious to write about them all. 

Welcome to my experiment.  Can a busy person stay focused and actually succeed within the confines of a parent-spouse-friend-daughter-volunteer-worker lifestyle? Where weight loss is one of seven children and not your number one child?  Come with me, and if you are anything like me, you’ll know I’m doing it out of morbid curiosity. 

Let’s see what unfolds.