Chronicles of a Late Bloomer

Dad is the one with diabetes. He was diagnosed about 10 years ago, and has since been promoted from mild sensitizing drugs to multiple insulin shots daily. He’s maybe 30-40 pounds overweight on his worst days.

BUT.

In his natural environment, my Dad does okay with eating well. He really likes vegetables (!!!) and so generally he’ll steam up asparagus or broccoli even when my mom makes a pasta/meat/bread/sweets spread for dinner. But, in my family of 9, he was generally the only one who would eat them.

He has a natural hunger switch, eats less than the rest of us, and quits when he’s done.

Dad also doesn’t mind walking across campus to mail a letter, or go to a meeting, or whatever else, even though campus is nearly a mile long. For a while, actually, he was doing a lot of walking and lost some weight on accident. He looked and felt great. He used to play basketball and, for a while in my childhood, would play raquetball on Saturdays.

But, Dad loves my mom. He loves her so much that he enables her in her inactivity. They both work at the same university, but he has a parking sticker which allows him access to all of the roads and lots on campus. He routinely picks her up and offers her door-to-door services for her campus errands. He has crafted a life for her which is virtually without effort. She buys the groceries, but he hefts them out of the car and carts them up and down the stairs to put them away. He does the laundry, which involves another round of up-and-down-stairs runs. He even protects her from her greatest enemy: cooking.

Who can blame her? She hates cooking. After feeding 7 hungry babies, who wouldn’t? Apparently, she has always hated cooking, but now she especially hates the exertion of it — the standing and bending and lifting and chopping — so they routinely eat out. She doesn’t like exotic foods or anything with too much spice (and won’t even add salt to the foods she makes because “it tastes so strong”) so she’s stuck with places like Tony Roma’s, Outback, Applebee’s, and her favorite — Sizzler.

Believe me, she’s not eating from the salad bar at those places.

I was telling RecordStoreRomeo about it this weekend. I had made a delicious panini from scratch, using whole wheat artisan bread, fresh mozzarella, heirloom tomato slices, and pine nuts. I coupled it with a butter lettuce salad tossed with a homemade garlic/lemon dressing. It was superbly delicious, fresh, and whole. He asked, “Where did you learn to cook like this?”

Unfortunately, my answer was, “Mostly from cookbooks and tv shows.” My mother was a child of the 50’s, and her cooking reflects that. Her primary method of cooking involves various combinations of pre-packaged foods, relying heavily on Kraft products and other processed stuff. There’s nothing she loves more than a summer bar-b-que of chicken breasts, ribs, steak, and shrimp. She’ll fill up on those meats and not even leave room for mayo-drenched potato salad, let alone a leafy green. Costco provides a never-ending parade of frozen appetizers which were once fried — taquitos, chicken strips, egg rolls, and the like — on which she binges. And, she taught the rest of us well.

It’s going to be really interesting to see if she can survive Weight Watchers. I know it’s been hard for me.

You could have knocked me over with a feather last night when my dad announced that he and my mom have started on the Weight Watchers program. Mom talks a lot about needing to lose weight, but I have only known her to do something about it maybe 2 times in my entire life. She is easily 100+ pounds overweight.

I finally got my mom on the phone to own up, and exclaimed incredulously to her, “I mean, did you go to a meeting and everything?”

Well, no. They signed up for online services including e-tools, but hey. It’s a start and, shoot: that’s basically the plan I’m following at this point. But, I did my time with 2 years of meetings before I quit.

A few weeks ago, she called me to complain about insomnia, and blamed it largely on worries about her health. I’ll admit — I tuned out a little bit. How many hundreds of times have I heard her say, “I really need to lose weight. I should start walking. I should stop eating dessert. I should… I should… I should…?” She’s always trying to rope me in to be her diet buddy, which I think has contributed in some way to my whole diet aversion. I couldn’t bear the weight (forgive the pun) of her ill health along with mine.

Anyway, during the insomnia, she told me she was up all night crafting and concocting new diets. One of them was called the “100 Bite Diet.” I was almost afraid to ask what that was. “You know,” she chirped. “I’d just count my bites and only eat 100 a day.”

The magic of telecommunications allowed me to roll my eyes and still seem like a good daughter. “And how is that going so far?” I ventured.

“Great,” she said. “It only took me 10 bites to get through breakfast, and I just had 4 bites of candy bar, so that’s good.”

And that is when I heard myself dropping the bomb.

“You know, mom. You don’t actually need to stay up nights inventing diets when so many other people have done it for you. I mean, maybe you should just join Weight Watchers and see if their plan would work for you. It’s sensible and for some people it really works.”

After that little lecture, I felt guilty. For the past few months, I’ve thought I could craft my own plan by piecing together bits of knowledge from various sources. I should restrict somewhat, but not to the point of measuring. Gosh, no. I shouldn’t eat any sugar at all, but should rely on a sort of South Beach mentality with “only good carbs.” That’s it… and then I’ll count points but only eat Core foods, and then every 3rd Wednesday I’ll allow myself to have ice cream. Or a Free Day. Because that’s what I think I’d like best. And other diets let you have a Free Day. So, hey. It must be okay, right?

Well, sue me. I am my mother’s daughter. So, I sat myself down and gave myself the same lecture about not reinventing the wheel and have gotten back on the Weight Watchers wagon this week. I don’t really think it’s dramatically better than any other plan out there — but it’s a plan, and it was written by people who supposedly know more than I do, and so it’s a fine enough place to start [over].

There’s a part of me that’s a little bit excited about having a WW buddy in the family. Today she told me she felt guilty for the bagel she had at breakfast. “I only put 1 tablespoon of cream cheese on it, though, and it was whole wheat.”

“Mom,” I soothed. “There are no bad foods. All you do is write it down and then, at dinner time, decide what you can eat based on the points you have left.”

And then, I stopped. And blinked. And I realized I have never once heard of my mother having a whole wheat anything on purpose. And she was at least aware of how much cream cheese she was using, and holy crap. That’s progress.

I’m proud of both of us.

In recent years, Binge Eating Disorder has begun to get more and more attention. A few months ago, I was listening to an NPR report about a recent medical study. The study had set out to measure rates of “standard” eating disorders (Anorexia and Bulimia) and instead found that a huge number of adults exhibit the signs of Binge Eating Disorder — many more adults than previously thought, including men.

A survery is currently up at Women’s Health Magazine online which is also taking a look at eating behaviors and I recommend that everyone jump over there and contribute. The more we know, the better — whether through commercial or academic routes.

(Thanks for the link, Jen.)

After an hour [of walking], thought-journeys into the past and future have become less compulsive, and less tinged with regret and anxiety. As I reach the little notch that will bring me to the top of the cliff, I realize that my eyes have abandoned their aggressive “reading,” and have begun to do what I can only call “caress” things. . . At the top of the cliff I stop, and find that I’ve crossed the color threshold.

If I stay out long enough, I can expect this transition, though it doesn’t always happen. Colors become more distinct and saturated, light more radiant and dense, even on cloudy days. . .

Today, along with a heightened awareness of light and color, comes a rinse of relief: I have arrived here, all is well.

I first became a Hannah Hinchman fan when I was learning to journal and draw and paint and generally take notice of things. In her book, A trail through leaves: The journal as a path to place, Hannah talks a lot about meditation. Her journals primarily honor and explore the badlands of Wyoming where she lived at the time, and she uses walking, journaling, and art-making to hone her attention and focus onto the things that are Really Important.

This idea — of crossing the color threshold — has always stuck with me. If I had unlimited time, I too would wander around outdoors with a blank book and a set of watercolors and walk and walk and walk until the world seemed magical and right. This type of meditation would suit me just fine, I suppose, although I have never had the luxury of book royalties and art commissions from which to test out that theory. Still, I experience something vaguely similar when I exercise.

I have noticed that it takes me about 13 minutes to cross the Treadmill Threshold. That is, routinely — around minute 11, when my legs feel like lead and I am miserable and haven’t yet really worked up a sweat and find my breath coming in irregular, raspy gasps — I think to myself, Why am I doing this? I hate this. I want to stop. I want to go home. I don’t want to exercise or lose weight or be healthy or any of those things. It’s too much work. It’s hard. I gave it a whirl and I don’t feel good and now I am going to stop.

What I have learned is that if I can push through to minute 12, 13, 14 and beyond, suddenly my legs feel like they have transformed from lead pipes to wings. I do a little shadowboxing in beat to the music. I feel light and free and even skip a little bit for the joy of it. I laugh, sometimes, to think of myself whipping along — heart rushing, sweating, breathing. I feel healthy and strong and think, Why, I could do this for hours! What was I bellyaching about?

Incidentally, this has also happened when I was walking outdoors, off of the treadmill. It’s just that when on the treadmill, I am ever so much more aware of the minutes as they tick by. Now, at minute 7 or 8 when I start feeling really miserable, I can just think to myself, “Just push through and cross the threshold. If it still sucks then, you can stop.” I never have yet.

Does this happen to you?

Any or all of these may turn into their own entries in the future, but here are some thoughts that go through my head at the gym:

1. The Treadmill Threshold: That magical moment when my legs turn from lead to wings.
   
2. The Time Factor: How long it really takes to go to the gym, and how realistic it is (or isn’t).
   
3. The iPod Problem: How to pack a range of songs wide enough to speed me along in work chores (Johnny Cash, Ani DiFranco), to commute to and fro (James Taylor, Brandi Carlile), and to actually want to feel the burn at the gym (Britney Spears, Kelly Clarkson, SHUT UP)? Unfortunately for me, the answer may be to get a bigger iPod. I really thought 8 gig would be enough, but it’s not even close.
   
4. The Big Question: Really, why do I care so much about what other people think of me?
   
5. The Rewards System: There are lots out there to choose from…
   
6. The Personal Trainer Envy: And why I hope writing down numbers on a calendar will do.
   
7. The Talk Radio Effect: When catching up on podcasts really is better than the Black Eyed Peas.
   
8. The Perfect Playlist: And how to chase it.
   
9. The First Class: My YMCA offers all sorts of “group exercise classes,” but is there one that could fit my needs and my schedule? I’m hoping for a low-intensity, unintimidating, attainable routine led by an instructor who wants to nurture me, hold my hand, and never make me cry. Maybe I’m asking too much…
   
10. The Public Pool Pregunta: And, beyond swimsuit terror, what do we think about water aerobics?
    

For me, the battle is not in pushing hard at the gym, or making and achieving fitness goals. No. The battle is in the Getting There. I’m happy to report that I did go on my date with Jimmy last night, thankyouverymuch. Once there, I decided to adopt a “start slow” attitude rather than jump immediately into some kamikaze C25K plan as is my tendency (and ultimate goal).

Okay, so I decided to walk on the treadmill for 20 minutes. I gave myself permission to spend that 20 minutes adjusting my bra straps and my headphones and finding the right way to hang my towel so that the next time I go (TONIGHT, PEOPLE) I will be able to be more serious about everything. Last night was not an exercise in, well, exercise. It was an exercise in sheer willpower. In Getting There. And, I went to the Jimmy. And that means I WON.

Nowhere was this start-slow plan more evident last night than when I looked down at the treadmill and my 20-minute mark coincided with 0.95 miles of distance. (Shut up. I said I was going to start slow, people.) I ask you: who can jump off the treadmill at 0.95 miles? Of course, then I passed my 1-mile mark only to see 194 calories burned. I mean, c’mon y’all. Is it just me, or would you also dogmatically devote 3 more minutes of your life to achieving even-number-ness?

Thank you.

There’s a whole new crowd at the gym now than when I was going last Fall. I do love my local, run-down YMCA and its scantily-clad 85 year olds pedaling. Chunky teenagers grunting. Soccer moms counting crunches and waiting for junior karate class to end. We are a rag-tag bunch with our combination of race t-shirts and Converse high-tops and sweaty paper towels (don’t ask). It’s like we’re all wearing one badge of bravery or another: the housewife with her Economics textbook. The Little League Coach with his knee brace. The new mother with her breast pump. Mine just happens to be an extra 150 pounds, but someday it will be a race t-shirt or a well-toned bicep.

The YMCA has got ever so much more heart than big, shiny, corporate Bally’s or Lifestyles or 24-hour Fitness. There are no fancy mounted televisions or complimentary towels or even staff members to keep watch. There’s just you, me, and Grandma B. She’s the one who’s logged 400 miles on that bike already this year. Go, Grandma B.

Sadly, I can’t find my fancy heart monitor gadgetry, and this greatly distresses me. I do love my gadgetry. Sometimes, when I’m suiting up to walk the dog around the block, I worry that I’ll look a bit like RoboCop and, in spite of everything (including that general hippy-granola vibe that I try to rock from day to day), I like that.

Anyway, the point is that for a few weeks I was using the lost heart monitor as my excuse to not exercise and guess what? Those days are over. No more excuses. I can half-ass it when I get there and take it easy and start slowly and take all sorts of other easy ways out, but from now on I will focus on Getting There.

In addition to packing my lunch and dinner for the day, I also packed a gym bag with shoes, socks, and sports bra. You may remember that I broke my tailbone during Christmas holiday, and was unable to start an exercise regimen at the same time as changing my eating habits. That’s okay, though, because for the first few months, I was able to steadily lose weight on those food changes alone.

Now, though, it’s 5 months later and really the tailbone has healed up nicely. I no longer really need the coccyx cushion in my office chair (though I still use it because, dude, coccyx cushion). Aside from some weekend acrobatics, I haven’t really put it to the test, but I intend to. Tonight. After work. At the Jimmy.

Welcome to Phase 2: Move it and/or lose it.

I packed lunch and dinner for myself today. It’s the first time I’ve done so in over a month. Maybe two. That was the secret to my good eating at the beginning of the year — taking the time to nurture and care for myself in all kinds of ways, including by preparing and packing my own meals — and yet, I’ve let it all go to the wayside. I don’t want to care for myself anymore and I’m having a little tantrum about it today.

It’s childish and I’ve spend thousands of dollars in therapy exploring this urge, but I still have the hidden fantasy that someday, somehow, someone else will take care of me. I think it comes from having too many siblings and always having to fend for myself, but regardless of where it comes from, there it is. I want my boss, my neighbor, my boyfriend, my dog, my parents, my friends, and my congressman to take care of me.

Maybe, I sometimes think, all I have to do is find the right person, and then I’ll be taken care of for life! Really, doesn’t that sound like someone you’d want to be in a relationship with? Someone to latch onto you and suck the life and energy and money out of you forever and ever amen?

Yeah. Me, too.

Today I am trying to be adult enough to realize that this is not going to happen. That it is up to me. Life goes on. Pack your own damn lunch, Mal.

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I feel fat.

Probably because I am.