Obesity runs in both my maternal and paternal families. Anyone who has my kind of genes knows the battle to always be able to zip stylish, tight-legged jeans is unending—unless you also are blessed with a gene for will power. Unfortunately, I don’t even have a smidge of a chromosome with this blessing.
When I find myself only wearing my husband’s sweatpants—and in South Florida that only works in the dead of our 6-7 weeks of winter—I head back to an “in” diet class. Well, winter is long over, and Hubby’s one lightweight workout pants are wearing thin, so I’m back attending what my husband calls “fat class.” The older I’ve gotten, regardless of how much I exercise—and we walk two miles almost every morning as the sun comes up—the slower the fat melts away. Loosing weight for me now is like cooking a turkey at 100 degrees.
The healthy diet I’m on follows the new food pyramid—lots of whole-wheat grains, fresh fruits, and veggies. The scale has gone down ten pounds, but, alas, my tummy isn’t happy since I started this diet. I’ve gone from looking slightly pregnant after each meal to looking as if I’m ready to give birth. In the beginning, since I was determined to shed the extra bulk, I was willing to put up with the post-meal and snack cramps because the scale was indicating progress. However, a few weeks ago, I woke in the middle of the night with labor pains. Since this is a physical impossibility, the next day I scheduled a doctor’s appointment.
I’ll leave out all the details of all the tests that were ordered because they are kind of gross as well as boring. I did have to be put to sleep for one test, and when the anesthesiologist approached my bed to get my medical history, I freaked out. “Is that tattoo on your arm real?” I asked. To me, there are certain professionals that somehow don’t lend themselves to sporting sexy tattoos and doctors are one of them.
The doctor stepped back a bit—body language signaling he didn’t care for my opinion of the artwork on his arm. “Remember, I’m the one putting you to sleep so you shouldn’t feel pain.” he said in a very icy "who does this old lady think she is" voice.
At that point, I kept jabbering away with inane flattering remarks, hoping to neutralize my insult. When he injected the sleeping potion into the IV, I hoped he no longer disliked me. I hadn’t canceled my Bridge game for that evening because having had the test previously, I knew I should be fine once I awoke. But now I was concerned I'd be asleep for hours.
Less than an hour later, according to the wall clock, I realized I must have appeased him. My doctor uttered the words all post cancer patients want to hear as soon as any test is done, “I don’t think it’s cancer…took culture…divaticulosus …IBS.”
The bottom line is I can stay on the diet, but the yummy store bought prepared foods that have sugar and/or sugar alcohol—the candy and cake that have made this diet so easy to follow—need to vanish from my pantry. I can have cake if I bake it myself and control the ingredients, and I’m determined to look svelte again, so I will. Breakfast will be the big challenge because dairy products and eggs, staples for breakfast on this diet, irritate my innards. I’m not one to make Canadian bacon, also allowed for breakfast protein, because Hubby hates the smell.
For a brief moment the next morning, I thought the problem of selecting a breakfast protein would be avoided. I stepped onto the scale as I usually do. As bad as the prep for the colonoscopy was, it did wonders. Somehow, in the 48-hour time period since I last weighed in, I had shed all excess bulk. The scale indicated there was no longer a need to diet. In lieu of numbers, it said, “low.”
Now even if I ignored the fact being suppressed in my subconscious that the scale needed a battery, minutes later when I attempted to squeeze into my goal-weight jeans, the truth would have been exposed— just like my tummy was bulging out of the two-inch gap between the button and buttonhole.
Showing posts with label diets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label diets. Show all posts
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
OUCH! Them's Fighting Words - Sometimes
When Hubby and I flew to Atlanta the other day on a full flight, the person in the window seat next to me reeked from body odor. Hubby had the aisle seat. If he didn’t have giraffe-like legs I would have thought of a way to con him into switching seats with me – his nose is not as sensitive as mine. I was glad Mr. Smeller went right to sleep and didn’t attempt to chat since I feel obliged to talk to everyone who talks to me – including wrong numbers. I kept my head turned towards Hubby and breathed through my mouth the bulk of the thankfully short flight out of West Palm Beach. Silently, I hoped that the incident wasn’t an omen of mishaps to come – you know like a black cat.
Since the plane didn’t spend more time circling Atlanta before landing than flying to it – something that those who fly in and out of that airport on a regular basis know is common – I began to think I was wrong. However, Stinky did turn out to be a bad sign. Since that flight, I seem to be having a run of problems that have no satisfying endings. On the trip home – we only went for 2 days – instead of a person stinking, we were too close for my nose to the bathroom. The flight was also full. When you book late as I did, you don’t have a great choice of seats if you like to sit together.
Yesterday, my daily horoscope predicted I would need comfort food by day’s end. Since these predictions are usually so broad and general, I don’t live my life by them – still I am addicting to reading them every morning. However, around noon yesterday, while speaking to a relative on the phone (not my kids), I was verbally jabbed for the third time in as many days. In each instance, the insulters were clueless of their hurtful dagger, and in the first two cases, experience has taught me it is best to heal my wounds with comfort foods than to respond. Saying something to the offender usually ends up making mountains out of molehills and the end result is rarely worth winning a point for my self-esteem.
Yesterday was different. Someone once told me stupid people need to be told, and despite my reason for not using her philosophy in the previous paragraph, I decided to try it again. The advice was still wrong. On the rare occasion I say “ouch,” – like yesterday - the relationship never heals completely, if at all. As soon as I responded in self-defense, a new mountain range was created. The offender’s mouth, like lava from a volcano, fired more hurtful observations that were best not uttered.
If I haven’t developed thick skin at this stage of my life, it just is not going to happen. In my old age, in order to prevent scars, I have learned to deal with toxic situations by either walking away if I can, deleting the toxic folks from my social calendar, or, if I don’t want to end the relationship, taking the batteries out of my hearing aides. I regret not getting off the phone immediately as soon as I detected hostility in this usually friendly person’s “Hello,” when she picked up her phone. My gut feeling is she was mad at someone else and I was her convenient punching bag.
Hubby wasn’t home to defuse the anger caused by this person and talk me out of eating comfort food. Each time I walked into the kitchen – between each sentence I typed – I mentally heard his words as I approached the cake I made for company. “One bite and the (fat) enemy wins.”
Now those are fighting words – how appropriate for the holiday. Only for my private war on fat and toxicity, I can’t call in our terrific military. Sadly, the horoscope was right. Hopefully, I just lost a battle and today the Smeller’s lasting odor on my luck will be blown away in the early morning storms that are closing in right now.
Since the plane didn’t spend more time circling Atlanta before landing than flying to it – something that those who fly in and out of that airport on a regular basis know is common – I began to think I was wrong. However, Stinky did turn out to be a bad sign. Since that flight, I seem to be having a run of problems that have no satisfying endings. On the trip home – we only went for 2 days – instead of a person stinking, we were too close for my nose to the bathroom. The flight was also full. When you book late as I did, you don’t have a great choice of seats if you like to sit together.
Yesterday, my daily horoscope predicted I would need comfort food by day’s end. Since these predictions are usually so broad and general, I don’t live my life by them – still I am addicting to reading them every morning. However, around noon yesterday, while speaking to a relative on the phone (not my kids), I was verbally jabbed for the third time in as many days. In each instance, the insulters were clueless of their hurtful dagger, and in the first two cases, experience has taught me it is best to heal my wounds with comfort foods than to respond. Saying something to the offender usually ends up making mountains out of molehills and the end result is rarely worth winning a point for my self-esteem.
Yesterday was different. Someone once told me stupid people need to be told, and despite my reason for not using her philosophy in the previous paragraph, I decided to try it again. The advice was still wrong. On the rare occasion I say “ouch,” – like yesterday - the relationship never heals completely, if at all. As soon as I responded in self-defense, a new mountain range was created. The offender’s mouth, like lava from a volcano, fired more hurtful observations that were best not uttered.
If I haven’t developed thick skin at this stage of my life, it just is not going to happen. In my old age, in order to prevent scars, I have learned to deal with toxic situations by either walking away if I can, deleting the toxic folks from my social calendar, or, if I don’t want to end the relationship, taking the batteries out of my hearing aides. I regret not getting off the phone immediately as soon as I detected hostility in this usually friendly person’s “Hello,” when she picked up her phone. My gut feeling is she was mad at someone else and I was her convenient punching bag.
Hubby wasn’t home to defuse the anger caused by this person and talk me out of eating comfort food. Each time I walked into the kitchen – between each sentence I typed – I mentally heard his words as I approached the cake I made for company. “One bite and the (fat) enemy wins.”
Now those are fighting words – how appropriate for the holiday. Only for my private war on fat and toxicity, I can’t call in our terrific military. Sadly, the horoscope was right. Hopefully, I just lost a battle and today the Smeller’s lasting odor on my luck will be blown away in the early morning storms that are closing in right now.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Too Cool for Dieting
Remember the freshman ten – those ten pounds you gained when you left home for college and started living on Ritz crackers and peanut butter and jelly because you hated dorm food? I didn’t shed them until after college when Weight Watchers or its’ equivalent became my way of life.
For the last 40 odd years, I’ve been successfully fighting the battle of the bulge, but since moving to Seniorville, I haven’t won a round. I went clothes shopping this week and the only thing I dared to buy were pants that can hide the extra weight and, if a miracle happens and I get a virus and can’t eat for two weeks, the pants won’t look big – unless the elastic waist is stretched out.
It’s hard to diet when your social life revolves around dining out or having company over for Bridge or whatever. How can you not serve something to guests? I never had anything I would be tempted to pig out in my old home after my sons left for college unless I was entertaining. Hubby’s and my old life style didn’t lend itself to “come back to my home for dessert” or cocktails before dinner. In those days, my northern friends were still working. Now most have to spend a week visiting me in our new surroundings – and I am truly thrilled they do. Even if I only serve “diet” food, when I sit around the table I tend to eat too much of it, and calories do count – even healthy ones.
The cold weather is also preventing me from sticking to any good weight reduction routine. It’s not conducive to drinking glasses of cold water, something that usually fills me up. Instead, I’m sipping diet hot chocolates and cups of salty broth called instant soup. Northern visitors adore walking or jogging in our brisk weather as the sun comes up over the horizon. Usually I’m out there on the trail with them, but the cold chill has been keeping me under the blankets until the sun has had a chance to warm up the air a bit. Yes, we have heat, but it has to be truly freezing inside for me to use it because it sets off my asthma – as does all the extra pollen in the air from the leaves falling off the trees due to the unusual cold – the biggest reason I’m not walking outside.
Even worse for my diet, the crazy cold weather Florida has had this winter demands cover-up clothing – sweat pants and/or long sleeve shirts. The elastic waists allow me to eat a little more than my zipper-front Capri’s would permit and the long sleeve shirts hide the cellulite on my arms. Gone ate the constant visual reminders to seal my lips when dessert is placed on the table.
This year, it’s been cold here for months instead of weeks. I’ve worn the few winter clothes I have that still fit to the point they are beginning to fray – something that hasn’t happened to my winter clothes since moving South in 1973. Usually they go out of style and are in mint condition when I give them to charity. Tonight, when I took one outfit out of the closet to steam it for a luncheon I need to attend tomorrow, even my husband, who rarely remembers what he wore the day before, remarked, “You’ve worn that outfit the last 3 times you got “dressed” to go out.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I told him. “None of my friends have an abundance of dressy winter clothes, so the fashion rule this year is “if it’s warm and fits, it’s in.”
Even if we wanted to replenish our winter wardrobes, the stores have restocked the sweater department with bathing suits and cover-ups. They’re more optimistic than me. Right now I can’t remember what it felt like to be so miserable and hot last Fall when I prayed for a cold winter. As much as all my neighbors are hoping the weather warms soon, I’ll bet I’m the only one anyone knows who is praying for the return of our hot and humid weather so I’ll be able to shed ten pounds.
For the last 40 odd years, I’ve been successfully fighting the battle of the bulge, but since moving to Seniorville, I haven’t won a round. I went clothes shopping this week and the only thing I dared to buy were pants that can hide the extra weight and, if a miracle happens and I get a virus and can’t eat for two weeks, the pants won’t look big – unless the elastic waist is stretched out.
It’s hard to diet when your social life revolves around dining out or having company over for Bridge or whatever. How can you not serve something to guests? I never had anything I would be tempted to pig out in my old home after my sons left for college unless I was entertaining. Hubby’s and my old life style didn’t lend itself to “come back to my home for dessert” or cocktails before dinner. In those days, my northern friends were still working. Now most have to spend a week visiting me in our new surroundings – and I am truly thrilled they do. Even if I only serve “diet” food, when I sit around the table I tend to eat too much of it, and calories do count – even healthy ones.
The cold weather is also preventing me from sticking to any good weight reduction routine. It’s not conducive to drinking glasses of cold water, something that usually fills me up. Instead, I’m sipping diet hot chocolates and cups of salty broth called instant soup. Northern visitors adore walking or jogging in our brisk weather as the sun comes up over the horizon. Usually I’m out there on the trail with them, but the cold chill has been keeping me under the blankets until the sun has had a chance to warm up the air a bit. Yes, we have heat, but it has to be truly freezing inside for me to use it because it sets off my asthma – as does all the extra pollen in the air from the leaves falling off the trees due to the unusual cold – the biggest reason I’m not walking outside.
Even worse for my diet, the crazy cold weather Florida has had this winter demands cover-up clothing – sweat pants and/or long sleeve shirts. The elastic waists allow me to eat a little more than my zipper-front Capri’s would permit and the long sleeve shirts hide the cellulite on my arms. Gone ate the constant visual reminders to seal my lips when dessert is placed on the table.
This year, it’s been cold here for months instead of weeks. I’ve worn the few winter clothes I have that still fit to the point they are beginning to fray – something that hasn’t happened to my winter clothes since moving South in 1973. Usually they go out of style and are in mint condition when I give them to charity. Tonight, when I took one outfit out of the closet to steam it for a luncheon I need to attend tomorrow, even my husband, who rarely remembers what he wore the day before, remarked, “You’ve worn that outfit the last 3 times you got “dressed” to go out.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I told him. “None of my friends have an abundance of dressy winter clothes, so the fashion rule this year is “if it’s warm and fits, it’s in.”
Even if we wanted to replenish our winter wardrobes, the stores have restocked the sweater department with bathing suits and cover-ups. They’re more optimistic than me. Right now I can’t remember what it felt like to be so miserable and hot last Fall when I prayed for a cold winter. As much as all my neighbors are hoping the weather warms soon, I’ll bet I’m the only one anyone knows who is praying for the return of our hot and humid weather so I’ll be able to shed ten pounds.
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