Seven Times Slower

It’s been almost a month since my last bike ride, and in that time I’ve spent a lot of time logging miles in the Jeep, always with the intention of getting “there” as quickly as possible. So yesterday, when I got on my bike for the first time in four weeks and started pedaling, 10 and 11 and 12 miles an hour seemed really s....l…o…w. But as I rode down the familiar path at seven times slower than in my car, I became acutely aware of what I miss at 70 mph.

At seven times slower, I thought about how much I love this time of year, and that despite its bittersweet theme of death and decay, I cling to its promise of rebirth. At seven times slower, I smelled and heard the leaves above and beneath me.

At seven times slower, I noticed a cat slinking up a hill and I watched a pig sleeping in the mud of his large pen. At seven times slower, I became aware that a farmer, through whose land a mile of the bike trail cuts, found it necessary to post a sign, “Do not throw objects at turkeys.” What kind of person throws things at turkeys?

Anyway… At seven times slower, I said goodbye to my bike path friends for the season. The cows.

And the power lines that let me know I’ve reached the apex of that stretch of trail and it’s all down hill the rest of the way.

And the golf course the bike trail passes through.

And at seven times slower, I felt my body release its 70-mile-an-hour tension, fiber by fiber (even though I was pretty irritated by the whole throwing things at turkeys thing).

At seven times slower, I thought to visit my daughter and grandchildren. I see them several times a week, but usually always because of some need for one of them to be somewhere else. Yesterday, I sat in their presence and absorbed their essence (and snuggled with Claire in her genuine fire fighter hat that she sleeps with like a stuffed animal).

Tethered to my calendar of penciled-in appointments, yesterday was a gift gotten from a miscommunication involving school. It was like being set free, if only for a few hours, from the new tricks this old dog is learning. For many months I have been what Jon Kabat-Zinn calls a “human doing,” but yesterday, at seven times slower, I was a human being.

Hello from “Where Have I Been?”

My whereabouts since my last blog entry isn’t a great mystery, but I wanted to explain where I’ve been and to let you know this will be my last blog entry for awhile.

It’s not that maintenance is more or less important than any other responsibility or event that make up my life. Writing about it, however, takes time, and the things vying for my time this summer are many.

My brother still suffers the affects of the series of petit mal seizures he endured in June 2011. As his power of attorney, his complicated and difficult journey is also mine, and the weight of that responsibility is daunting at times. I say this not to garner sympathy, but to send out empathy to all of you who, in addition to living your own lives, caretake in someone else’s.

Two pieces of good news are taking up my time:

1) Daughter Carlene is getting married in October! Originally slated for April, they moved up the wedding not because of a baby, but because, quoting Carlene, “We just want to be married.” No better reason than that! Let the frenzy begin.

2) Grandbaby #4 will arrive in February! #4 was not planned, but sometimes the best things in life are serendipitous. To update you on ages, Claire will be 5 in October, Luca was 3 in May, and Maelie is 18 months old. I said to Luca the other day, “So, your mommy’s having a baby?” and he said, “Yeah, but we’re keeping Mae.” I couldn’t tell by his voice if he was relieved or resigned. I hope he gets a brother, but even though he tolerates Mae, he insists he wants another sister. And while on the surface that sounds sweet, I think he knows if it’s a boy he’ll have to share his room.

Within the planning, the watching children, my brother’s issues, I’ve managed to read several books ("Good in Bed" by Jennifer Weiner is fabulous!) and ride many miles on my bike. One of my favorite things this year was meeting another Internet friend, Lori from Finding Radiance. She’s as down to earth in person as she is on her blog. The woman knows her way around a bagel and a latte as much as a bike path and dumbbells. She’s taught me more about balance than any gymnast could. Her blog is a highly recommended read!

School starts again in 10 days. Chemistry, Algebra... ‘Nuff said.

Even though this will be my last post for awhile, our dialogue can continue. I will still post on Lynn’s Weigh on Facebook, so I hope you’ll join us there. If you don’t do social media, that’s fine, too. Know that I wish you well in your journey, wherever you are on that path, and I will be back.

Thank You, Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!

It was predicted that the Internet would turn us into an isolated society of bleary-eyed hermits who shun human contact and subsist on a diet of news feeds, weather updates, and cyber porn.

“They” were wrong, at least for me and a few thousand other people I “know.” The Internet introduced me to a world of people I’d never have met in the physical world. People who have made a lasting impact on how I think and live. People armed with compassion, snark, empathy, and tough love.

“But the beginnings of things, of a world especially, is necessarily vague, tangled, chaotic, and exceedingly disturbing. How few of us ever emerge from such beginning! How many souls perish in its tumult!” from The Awakening by Kate Chopin

Entering the world of weight loss is all that: vague, tangled, chaotic, disturbing, _______ (insert adjective). And the reality is that most of us don’t journey in the first, fifth, or tenth time with a cohesive plan and the right equipment. We attack weight loss with dogged determination and motivation for about a day, maybe a week, sometimes – if we’re lucky – a month or longer. The problem is that we usually go at it alone, and inevitably we fail because, let’s face it, the self-determination and self-motivation of weight loss is hard to maintain for the long haul. But it can be sustained with a little help from the right friends. The friends who’ve been there, are there, done that, doing that.

Some of my best friends are the people I’ve never never met, or at least didn’t meet right away in the traditional face-to-face way. They are the folks I’ve met through the Weight Watchers 100+ To Lose message board and through blogging. Without their support and occasional ass kicking, I’m pretty sure I’d still be in that “Gotta lose weight. Crap, this is hard. Oh what the hell, eat a donut. Now I feel guilty. Starting tomorrow, I’m eating only celery” cycle.

Over the years, I’ve had the good fortune of meeting face-to-face the User Names who’ve supported me on this journey of dieting, maintaining, blogging, and learning that weight loss is not pretty, it’s not easy, and it’s not a path to happiness. One of the first people to educate me on that latter part was Marcia, or as I first knew her: Aging2Perfection.

When I joined the WW message board in February 2005, I learned quickly that Aging2Perfection was not prone to delusion. She was firmly grounded in the reality of the weight loss world. But she also had the innate ability to love herself, something I floundered with, tangled up in that sticky web of self-acceptance. It was Aging2Perfection who challenged me to step back and breathe and be a better friend to myself.

Finally, last Sunday, I met Marcia. We met at Pamela’s in the Strip. I ordered the crepe pancakes and she ordered the banana walnut pancakes. Our server set a plate in front of me and a plate in front of Marcia while we were talking. We started eating while talking. It wasn’t until I bit into a walnut halfway through a pancake that I realized that she was eating my order and I was eating hers. We laughed, swapped, and kept talking. And if it wasn’t for the fact that people were waiting for our table and she and her husband had to go home and I had to watch Mae, we’d still be talking. Talking about everything, particularly about how our lives as mothers and grandmothers have run parallel the last three years. Weight didn’t really enter into our conversation.

Weight is a part of our lives, not our entire lives. Weight (A) is the proper subset to the superset of life (B). I often forget that and make weight the be all and end all of my day. I let it set the tone of my mood and intentions. It’s people like Marcia who bring me back to reality, and for that, I’m eternally grateful.

Some people have a Bucket List. I have a Face-To-Face Thank You List. I wish I could be like Jeannie and blink every one of you who have supported me and been my teachers these last seven years to a face-to-face pancake (or egg white omelet or oatmeal or smoothie) breakfast. We could even chat over leftovers! Or ride bikes or take my daughter’s spin class. Walk or hike. Drink coffee. Whatever.

I just want to say: “Thank you.”

Weight Doesn't Disappear When It's Gone

In October 2007, I had the good fortune to meet a very sweet and inspirational man: David Elmore Smith.

David is in the white sweatshirt.

David was sexually molested as a child and lost his mother when he was 17. Yet, at 650 pounds, he found the courage to lose 400 pounds and he told his story to the world. David and I met when we were on Oprah, and he went on to do many other TV appearances, including the TLC documentary, “650-Pound Virgin.”

David has been out of the spotlight for a few years, but he resurfaced on the Today show Wednesday, having gained 300 pounds. In this Huffington Post article, there is a link to the Today video, and below is an excerpt of his sad, yet very honest, truth.

"All my life I was this monster in my head and all of a sudden to be this good looking guy, it blew my mind away, I didn't know how to deal with it," he said. Smith also felt like "a terrible mess" on the inside, and eventually turned to alcohol and drugs to cope, "Today" reports.

When those outlets didn't help, he turned once again to food. "A lot of people were counting on me to be inspiring, and I didn't want to let anybody down. But I just felt so bad, I didn't know how to cope," he says.

Weight doesn’t disappear. It hides, waiting for you to feed it your fear. David’s gain put me face-to-face with my own 20-pound gain and the 150 other pounds lurking in the dark recesses of my mind.

I’ve searched (not as desperately as I think I have) for a reason for my gain. Something outside me I can blame. But the truth lies not in what I eat or my reluctance to move or the pain of arthritis or perimenopause. The truth is deep inside me and buried in mistrust, and David’s truth has nudged me to at least admit that (lately) I’ve been walking – zombie-like – down the path I swerved to avoid seven years ago. When school/family/friends/love and all its ensuing conflict/euphoria/worry/obligation piled up and I couldn’t sort through it all like laundry, I looked longingly back, like Lot’s wife, at the path of “How I Used To Live” and turned into a 20-pound pillar of salt, with the very real potential of adding 150 more.

Losing weight and, more importantly, keeping it off, takes a lot of concentration. Yeah, yeah…it takes determination and motivation and inspiration and all the other “tions” you can name, but first and foremost it takes concentration.

Distractions, however, deactivate concentration, and when it comes to weight loss and maintenance, the distractions that deactivate concentration aren’t simple things like the lure of an ice cream cone on a hot summer day. They are deep-seated emotional issues or family issues or work issues that not only distract, but cause a reaction that is counter to what our concentrated self would “approve” of.

David didn’t consciously gain 300 pounds back. Nothing in him said, “I want to be morbidly obese again.” I didn’t consciously gain 20 pounds. And nothing in my mind is saying, “I want to be 300 pounds again.”

A lot of people were counting on me to be inspiring… 

I want to inspire, but I’m as vulnerable and flawed as anyone on this path, including David. And that truth in and of itself is inspiring. I wish David all the love and self-care he can find as he works through his “terrible mess,” and I hope he finds the truth that lies beneath, the one I could see in his smile and in his eyes when I met him: kindness, sincerity, and a strong desire to live.

How Blake Shelton Helped Me Take My Clothes Off (not literally, I swear, Miranda)

Sagging, bagging, wrinkles and all, I strive to love the body I occupy. I tell myself that it’s a good place to live in now, in this moment, and in every other moment past and future. I say that, I mean that, I embrace that…

…as long as my clothes are on.

When I want to de-stress, I take a bath. A long, hot bubble bath with candles and wine. I turn on my “Bath” playlist, and once everything’s assembled and the tub is filled, I quickly take off my clothes and slip under the suds.

One of the songs on the Bath playlist is Blake Shelton’s “Who Are You When I’m Not Looking?” Every time it comes on, Blake and I have a conversation.

Do you pour a little something on the rocks?

“I don’t drink the hard stuff, Blake, except a Maker’s Mark on occasion. But I confess I drink chardonnay on ice. Sometimes the boxed stuff. I’m culture with a side of pork rinds, my friend.”

Slide down the hallway in your socks?

“Well, I’m no Tom Cruise, but I do a pretty good lip sync to ‘Old Time Rock n’ Roll.’”

When you undress, do you leave a path? Then sink to your nose in a bubble bath?

“Blake,” I say. “I imagine there’s a lot of freedom associated with undressing on my way to the bathroom and not in the bathroom with the door closed, lights low, and seconds before I hop in the tub.”

When you undress, do you leave a path? Then sink to your nose in a bubble bath?

“I wish I could, Blake, but you see, I have this body image thing that’s hard to shake…”

When you undress, do you leave a path? Then sink to your nose in a bubble bath?

“I feel pretty beat up, Blake, over this whole ‘body image’ thing. The last time I didn’t care about my body, I was in 5th grade, not yet wearing a bra and still happy to just fish bullheads out of Split Rock Creek.”

When you undress, do you leave a path? Then sink to your nose in a bubble bath?

“I’ve never walked around my house in just my skivvies or less, Blake. Why, you ask? Do I really need to tell you this? OK, fine, I’m embarrassed to expose myself to even myself. I always wrap myself in robes or towels. Can we move on to the next question?”

When you undress, do you leave a path? Then sink to your nose in a bubble bath?

“Why do you keep pressing this issue, Blake? Yeah, sure, I’ve always suspected there was something about walking around the house wearing only a bra and underwear. Something sexy. Something daring and freeing. But that’s not me, Blake. I’m not sexy or daring or carefree. I’m Lynn, Queen of Body Issues, remember.”

When you undress, do you leave a path? Then sink to your nose in a bubble bath?

“What do you mean I was never appointed Queen of Body Issues? I pulled the body image equivalent of Excalibur out of a stone many years and many pounds ago, for cryin’ out loud! I’ve worked my whole adult life to defend my throne! Don’t tell me to abdicate!”

When you undress, do you leave a path? Then sink to your nose in a bubble bath?

“Fine. I’m tired of arguing with you Blake. Next bath, I’ll leave a path. Will that make you happy? Good. Just promise you won’t look, OK? That would be a deal breaker. Promise me. PROMISE. OK…pinky swear works. It’s a deal.”

When you undress, do you leave a path? Then sink to your nose in a bubble bath?

“I did it, Blake. I took that walk from the bedroom to the bubble bath, leaving a t-shirt, a pair of jeans, a bra, and my underwear in a path to the bath like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs. Sorry, but I left the socks for the bathroom. You know my feet are always cold.”

When you undress, do you leave a path? Then sink to your nose in a bubble bath?

“I sunk to my nose in that bubble bath, and I reveled in the feeling of walking my body – in various stages of undress – to the bathroom. I had no idea that air cascading over my wrinkles and sags and bags and folds could feel so empowering!”

When you undress, do you leave a path? Then sink to your nose in a bubble bath?

“Yes, I do.”

What Would Uncle George NOT Do?

Exercise has become so dull and predictable that I practically sleep through a workout. It’s the same old thing on the elliptical and recumbent – up and down, round and round, rote, like an actor playing Hamlet for the gazillionth time. I know every crack in the sidewalks around my neighborhood and every rut on the bike path. It’s Snoozapalooza!

It’s not that I’m slacking physically. I’m just not challenging myself psychologically through exercise, which is the very thing that makes exercise so important to my overall well being. Riding my bike in the same place, walking the same route, and reading books on my elliptical is safe. I like safe. There’s nothing wrong with safe. But safe can be pretty boring and unfulfilling.

I have no excuse other than complacency. I live near a park in which there are at 7 hiking trails, including 3.5 miles of the 35-mile Rachel Carson Trail. I take my grandkids to the playground there all the time, but I do little else than intend to hike there. Same is true for the infinite number of bike trails I’ve yet to discover in western PA. “Some day…”

My great-great-uncle George always used to say, “It’s plenty good the way it is!” George wore loose fitting dentures and had a heavy Norwegian accent, and he’d say “It’s plenty good!” with a dismissive wave of his hand. I loved George, but the man changed nothing. Not even his underwear. My mother used to sneak into his room and take his dirty clothes and wash them on the days he drove 35 miles to Sioux Falls to fill his tank because gas was two cents cheaper there.

I’m not knocking “plenty good.” Things ARE plenty good the way they are right now, but plenty good doesn’t translate to growth. And without growth, I would become complacent in more than just my exercise life. Good grief, the last thing I want to do is become that person who does nothing but talk about “the good old days.” That would be a big “Uffda!”

So last week, I got off my complacent butt and went to the park and hiked Pond Trail, which took me to…of all things…a pond. A really lovely pond with a wooden birding lookout made by a Boy Scout for his Eagle Scout project. It was a fairly easy hike, but the change of scenery was just enough to call out the part of me that welcomes and embraces change and challenge. That lead to this weekend in which I tried not one, but TWO new bike trails.

Saturday, I decided on a 13-mile stretch of the Allegheny Trail. I was a little nervous about it since I’d never been to the town where the trailhead was, and I didn’t want to look like a tourist. I wasn’t 100 percent sure (certainty is big for me) how to get to the parking lot described on the trail’s website, and Google was no help. So with nothing more than a good sense of direction, BF and I loaded the bikes and drove northeast.

A few miles in, Colton asked, “Do you know where you’re going?”

“Kind of,” I said, handing him the printed directions to the parking lot. “I can get us to instruction number 4, then you need to read the rest to me.”

“Ok, Puddin’,” he said. (That’s my nickname. Puddin’. No, you can’t call me that.)

As we got closer to the road to the parking lot, Colton said the directions were to drive past the entrance to the marina. What did I do? I drove into the entrance to the marina. Tourist! At least I turned around without running over the fisherman carrying a bucket of bait and an oar, and I eventually found the parking lot. We unloaded the bikes and started riding.

It started out pretty.

Then it got kind of industrial and urban.

When the trail stopped abruptly with no signs of where to go, I asked a biker who was coming the other way where the trail picked up. He said the next part of the trail went through town and that the gravel trail picked up at the power plant near the bridge. Goody. A bridge.

We followed his instructions and soon I could see the bridge in the distance.

Living here in the land of rivers, bridges are hard to avoid, so I suck them up and think happy thoughts when I’m driving over them or riding under them. Stopping to take photos was actually therapeutic. They’re concrete and steel, for cryin’ out loud. They aren’t going to grow legs and chase me, right?

We continued on into Kittanning.

Having passed – up close and personal – several bars and living rooms (there’s a stretch of trail in which the path itself is literally a front yard), we concluded we’d had enough urban and turned around at the 6.5-mile mark. We biked back to the car and agreed we were glad for the experience, but not enthralled. Too many people, too many roads, too many stop and starts.

Today, Colton wanted to head north of the Flannel Curtain to see his parents and do some work around their house. I really wanted to ride again, so I searched online for a trail near Meadville. I found the Ernst Trail, a rails-to-trails renovation that is 5 miles in one direction and runs along French Creek. No traffic, no towns. Perfect. Colton loaded up his hedge trimmers and I threw my bike on the rack and we were off.

I got to the trail at 2:45. It looked promising.

A quarter mile in, I was treated to this.

There was a slight incline all the way, which I knew would bring great coasting opportunities coming the other direction. And since the temperature was 86 degrees, the breeze would be welcomed.

The last quarter mile was steeper than the previous 4.75, and I had to downshift to 2. When I got to the top, I turned around and coasted down the hill. ‘You can do that again,’ I thought, and I downshifted and charged back up the hill. My thighs might hate me tomorrow, but the downhill was sooo worth it. I felt powerful. Best of all, I felt psychologically challenged again.

Tomorrow I’m going to hike a 2-mile loop in my local park. It is rated as easy-moderate, so I’ll probably do it twice. Or perhaps I’ll go back to the Pond Trail and do some bird watching. Either way, it will be my own personal mental-health-through-exercise adventure. Uncle George wouldn’t understand, but “plenty good” isn’t good enough anymore.

Firsts

Last Wednesday, I finished my first year of a 2-year dietetics program at Community College of Allegheny County. I have never, ever felt so relieved to finish something in my life. Not even after delivering my kids after 13 hours of labor or reaching goal after losing a million pounds have I felt so glad something was done.

When I applied to CCAC last year, I thought, ‘It’s community college. Please. How hard can it be? I’ve got a BA already. I know a thing or two about nutrition. This’ll be a cinch!’

Nine months later? Ms. Academic Snob has been silenced. Nutrition assessment, medical terminology, medical nutrition therapy, and their accompanying sidekicks – chemistry, math, and killer case studies – kicked my liberal arts ass. I may know where my arachnoid membrane is (I didn’t even know I had one!) and feel certain my ex needs a palatopharyngoplasty, but my head hurts just writing those words.

While all the sweat and mind bleeds will be worth it in the end, for another year and a half I’ll be offering anyone my right kidney for a left brain. A year and a half, you say? What happened to the 2-year program? Well…shockingly…British Literature and Feminist Theology do not fulfill my chemistry and algebra requirements, and I can’t take advanced algebra or bio/organic chemistry until I know the basics. Considering my algebra knowledge is 30 years old and I got through the chemistry parts of my classes this year thanks only to the graces of my ex husband, I had to add a half year to my program.

Community College: 1
Ms. Academic Snob: 0

But life is good! This old dog needed the challenge of new firsts! A few years ago I was morphing into Bartleby the Scrivener, preferring to do nothing more than wonder what it was I should do with my life. And if I’ve learned this lesson once, I’ve learned it a hundred times:  Wondering and hoping get you nowhere. Getting off your rear end and DOING something nets results. 

Ergo…I will learn chemistry despite my propensity for Jane Austen. It’s a first for me.

Another woman who knows about firsts is my daughter Cassandre. She ran her first (and she swears her last, but that was just her thighs talking) marathon on Sunday.

In April, I posted a link to her blog entry called “My Body,” in which she wrote about why she was training for the Pittsburgh Marathon: “Someone once told me I can’t.”

“My body has survived cutting and neglect, pain and loss, change and change and more change.”

Cassie lives her life with respect for, but above the shadows of, her cutting and neglectful past. She has a clear understanding of her pain and understands the possibility of future pain, but right here, right now, she wanted to run a marathon. And she could and so she did.

Like many of us who blog about what we strive to do and what we accomplish, Cassie was overwhelmed by the support she received from so many people who’d never met her or read her blog before, including someone called “itsjustme”:

“I am a 54 year old woman, in SC, who started running inspired, in large part, by you. So, when you are thinking of people each mile of your marathon, as suggested by Tracy, think of me for a few minutes, even though you don’t know me. You inspired me to become a better, stronger person. Thank you.”

She knows about firsts.

After the race, I posted her marathon results on my Lynn’s Weigh Facebook page because I was so darn proud of her. She wrote to me later that night: “I appreciated every single one of their comments and well wishes. I'm still so humbled by it! I thought of all the people who supported me when I felt tired and found that extra push to finish. I truly appreciated it all. I still can't believe I ran a marathon, Mom. That's a shit ton of running. I'm so proud of us!!!” Us being Cassie and her husband, who ran every mile with her, danced with her in Homewood, and held her hand across the finish line.

Go Cass! Go me! Go any one of you who aspire to reach beyond some comfort zone or false belief that all you are right now is all you can be! Even if you don’t make it all the way right away or at all, the fact that you tried sets you apart from the people who think that the way things are are the only way things can be.

----------------------
 A few other fun "firsts" from the marathon weekend:

Maintaining Diva Sondra came to Pittsburgh for the first time. She ran the half marathon (not her first, but her first one over five bridges!). She also met baby Mae for the first time.

Claire's first time driving. ...sigh...

“What I Did On My Summer Vacation”

In grade school, we referred to the time between grades as “summer vacation.” It wasn’t defined by travel. It was simply time away from book learning.

I’m many years removed from 6^th grade, but next week at this time – god willing and the creek don’t rise and I pass my finals – I will be on “summer vacation.”

In grade school, my only summer vacation plans were to sleep late and play flashlight tag as late as my parents would allow. My dad owned a grocery store, so of course I had to work, too. But it was a good gig and earned me enough money to afford as many Trixie Belden books and “Teen” and “Tiger Beat” magazines as I could read in three months.

This year’s summer vacation plans are a bit different. I won’t be tearing out posters of Shaun Cassidy and hanging them on my bedroom wall, but I will still read as much as I can. I will also work in the soup kitchen, blog more regularly, help my daughter plan her wedding, and take my grandkids to the park. A LOT.

I will also…..RIDE MY BIKE!

I know. Shocking. But it’s something I get so dang excited about, it’s hard to explain. I know many of you know what I mean. You’ve found your “thing.” That something you never dreamed you’d love to do, let alone get all mentally wrapped up in.

Biking is my thing, and every spring since discovering my love for biking, I get this angst of “What if?” I could never articulate it until I read “My Journey To Fit: A Forty-Something’s Weight Loss Journey” blog post yesterday. Shelley nailed my thoughts. I just substituted “bike” for “run.”

Here’s what she wrote: "Run the mile you are in"- Runner's World posted that on their Facebook page yesterday, and it struck me: I seem to spend so much of my runs worrying about what's around the corner - the hill (ugh, so high!), the distance (ugh, so far!),the wind (ugh, so strong!), the heat and humidity (ugh, TEXAS!)that I tend to not focus on and better still, enjoy the moment.  Because I really DO love to run. I think it's just in my nature to want the circumstances to be perfect and easy...and we all know that doesn't happen very often when it comes to running! But I am going to work harder on the mental aspect of it, and just BE a runner and stop fighting everything else that comes with it.”

What I will do on my summer vacation is all I noted before, PLUS, I will “just BE a biker and stop fighting everything else that comes with it” and bike the mile I’m in. There will be hills I’ll be slow to climb. There will be heat and humidity and I’ll smell bad and my hair will suck. There will be people on the path who don’t respect the rules. (Texting and biking? Seriously?) There will be flat tires.

But there will also be birds and trees and the rich smells of the forest floor. Most important, there will be freedom. That’s why I love to ride my bike. When I ride, I’m free – for an hour or two – from the everyday minutia. I am focused only on me. Just me. Am I hydrated? Do I need to stop and stretch that muscle? Spit out a bug? That’s freedom, my friends. That’s quality “me time.”

And speaking of “me time,” this weekend is the Pittsburgh Marathon. There will be thousands of folks out there concentrating on themselves for 3, 13 and 26 miles (plus a few yards), including my daughter Cassie, her husband Matt, Maintaining Diva Sondra, and my friends Jim and Kara. Good luck to them and to all of you doing your “thing” this weekend and every opportunity you have ! May you always live the mile you’re in.

“Nothing” Food

Here’s what’s in my fridge as of this morning, April 25, 2012: 3 packages of Shiritaki Noodles, a quarter-full bag of shredded carrots, a half-full bag of spinach, a container of grape tomatoes, five crimini mushrooms, a near-full container of Daisy Light sour cream, half a bottle of shiraz (it’s one red wine I like chilled), leftover tofu and veggies from yesterday’s Mad Mex fajitas, a couple bottles of salad dressing, some light string cheese, condiments (the holy trinity: ketchup, mustard and light Miracle Whip), a container of light butter, and a half dozen eggs. And a jar of horseradish and some tahini. There might also be some strawberry jelly and maple syrup in there, too, now that I think about it.

Clearly I need to go to the grocery store, but – along with some cupboard staples and a few things in the freezer – I have food enough for me for a day or two. Seven years ago, if I opened my fridge and saw Shiritaki noodles, spinach, mushrooms, carrots and tomatoes, I’d have said, “There’s nothing to eat in here!” and promptly picked up the phone and ordered what constituted real food at the time: pizza and cheese bread sticks.

Old Me didn’t completely avoid “nothing” foods. I’d eat fruit. I loved strawberries, blueberries, and apples, especially when they were surrounded by a pastry shell or sat atop a big bowl of Neapolitan and covered in fudge sauce. I liked veggies, too, but their little tiny portions got shoved to the side of the plate, nearly buried under a mound of cheese potatoes or some breaded chicken or pasta monstrosity. Eat a salad for dinner? Sure! As long as there were plenty of French fries, shredded cheddar, and ranch dressing on top!

Sometimes Old Me pops in for a visit, and for a moment, I see the world through her eyes. This morning, when I opened my fridge, the first thing I thought was, ‘There’s nothing in here.’ But as quickly as that thought came, that thought dissolved, and I saw the eggs and cheese and I imagined an omelet. Old Me would have been halfway to Eat ‘n Park for pancakes. I saw the spinach and tomatoes and planned lunch. Old Me would have debated whether to drive through McDonald’s or Wendy’s for lunch on her way to the grocery store. I saw veggie soup and one lone veggie burger in my freezer and that will be dinner. Old Me would have bought all the fixings for manicotti and garlic bread.

I’m not dissin’ Old Me. I give Old Me a lot of credit. Sure, she can be annoying sometimes, especially when she whispers, “What’s one more piece of chocolate? Go ahead, Lynn, you deserve it.” But even though she put away a lot of chicken nuggets back in the day, she eventually took off her blinders and saw the contents of the fridge and gave “nothing” food a chance. So later, in her honor, I’ll raise a glass of shiraz and thank her for making me who I am today.

Cheers!

I’m Here! (And I brought along a “60 Minutes Australia” link)

I apologize for my absence. Clearly, I can’t blog and learn medical terminology, medical nutrition therapy, employment law, and the names of bacteria, viruses and tapeworms that cause food borne illnesses (which I can thank for my newly acquired hand washing compulsion) at the same time.
I feel like I’m in boot camp for the left-brain inept. Geez-oh-man… Summer offers no breaks, either. I just registered for five weeks of chemistry and lab and 10 weeks of algebra. And as if THAT won’t be enough fun, I’m registered for biochemistry and advanced algebra in the fall. Like my advisor said, “You know how to party.”

So if I’m not here much between now and winter break, I’m probably drooling in a corner somewhere begging to read Jane Austen.

Oh, I kid! Life’s not been all work and no “weigh.” My jeans are looser and my legs are stronger. I’m still committed to my food plan, exercise, meditation, and the people who keep me sane.

Here’s a bit of a summary:

Daughter Carlene and Boyfriend Ben got engaged! (No, it’s not a shotgun wedding. Carlene’s holding baby Mae in that picture.) Wedding date TBD, but next April seems likely.

Grandbaby Mae rode in my Jeep for the first time since being able to legally sit facing forward.

My stepson Andrew moved into his dorm. He’s studying filmmaking at the Art Institute of Pittsburgh. It’s good to have the boy so close.

Claire helped.

Andrew’s brain food. When he was younger, we called him “Cereal Boy.”

I ate at bd’s Mongolian Grill with BF and his son a few weeks ago for the first time. Yum!  

Got the bike in to the shop for a much needed tune up. I upgraded her seat and pack, too. Comfy seat means longer rides. Longer rides means I have to pack more stuff than just a cell phone and Kleenex.

I also went to see the Moody Blues with Larry (my ex-husband, for those of you who aren’t familiar with his name). Larry and I have seen the Moodies 9 times in 15 years, and it was at one of their concerts that I felt the weight of my 300 pounds more profoundly than ever before, and that feeling contributed to my decision to finally lose weight for the last time.

It was 2003. The Moodies were playing a concert in a casino in West Virginia. Larry and I checked into the hotel, played a few slots, had dinner, and then about an hour before the show, went to the lobby to wait for the shuttle that would take us to the concert venue. A few other concert goers began to gather, too, when Larry nudged me and whispered, “Look to your left.”

Standing next to me was Moody’s front man Justin Hayward, whose music is the soundtrack of my life. I don’t remember a time I didn’t know “Nights In White Satin,” “Tuesday Afternoon,” or “Question.” When I need to remember to believe in myself, I listen to “The Voice.” And the song “Forever Autumn”… Gets me every time.

Justin’s shoulder was no further than a foot from mine. I wanted to say hello and to thank him for the gift his music had been to my life. Then I remembered I had  57-inch hips and I said nothing. 

At the concert, I sat in the second row, regretting all the choices that had brought me to such disappointment in myself. Disappointment not only in my size, but disappointment for feeling so unworthy as to not thank someone who’d contributed such depth of feeling to my life. 

I recall that unworthiness every time I see the Moody Blues, and each time, I vow that if I ever stand next to Justin Hayward again, I will tell him – no matter what I look like – “Thank you.”

My former body and the me who occupied it continue to be the source of my determination. I would dishonor she who was me by giving up the fight, because she is the one who thought enough about herself to start that march down the scale. 

David Ballment, Richard Malone, me, Howard Sacre, Liam Bartlett

Which leads me to the “60 Minutes Australia” piece I participated in. It aired last weekend and I just now had the courage to watch it. I’m OK with my part in it, but what surprised me was the almost defeatist attitude of the Australian researcher, Professor Joe Proietto. (Liam Bartlett is the “60 Minutes” correspondent.)

LIAM BARTLETT: So if we’re not completely obsessive, we’re just leading a normal life, we’ll probably put the weight back on?

JOE: Yep, yep. And that certainly explains the experience of all of us who treat obesity – that it’s a difficult thing. Not so much to get the weight off but the failure rate after a few years is very, very high. 

Thank goodness for, Dr. Rena Wing from Brown University, one of the researchers at the Weight Control Registry, of which I and many maintainers are a part.  

RENA: The Melbourne study was a very small study and I think that’s a very pessimistic message for viewers and listeners to hear because we know that many people are able to be successful at weight loss and so…

LIAM BARTLETT: It may be pessimistic but is it reality?

RENA: Ah, I don’t think it is. On average they’ve lost about 30 kilograms and they’ve kept it off about six years. One of the interesting things is that they report that they have tried many times before to lose weight unsuccessfully but this time they got it right okay.

LIAM BARTLETT: So what was the difference?

RENA: What they say is “this time I was more committed to behaviour change and this time physical activity was a bigger part of my regimen than it was in other approaches.”

I’ll shut up now and let you read the transcript or watch the piece yourself. I’d like to hear what YOU have to say about it.