I used to be thin and strong. Now I am neither of those things. Let's see what I can do by getting some form of exercise every single day and eating only local foods and produce. If I'm still fat, I don't care. If I can't climb a mountain, I'll be very very angry. And nobody likes me when I'm angry.
Day Two As it turns out, my new plan will be comprised of baby steps. Full
disclosure--since "Step One" in my new life of getting stronger is to
be honest--I'm drinking Starbucks this morning. It's all we had in the
house. We generally keep coffee from Coffee by Design. Their coffee is delicious and well roasted and they have great politics. If you don't believe me, look it up.
"Step Three" (eating local foods) of my plan will be comprised of more baby steps. I'm also drinking that coffee with...gulp...French vanilla-flavored International Delight. We don't have any milk and I can't drink my coffee black. (It's pouring rain outside so I don't want to walk to the store and I
can't drive in good conscience since it's only about a third of a mile
away. Yes. I know. I'm rationalizing. And, I'm realizing I'm a bit of a princess.)
I don't have the fortitude of my college roommate who still drinks her coffee black because we never had milk in the apartment 20 years ago. Today, I found this flavored creamer in the house because my husband bought it for a client he takes fishing. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Throw it away and fill the land...fill? Yes. I heard it as I was typing it. I lose.
I also never worked out yesterday. I was curled up in our big cozy chair, sucked back into "The End of the Affair," because I had looked up that quote yesterday and then I had to reread some of the other passages. Graham Greene has such a jaded but poignant view on writing.
"I can't swim underwater!"
When I first read him, I thought he was tremendously profound. But, I was 18 and living alone in a cottage by a lake and I was baked for most of the time. Along the lines of exercise in those days, I would swim across the lake daily, which was quite a feat because to this day, I refuse to get my face wet. But back then, I didn't care about my form and I had to work off a lot of extra energy. Therefore, I maintained a flat stomach and strong arms. I made no correlation between exercise and physical stamina. None.
After Graham Greene yesterday, my brother called and we spent an hour and a half talking about...I don't even know what. Then, of course, I needed some lunch (goat cheese from Appleton Creamery, arugula from the Bath Farmers Market, a bit of bread from Borealis, which isn't as good as Standard, but I'll take it).
I couldn't work out after eating lunch (DUH!), so I went back to reading. This time Stephen King's 11/22/63. It's pretty good.
Suddenly, it was 7:00 at night. I can't work out after 5 because it keeps me up.... lame. I know! I know! I did have supper but it was small. A boiled egg from Sparrow Farm tossed on top of more arugula. Oh lordy. I used Annie's dressing. It's from California, but it's "organic"--a word that seems to hold as much weight lately as "artisanal." Someone please tell me it's okay. Because, I love their dressing.
I used to be thin. I mean, when people made jokes about size
0 dresses and how it was so sad that women could actually fit into those dresses, I would laugh with everyone else, but the
truth was, I could fit in those dresses. I’m not saying I looked good in those dresses. I just mean I
could fit in them. I was a chubby little girl but by the 7th grade, I was slim and stayed slim for a long time.
I remember growing to a size 6 at about the age of 25 and
being happy for developing some type of figure. I longed for curves—actually
prayed for them--and I just wanted to fill out my clothes better. Then I jumped
to an 8 when I was 28. Then a 10 at the age of 32. Whoa! Slow down, cosmos!
bye bye baby fat
little miss chubby chubster
By the time I approached my mid-30s, I was a size 12…Marilyn Monroe wore a
12, right? That’s cool. Then a 14. But, come on. I bought size 14 trousers only because
they were more comfortable. I could fit into a Norma Jean 12 any time I wanted
to.
A few summers ago, I bought a pair of shorts, size 16. I
convinced myself it was because the shorts were too short and I wanted
something that would hang lower on my hips. Just this winter, I jokingly put on
a pair of size 18 jeans. They were comfortable. Really really comfortable. The joke was on me.
I’d like to say the vinyl record in my brain skipped on the
turntable and the needle screeched. I’d like to say the brakes squealed.
Nothing of the sort. I merrily went about my business of sitting in front of a
computer, in front of a TV screen, at my desk. I may have been gaining weight
and getting super curvy as opposed to the somewhat
curvy I prayed for while I was in my 20s, but I was still healthy, still
strong, still mostly athletic—but let’s be honest: I was never all that
athletic to begin with.
In the novel “The End of the Affair,” Graham Greene makes an
observation that has always struck me as somewhat silly. In the book, he
writes, “A curious phrase, ‘the other day,’ as though all days were the same
except that one.”
Well, the other day, that sentence seemed less silly. The
other day, I realized I’m not healthy, strong, or kinda athletic. I work at a
ski resort that offers hiking and mountain biking in the summer and fall.
The resort additionally provides its guests with scenic lift rides. I’ve always
considered myself more of the “covered in mud and scratches” type of person who
reaches the peak of a mountain, not the “white sneakers and fanny pack” type of
person who accepts a ride to the peak of a mountain.
The other day, I joined some colleagues for a hike. I made
it a mile. I have never turned back from a hike. I have never given up before
reaching the goal. I would heft my weight as far as anyone—sweating, panting,
groaning, but I would do it.
I never even reached any elevation
The other day, I couldn’t do it. All my days had been the
same except that one. I walked a mile and stopped. I retreated. I abandoned
what turned out to be a really fun afternoon for my friends. Because I had let
myself get too comfortable. I had officially joined the white sneakers and fanny pack crowd.
On the plus side, I’m starting this blog as a way to hold
myself accountable. I don’t mind my body with fat rolls and no waist, unless
you count a muffin top as a waist.
I mind my weakness.
As I write this, I’m devouring a wheel of goat cheese I
picked up at the farmers market this morning. I refuse to stop enjoying food
and wine and martinis and manhattans and more food. I know myself well enough
to know I can’t deprive myself of something or I will start craving it. It is a
fact that, while hiking part of the Appalachian Trail in an effort to impress
my then-boyfriend/now-husband, I spent four days craving orange soda. I don’t
even drink orange soda, but the moment I realized I couldn’t have orange soda,
it was all I could think about.
I quit smoking by allowing myself to smoke if I really wanted to smoke. I was
able to cut from half a pack a day to half a pack a week to half a pack a month
to the occasional party cigarette…or 10. I can’t remember the last time I had a
cigarette—maybe sometime this winter at a party—but I don’t buy them; I don’t
crave them; and I don’t want one right now.
Who am I kidding? I totally want a cigarette right now. But
that’s only because I’m talking about it and there are no cigarettes in the
house and it’s raining so I don’t want to go to the store. Besides, it’s a
waste of money, since I would smoke half of one and toss it out because of the
headache.
I digress. Here’s my plan:
Step one: Be honest about what I’m doing. I will hide
nothing.
Step two: Get more exercise. Do something physical at least
once a day. Yesterday, I mowed the lawn for 90 minutes. Today, I plan to hop on
the elliptical for 30 minutes…okay, maybe 20. Tomorrow, my husband comes home after
being in Vermont for four days. I think we all know what my physical activity
for tomorrow will be. I do like him very much. (I said I’d be honest. I
apologize if I become graphic.)
Step three: Purchase and consume items that I can trace back
to a local source and/or back to its roots in a garden. Goat cheese from the
farmers market, good. Box of Triscuits, bad. It may not be entirely “healthy,”
but it’s the right thing to do. I might have to make an exception for coffee.
That’s it. That’s what I’m going to do. If I stay a size 14,
purchasing a size 16, and wearing a size 18 because it’s the most comfortable?
So be it.
If I can’t hike vertically for more than a mile without falling
apart? I have failed.
