Down to the Last Plate of Cookies

Christmas 2009 is over. It was a very good one, full of good cheer, family, friends and delicious meals. It was also very full of cookies. Allyson and I made fourteen different kinds of cookies, which comes to about 600 in all. We spent an entire day unpacking them (half we had frozen as we had baked them earlier in the month), putting each in a decorative paper cup, and then

re- boxing them in assortments to send off and give away to friends and relatives. Joe and Al did the postal packing and trip to the post office. For the longest time I only ate one of each batch. As they came out of the oven and cooled on the rack, I felt I had to try one of each to make sure they were OK. They were OK. In fact, the were damn good, if I do say so myself.

Aside from the occasional tast-test cookie, my eating approaching the holidays was OK. And them came Dec. 20, a date that shall live in infamy, as the day I gave in to to cookie craving. It began innocently enough, with a single peanut butter cookie for breakfast. The rationale went something like this: peanut butter has protein so this cookie will probably be OK for my blood sugar. Then I ate a second, and then a third. Finally, I told myself that Dec. 20 would be a dietary restriction-free day, so for lunch I had cottage cheese and cookies. And for dinner I had soup and cookies. And before I went to bed, I fixed myself a plate of beautiful, iced Christmas sugar cookies, which are Allyson's specialty. There were green trees, pink angels, yellow stars, and my absolute favorite, blue snowflakes. I made myself a cup of herbal tea and sat on the sofa, enjoying every bite while gradually getting sleepier and sleepier. At 11:00 pm I stumbled off to bed.

At 2:30 am I awoke with something I can only describe as a combination kidney stone and gall bladder-like attack, as my digestive track, fined tuned from days of whole wheat, oatmeal and vegetables, went into a state of complete rebellion from the cups of butter and sugar I had consumed the day before. I was up and down all night. Now you would think that any rationale person would go back to healthy eating the very next morning. But, nope, I went straight back to cookies and other refined carbohydrates. And it has been that way every since, culminating with the wonderful prime rib dinner we had yesterday, on Christmas day, which included my daughter Lilly's famous candied yams, and was topped off by my daughter Rose's amazingly good mince pie and eggnog.

Within a few days my stomach has regained its capacity to digest contraband, and I have been sleeping through the night without problems. I have not been exercising. I am afraid to get on the scales. Today so far, I am doing better, gradually retuning to healthy eating. Tomorrow Allyson and I leave for a three day escape to NYC to see Kandinsky at the MOMA and other shows. I am hoping all the walking will help me get my leg strength back. Right now I feel like my first mile might as well be a marathon.

Sick, Sick and Sick Some More!

Nobody wants to hear about old peoples' illnesses so I haven't been writing for awhile. Yes, I have had two more viruses -- the ten day lung busting cougher and the 48 hour neck radiating head-splitter. Not to mention that every part of my body itches from dry skin. I was under the impression that I was sick all the time my last couple of years at work because my job was physically stressful , especially all the plane travel. But apparently I am just a weakling, prone to catching every germ in a ten mile radius. Or perhaps 60 is a year like three or 14 or 33, all years which I spent working my way through virus after virus after infection for no good reason.

My exercise regime is at a halt. Now that I am better I must start again, but a cold gray winter sky makes outside look very inhospitable. Inside we have a roaring fire and a beautiful tree, decorated by Allyson's and my grandchildren, with an over abundance of every kind of ornament imaginable. Under the tree is a profusion of gifts, each beautifully wrapped by Allyson or me. Gift wrapping seems to be the only activity I can truly enjoy while sneezing, scratching and coughing. Don't worry those of you who are my gift list. I washed my hands after every sneeze or sniffle. I love the wrapping process, all the colored papers and the contrasting ribbons, wide or narrow, shiny and curly or straight and textured. Adding the little gift cards to each package makes me especially happy. The gift cards make the presents seem finished and personal. How I love paper! It is one of life's greatest blessings.

I am also baking, but believe it or not I am not overeating. I am still in a good food period that is reflected in my declining weight on the scales. I am down 15 pounds now. I keep telling myself it ought to be easier to walk. I am able to visualize 15 butter boxes removed from various parts of my body. This is a ready image because every cookie recipe requires at least half a box of butter. After I bake them, I pack them in perfect geometric patterns in plastic containers and pop them in the freezer for unpacking day, when they all emerge and Al and I put each cookie in a colorful paper cup and arrange them in assortments for gift giving.

As you can probably tell I am into Christmas big time. I keep thinking of the scene in the grandparent's house from the movie Fanny and Alexander, which captured a feeling I am hoping to pass on to my grandchildren. It's a feeling of comfort, warmth and joy, and also of peace and harmony. OK, that may be a bit unrealistic given the size of my family, but at least I can feel peaceful and harmonious, and hope that my mood is as contagious as the local viruses.

Why I Craved Celery Today

Today I opened the refrigerator to get a snack and saw a cool, crisp piece of celery that was washed and trimmed. It looked great. I ate it and washed it down with a glass of fresh, filtered water from our refrigerator. This was a a first. I actually think I may have succeeded in changing my eating habits. With the exception of Thanksgiving and Kenny's and Joe's birthdays, I have been eating very well for the past two months. I have rarely had any refined grain products, and almost no sweets.

Why I have been able to stick to my pre-diabetic diet for the first time is a mystery to me. But I have several theories. One is that I am much less stressed out than while I was working, so I am not eating to sooth myself or because I am exhausted. The second is that regular exercise has reduced my cravings. The third is that my life is changing, and I am avoiding behaviors that make me tired and frustrated, and thus am less likely to over eat.

One change is that I am trying to let go of the notion that I have to fix everything that goes wrong or might go wrong with my daughters or husband. I grew up having to know how to avoid the wrath of a maniacal mother and deal with a chronically depressed father. I learned at an early age to be able to read mood and body language and to understand and mitigate unpleasant circumstances. I used these skills in school to be the A student who always seemed to know just what the professor wanted or needed to hear. I used the skills in the workplace to convince those around me to do whatever was required to make the office go smoothly. And I got lots of positive feedback for these behaviors.

But these behaviors took time and energy and did not allow me to do things that were new, creative, or just plain fun. So now is the time to do whatever I please, and I really have no excuses to hold me back, except that it is difficult to change old patterns. The the first change was the hardest. For me that was starting to exercise. Now other changes are coming with surprising rapidity. So maybe this is why I craved celery today.

An Active Life of Thought

Since the grand kids went back to school in September, I have been experimenting with unplanned thinking. This a new concept for me. My mind works by keeping a never-ending day-planner front and center in the executive center of my brain. Each day there are short-term goals (take a bath), medium-term goals (finish my Christmas shopping) and long-term goals (run a a mile). For forty years, I have woken each day knowing exactly what I wanted/needed to do. Unless my body backfired on me, I generally achieved what I had planned.

Now I am experimenting by leaving some time unstructured, to do whatever I feel like doing. And most of this time I spend thinking. My own thoughts about life, nature, philosophy, art, you-name-it, are endlessly interesting to me. If I read, or see an exhibition of painting or a go to a movie, this creates enough material for me to think about for at least two or three days. It is intensely pleasurable.


But there are several problems with this choice of life style. The first is dealing with my own guilt. I have a pretty heavy dose of the puritan work ethic. The second is dealing with the reactions of others. When I tell them I am thinking, the most common response is, "you deserve a rest!" This inevitably makes me angry because I think everyone should have time to think even if they haven't been busy for forty years. It also angers me because my thinking, although directed internally, is a very active pursuit and I am not just lying around doing nothing. Another problem is exercise. Thinking is cutting into my exercise time. This combined with not having an outdoor pool and sunshine, has reduced me to doing only one or two blocks per day. The blocks alternate between walking, which I still hate, and stretching, which I enjoy.


On the positive side, thinking has reduced my stress level and my compulsive eating is less evident. It is much easier for me to stick to my pre-diabetic diet most of the time. My weight has continued to decline at the rate of about 2 pounds per month, so I am now down ten pounds. I feel good physically and mentally. Each day is different because my mind takes me to different places.


Another change is that now, when I am in a social setting, I am very outgoing. I have always been an introvert who extroverts well, but it has been a challenge. I am definitely not a party person. In the past, after large social gatherings, I always felt like a had to go home and assume a fetal position mentally (physically I was way too fat and stiff to even attempt this.) I have always preferred small gatherings and especially intense one-on-one discussions to big bashes, unless I host the bash at my house. I am sure this is a control issue, but I feel like I can be myself when entertaining in my on home.

Last night we were invited to an engagement party for my nephew and his wonderful girlfriend. I genuinely had a good time. But perhaps I over did it. With one glass of bubbly (I generally don't drink any more because of my blood sugar), I was prompted to tell the saga of how Joe and I met and decided to marry, which is not the romantic story that would be appropriate for the occasion. As if this weren't bad enough, I then expounded on some of Joe's old girlfriends, making him mad. It was probably not the best choice of subject matter, but what can I say. All my inward energy exploded in a barrage of verbiage. Thankfully, the center of attention of the evening remained on the beautiful young couple, sharing their joy with their family. I think I will leave it there.

Back at Last

I have been gone from this blog for a long time during which I have experienced a period of inactivity and introspection. I am not really certain what external factors led me to drop out of my exercise program. -- there were illnesses, back problems and family issues, but to me the inability to get my body going seemed more internal. During this inactive period I felt entitled to do nothing on some days. After all, I have kept to a rather tight schedule for forty years. I also felt I needed silence and time where I did not have to deal with other people. I must say that I am a true introvert, in the sense that I feel the most centered when I spend time alone in silence.

And then of course there are sports. October is my favorite month. It features the
World Series (my oldest daughter when she was five called it the World Serious because of how determined I was not to be interrupted during the games.) There is also both college and professional football. But please do not ask me about the Redskins. Their performance alone is enough to drive me into a catatonic state. And my grandsons are playing football and doing very well at winter swim meets. During the past month I also watched the President's Cup, the world tack and field championships, the world gymnastic championships, iceskating and world cup ski racing.

But whatever the many reasons for my withdraw from blogging and exercise, I now feel ready to come back to this part of my life. Today, Allyson and I did two walking blocks at Brookside Gardens. It was raining and the last survivors of the amazingly colored fall leaves still held tenaciously to the trees. The chrysanthemums were vibrant. They were pruned to form perfect balls and topiaries which offended my sensibilities. I prefer wild gardens, or those with subtle structure.

Allyson and I have been developing a small conservatory in our sun room. We have a gardenia, an evergreen, a mum and some ferns. I also have a small jade plant that I hope to use to start a bonsai garden. The sun room 's air seems wet and super oxygenated. We bought a wicker chaise lounge and several chairs, and I love to have my morning coffee in there. I feel as if air is rejuvenating.

I also feel I can now reach out to friends again, and put words on the computer, so I expect to be writing more often. I feel like I can return to my exercise program. Tomorrow we are going to Miami for a few days, and I am looking forward to many hours in the pool and the ocean.

The Homeric Wallop

Wallop is a term my housemate, Allyson, uses to describe a series of bad events that are beyond control and leave you exhausted, depressed, and with little energy to fight back. Last week I received a wallop of epic proportions, at least from the perspective of someone spoiled by retirement and on a journey to better health and fitness.

Last week I had a routine appointment to remove a non-cancerous growth on the inside of my knee. The procedure was painless, but what I was not prepared for was the large (the size of a fifty cent piece) open wound which had to be bandaged and prevented me from entering a public swimming pool. Then on Thursday I awoke with a sharp pain in my back right molar that shot down my jaw. This necessitated an emergency root canal, during which my dentist put so much pressure on my jaw that I developed a painful crook in my neck that did not allow me to turn my head to the right.

On Friday, I awoke to a residual jaw ache, a neck ache and a painful stomach which I attributed to the pain killers I had been taking. Unfortunately this was a missed diagnosis and I proceeded to develop a four day bout with a rough stomach and intestinal virus. By the weekend, during which I had planned to clean my office and bake a birthday cake and a brisket for my five year-old grandson, Pierre, (who loves meat), I was laid out in bed, miserable, feeling walloped. My mind took a turn for the depressive side and I felt that all my efforts to improve my physical condition and run a mile would never succeed.

What saved me from this bout of self-pity, was the book I am reading, the Odyssey by Homer. As I lay there miserable in body and heart, I came to think that the Great Achilles, son of Zeus, and God of foot speed, was taking direct aim at me during my heroic journey to run a mile run at a competitive track meet. But what had I done to cause the great God's indignation? Certainly not striving for good health and walking around Brookside Garden? And then it hit me. I had bragged about my zen moment on the path in this very blog!

With that thought I came to the passage where Odysseus sails close to the cave of Skylla, the horrible monster with twelve tentacled legs and six heads, and believes he is sneaking upon her (note: monsters in literature are usually "her") until:

"By heaven! when she

vomited, all the sea was like a cauldron

seething over intense fire, when the mixture

suddenly heaves and rises..."1

This sent be running for the bathroom head hung in the toilet bowl.

Afterwards I composed this:

Oh Achilles, God of flight, take pity on this woman

whose heroic voyage to be fleet of foot

has mired in this bed of deep malaise. Forgive her for the

words of pride, which she so thoughtlessly bestowed

upon this audience.

She has learned now, oh winged one, son of Zeus,

to respect that your gift is rare

through heaving bouts spent in the loos.

This morning I felt much better and did two blocks of floor exercise. Tomorrow, God willing, I will return to the track.

1 " Homer, "The Odyssey," translated by Robert Fitzgerald, 1961.

Home Again....Getting Re-Started

I am now back home after a month away. My house feels luxurious. I love my beautiful large kitchen, comfortable king-sized bed with good quality sheets, cable TV and soaking tub. I can't believe how fortunately I am.

After a few days of self-congratulatory bliss, it is time to get started again on my exercise program. With some exceptions, I was reasonably active while I traveled, and I watched what I ate, so I still feel in pretty good shape. Stretching feels great. The exercises are like old friends and are helping my spine recover from the minimalism of Scandinavian beds (they do not have box springs and mattresses, but instead a sort of lumpy combination base covered by two light down comforters in duvets, which you sleep between.)

Today I began my track work again. Unfortunatley the high school track where I used to walk was locked because school is now in session, so I went to Brookside Gardens near my house. I can't believe I have been letting such a beautiful place go untouched by my eyes and feet. The Japanese maples are a full, rusty red, and perfectly placed behind the Japanese style pavilion.

Giant cut rocks form natural benches. They were hard to resist. The first hundred feet or so my legs were leaden, but from past experience I know if I keep going they will lighten. Sure enough after about ten minutes there was a spring in my step. Unlike the track, the Garden's paths gently rise and fall around a beautiful like filled with water lilies. So I actually had to walk uphill. As I approached the first rise, I felt a bit intimidated, but I told myself if it was too hard, I could take a rest one of the beautiful rocks. But I made it, jauntily stepping out to cover the slight incline quickly.

On the opposite side of the lake I approached an Asian man about my age, who was simply standing on the side of the path, looking and breathing. I stopped and stood beside him for awhile experiencing the first cool air of fall, and my breath. My body felt energized yet calm.

Four Blocks in Norway

I have realized on this vacation that I love water. This love runs deeper than just watching rolling waves or water falls. For my mental health and motivation I must submerge myself in water regularly. Ocean, river or pool really doesn't matter, I just need to feel buoyant every few days.

This piece of self knowledge came to me after several days of exploring the Norwegian Fjords on small passenger ships. We disembarked to spend the night at the historic Kivknes' hotel overlooking the Sognefjord. There was no swimming pool, but the desk attendant offered a dip in the Fjord. In the morning I walked down to inspect. The sea water could be entered by descending metal steps covered with algae. Never mind that it was overcast, with only a slip of sun showing, and the water was about 60 degrees. I looked into the beautiful green gray water and felt a primal urge to throw myself in and swim to the dock about 100 feet away. I returned to the hotel for my suit and a towel. I also asked Joe to come with me in case I had heart attack. But by the time we returned thesunlight had retreated and it had begun to rain. I lost the impulse.

I will not even try to describe to you the transcendent beauty of the Norwegian coast. You will just have to come for yourself. I am very fortunate to be sighted and here. So I will not complain. But I will say that traveling for several weeks is not conducive to my training regime. I have been feeling very tired and not very motivated. Fortunately yesterday we took a bus from the fjords to Voss, and there was a hotel with a swimming pool, so today for the first time in weeks I did my four blocks and I feel much more energetic.

I have enjoyed sizing up the Norwegians. Here fat is not an issue. I haven't seen a single fat Norwegian. What is obvious is that these folks are amazingly gritty, fit and big boned. Some have size, but by no stretch of the imagination would I describe them as overweight. This is very inspiring. Our bus driver, Ragnar, was a an archetype -- bearded and ruddy with very strong hands and a broad back, he described the scenery with a minimum of words. We were sitting in the the front seat, so I could see his expression and he was quite pleased with himself as he described his home turf. At one point he pointed to a building and said that it was a small factory -- for smoked sheep's heads. He explained in some detail the process of splitting the heads, and removing the brains, tongue and glands. The many British and Japanese passengers on our bus were stunned into silence, grimacing and holding their stomachs as he confidently maneuvered the large bus around hairpin turns up the mountain. He explained that smoked sheep's head was now a delicacy, although in poorer times it had helped feed the people. " Of course," he said, "you may need to drink a lot of local beer before eating. Some people find it hard to eat with their dinner staring at them. But I think its better than having it talk to you." I couldn't agree more.

When we got to a stop at a local hotel perched above an eye popping waterfall, we were informed the old highway down was closed because of a 2 km race up the road which Ragnar told us climbed at a twenty degree angle. As we pulled into the parking lot he drove the bus up very close to a parked car where a woman in her late thirties or forties, red-faced from running the climb, was changing clothes in the open air. She pulled her singlet off over her head revealing a large -boned, muscular and buxom torso clothed in textured long underwear that stuck to her curves. "This," said Ragnar proudly, " is our mayor, Mary Ann Orland. She is very ..........fit. " His voice turned wistful. Mary Ann smiled at him in a very knowing way, leaving me to conclude that her run had left her with plenty of energy to give the charming Ragnar a roll in the hay.

A Lapse in Denmark

I knew when I started this program that there would be times when I would have a hard time with motivation. This is one of those times. Since arriving in Denmark my back has hurt, my stomach is uneasy and I am finding it hard to generate enough energy to do sightseeing, let alone strenuous exercise. Fortunately, my appetite is also a bit sketchy, so I doubt I am gaining any weight.

Yesterday we drove to Skagen which is at the tip of Jutland. It is an amazing place, where Denmark's landmass comes to a very distinct point-- a long sandbar that extends into the ocean separating two seas (the Danish names for these seas sound something like Kitty Kat and Skata Ract but the actual spelling looks entirely different- nothing in Danish is pronounced anything like it is written). On the east side of the sand bar large rough breakers move toward the west where they meet the softer surf which flows from west to east. You can walk along the sand spit and wade into the waters where the two seas meet.

After the three hour car trip my mood was bad and my back hurt, but I climbed the first dune and looked at the sand spit ahead. Hundreds of people, young and old, were making the walk of about a mile and a half. I decided to force myself to do the walk with my husband who was eager to get out of the car and get moving. I made it up and down the second dune and then on to the flat spit where I began to walk toward the point. After five minutes of walking in the soft sand my legs and back hurt and I burst into tears. I didn't want to even try to go forward. I urged my husband to continue without me and I walked back slowly. Half way I stopped at the grave of a Danish writer who is buried there. There were little rocks and flowers on the top of the gravestone. I spent at least ten minutes rearranging them; concentrating on their textures as I built small towers.

I continued to the parking lot and souvenir shop where I discovered a huge sand tractor that pulled a trailer full of non-walkers to the tip of the sand spit every half hour or so, but I didn't board it for fear I would miss my husband when he returned. The whole episode made me feel abnormal -- incapable of doing things that most people seem to be able to do with ease.

Today after a long sleep, a pain pill for my back and a beer with lunch I feel a bit more optimistic. Perhaps I am just worn out from all my travel or have a mild virus. I have decided not to push myself for the remainder of the vacation. In the coming week we will be on a self guided tour of Norway including Oslo, some of the southern fjords, and Bergen. We will travel by train, bus and boat, staying in historic hotels and inns along the way. I am just going to relax about exercise and enjoy the trip. When I get home early in September I will resume my regular exercise program, I hope.

Denmark

I am writing this from Denmark. I arrived back in Silver Spring from California on Monday and left for Denmark on Wednesday. This may seem crazy, but I had a travel opportunity I just couldn't pass up. My husband, Joe, and I are house-sitting for a very kind friend in Ullerslev, which is a quiet village on the great island of Fyn. The house, which was her childhood home, is filled with old photos, and family mementos. It is comfortable, quiet and relaxing. The air is clean and smells of the sea. It has a large yard with green grass and an apple tree which is dropping fruit. We are enjoying our stay. It is a great break from our hectic life at home, with all the anxiety and excitement that come with having a big familiy and living near an urban area. Life here seems to be without angst, perhaps because of the wonderful Danish social safety net or perhaps because the Danes seem to be a naturally happy and guileless lot.

One thing they are not is totally skinny. Before we left, Joe, who is of normal U.S. size, told me he was worried he would feel fat here, because he imagined all the Danes to be tall and thin. The young are, but folks our age have generally added some girth. I have not seen anyone who is morbidly obese, but I have seen plenty of prosperous, chubby, and content looking folks in their fifties or sixties. Regardless of their size, people seem to be in good health and reasonably fit. People of all ages ride bicycles everywhere. I am impressed by middle-aged folks who easily swing their legs over the seat to mount their bikes, or coast with one leg on the peddle but with their entire body on one side of the bike as they slow to park in one of the thousands of public bicycle racks. Because I lived in the country as a child, I could ride a horse well at five, but didn't learn to ride a bike until age ten. I have never felt comfortable on one, which is too bad because it would be a great way to get in my exercise blocks here.

Instead I am stretching and walking and trying to locate the municipal swimming pool. I stretched this morning for the first time since stretching on the Berkeley High infield two weeks ago. I am totally stiff and my back is sore from the airplane and all the driving. For me, the sitting postion is a killer. The good news is that on the plane I didn't have to ask for a seat belt extender and I could gyrate holding my body at a 30 degree angle to extricate myself from the window seat to go to the batthroom without too much difficulty.

After I stretched, Joe and I walked together around the field at the local school and watched the kids at play. The young ones had the most beautiful wooden tricycles and scooters to ride and a great wooden fort on stilts to play in. There were several soccer fields, tennis courts and large grassy fields so they could exercise. All the kids seemed to be of healthy body size. I fear US policies are forcing our schools to be so preoccupied with academics (to make sure we are keeping pace with the Japaneese) that we are cheating our kids out of the health and pleasure which come from playing outdoors during the school day.

Now we are in an internet cafe in Odense, a larger city 20 km from our village, and I just completed another block of urban walking. So far I must admit that all the excersie is difficult. I don't feel motivated. Perhpas it is jet lag, exhaustion from my previous travel with my grandchildren, or the relaxed civility of this place, but all I want to do is sleep. I will now go home and take a nap.

Camping

I am sitting in a hotel room in San Rafael, CA, surrounded by open suitcases with about five loads of dirty laundry poking out or thrown on the floor beside them. I have been camping for two nights. Now, let me say from the beginning that tent camping with four children is one big exercise block. Only my most intrepid daughter, Rose, my youngest, was brave enough to go with me, so we were two adults with four kids, ages 10, 9, 7 and 4.

We chose to camp in the far north region of California in Panther Flat Campground, which is run
(very nicely) by the USDA Forest Service. I am very glad that it is not a State of California campground or it would be threatened with closure as a result of the current California budget crisis. The campground is small and intimate with lovely trees, but also with some open sunny campsites. Down one side of it runs the Smith River, one of the most beautiful, untouched wild rivers remaining in the Continental U.S.

Because I recall the days when you had to show up early to get a prime campsite, I ignored the fact that that we had reserved a site on the internet, and left the hotel for the two hour drive north from Arcata at 6:30 AM. Of course, when we arrived our campsite was still occupied, so we parked down on the flat by the river and started to look around on foot. My daughter and the grandkids went running up a steep trail toward the campsite and I overcame my resistance to walking uphill, and followed slowly behind. I was was quite proud of myself at first, for although I had to catch my breath a little at each switchback, I was making good progress until I caught the tip of my running shoe on a tree root, and took a nasty fall on a rock beside the trail. In case you haven't given this any thought, fat people fall harder than thin people do. I was shaken and scared.

But thanks to my excellent bone health (the dexa scan my thorough internist ordered affirmed my assessment that fat people like me people who grow up on dairy farms wrestling hay bales and fifty pound sacks of grain and who claim cheese as their favorite food, have thick bones), I was bruised but fine. I retreated to the car to examine the damage, and stayed there until my daughter returned saying we could check in.

Setting up camp and making sandwiches for lunch was a snap, except for the yellow jackets we attracted. After our first meal, we put on our swimsuits and headed to the river. To reach my favorite swimming hole, we had to enter the river from a rocky trail head and float downstream over many slippery rocks. The river was icy cold, but as clear as if it has been filled with Dasani. We could see fish swimming beneath us. The younger kids wore life jackets and floated down behind Rose and me, shivering and squealing in a combination of glee and hypothermia. We arrived at a small beach, beyond which the river deepened to form a natural pool. The opposite bank of the river was a rocky cliff with many small ledges, from which the young and agile among us, including my intrepid Rose, jumped into the deep water. We swam and lay in the sand in silence. I reminded my oldest grandsons who had been there before with me, that this is where I want my ashes spread (please do not report this to USDA).

Making our way back upstream dragging the little ones was quite a workout, but I was up to it because of all my lap swimming and water walking. We ate heartily that night and sat around the campfire eating smores, as I told my grandchildren the "Moon Stories" my father made-up. We slept comfortably on air mattresses in our two tents, and didn't wake until 8:00 AM!

The next day we repeated these activities and I felt relaxed and happy until the third morning when we had to break camp and attempt to stuff all our gear into the suitcases from whence it had come. We rolled, folded, swept off dirt, and crammed for four hours until all six of us were exhausted. Kenny, age 10, and Lawrence, age 9, were indispensible. Exhausted we climbed into our packed car and happily sped off to the comfort of the hotel, where we all took very long showers.

I feel exhilarated but exhausted. Tomorrow I am looking forward to stretching on the carpet and water walking in the hotel pool.

My Home Town

I am visiting my home town, Arcata, CA. Anyone who grew up in a small town and returns many years later, must share a similar experience. It is a bit disappointing. The distances are much shorter and the buildings much smaller than I experienced them as a child. Jones Variety, the store that once attracted me because of its shelf of new-smelling plastic dolls and a candy counter where fifty cents went a long way toward a bag of chocolate stars, is now a thrift shop. The smell of used clothing wafted out as I walked by the open door.

But my home town still has something special-- it is one of the most beautiful places in the world. Here the majestic redwood forests descend to the edge of the dramatic and breathtakingly beautiful coastline where huge breakers splash over craggy rocks. The ocean is fed by glassy watered rivers which pool into swimming holes for those hardy enough to brave the cold.

But almost everyone who lives here seems to be in a stupor. This may be because Arcata is in Humboldt County, the marijuana capitol of the world. But I also believe the fierce beauty of this place makes the inhabitants feel that human activities such as going to school or having a career are insignificant compared to what the natural world can provide.

Being dropped back into this place makes me feel lazy. My seven grandchildren, and two of my daughters are here too, so if I had even 15 minutes to myself, I would love to take a nap protected by a sand dune or fall asleep in a mossy corner of a Redwood grove. Instead I am planning how to get my four blocks in tomorrow. I plan to go to the local swimming pool for some water walking and swimming and then see if the local high school has a track that is open to the public. I could of course, walk down the beach. But I am afraid I would be intoxicated by the beauty and end up sitting, drawing my name in the sand repeatedly, or just watching the seagulls dive for fish.

Its really important that I do my blocks because yesterday we all ate at the Home Town Buffet. It is all you can eat, and I ate all I could eat -- fried chicken, mashed potatoes, mushy green beans, and two of the doughiest raised dinner rolls I have ever eaten with a pat of butter each. I followed this by a large piece of lemon pie. Many of the fellow diners were also obese, so I would have felt at home going for seconds, except, that I was stuffed. I actually stopped eating when full. That is good because driving here from San Francisco I ate compulsively: a bag of beef jerky, a small bag of BBQ potato chips, ten or fifteen Hershy kisses and three Milano cookies. Let's hope that tomorrow, when I resume my exercise, I will also resume healthy eating.

Taking it on the Road

I am on vacation and facing the challenge of staying on my exercise program while away from home. This morning two of my grandsons and I drove to the track at Berkeley High School. While I did three blocks of walking and stretching, they lapped me as they jogged several miles. This is their month of vacation from swim practice, so they are staying in shape along side me. Surprisingly, Astroturf, or whatever they call it these days, is great for floor exercise. It's very clean compared to real grass or even the floor of my living room.

It was such a pleasure to walk on a track in morning fog, with the wind of the of San Francisco Bay in my face as I made the first turn. Now I know why all the US distance runners train in Oregon. I wish I could join them. Despite knowing its a necessity, I really hate to sweat. I have very thick hair and at home the sweat starts within in my scalp, wetting the the roots of my hair and working its way outward until it is drips off my bangs into my eyes. Walking in fog reverses this process. The cool vapor condenses on the ends of my hair and gradually works its way inward cooling my scalp.

After our workout we headed for San Francisco, and spent the rest of the day at a science museum and walking in the beautiful landscaping of Yerba Buena Gardens. I easily got in another block of stair climbing and ramp walking as well as just general city strolling. This was all well and good until we happened to pass " Ice Bee, Free Style Swirling," an extraordinary ice cream parlor. The place was tiled with exquisite Biazza Italian glass mosaic tiles, and lined with an even more exquisite line of softserve ice cream nozzles. There were twenty flavors, or thirty if you count swirling two conjoined flavors together. Each customer takes a pint cup and works their way down the row of nozzles taking whatever they want. I took banana, chocolate, and peanut butter and crowned it with smashed-up peanut butter cups from the toppings bar.

Oh well, as my grandson said, "We're on vacation!"

Progress

It is now the end of week five and I am making progress. I can now walk quite briskly for one and a half miles on the track and swim slowly for twenty minutes without hanging on the edge of the pool gasping after each length. I am quite limber, especially my legs and back.

Last time I went to the doctor my blood sugar was 111 and my blood pressure was so low while I was lying down , the nurse made me stand up to take it again. This time in was 110/50. My stamina has improved a great deal and I feel much peppier. There is a spring in my step as I go down stairs each morning. Last night I hosted a birthday party for my seven year old granddaughter, and at the end of the evening my legs were not even tired.

But what has changed the most is my attitude toward exercise. I actually like to walk on the track now, if I can get there early enough that it is not terribly hot and humid. I love my water walking and enjoy swimming. I am trying to incorporate the stroke improvements I have seen in my grandchildren this summer. I do a reasonably good pull-out in breast stroke and streamline like a dolphin off the wall in free. Stretching is now so routine, I really can't go without it for more than 48 hours. I used to struggle with insomnia some nights. Now I fall asleep easily and sleep very soundly.

But apparently this is not enough. What everyone wants to know is if have I lost any weight. This is actually very unimportant to me, since the point of my training is to run a mile, regardless of my weight. But since everyone asks constantly, the answer is, "Yes, I have lost five pounds." Actually the week before my retirement I had ballooned to 282, and now I am back to 277. When I tell people this some look discouraged, but I am not. My clothes fit much better and I feel great, so I really don't care what the scale says.

The other thing everyone wants to know is if I am dieting. And the answer is a resounding, "No." I have no intention of ever dieting again. It just makes me too miserable and I always gain the weight back. I try to keep to a pre-diabetic diet whenever possible, but I don't count calories, or carbs or grams of fat, for that matter. I butter my wholewheat bread and do not intend to stop. And when I really want it, I eat cake or ice cream.

Even though weight loss is not my goal, I do expect to lose more weight as my fitness level increases. The last time I was fit was forty years ago in college. Instead of gaining the freshman ten, I actually lost 48 pounds my first two years in college because I took four to six dance classes a week --- Martha Graham technique modern dance, ballet, point and jazz. Back then my normal diet was cheeseburgers, Hostess Cupcakes and milk. I loved to go into the campus coffee shop and hear my classmates who worked there yell my order to the cook, "Cheesebouger!" Coming from California, I was charmed by all the East Coast accents around me.

As I added more and more dance classes to my week, a funny thing happened. One day I sat down to my lunch and after the first bite of the first cupcake (there were always two to a package in those days, but as an indicator of our nation's obesity they now come three to a package), I just couldn't eat it. All that exercise had done something. Perhaps it had changed my brain chemistry or readjusted my endocrine system. In any case, I just started eating less and less and dancing more and more until at the end of my Sophomore year, I weighted 121 lbs.

And what happened next? I moved in with the man who is now my husband, and had three daughters in six years while going to college, graduate school, and working part-time. And I gave up dancing. Each year I gained five or ten pounds. At first it was not so noticeable but by age thirty-five I was obese and I just kept gaining. So that is why I am in no hurry. It took me forty years to gain this weight, so I am okay if it takes me forty years to lose it.

Week Four

Today I am beginning week four of my program. My body is under going subtle changes. My back and legs are far more limber. It is much easier for me to tie my shoes. Now I practically bound up the stairs of my house, while a month ago I had to drag myself up and was breathless at the top. Although I still prefer the water, I have worked up to a mile at a time walking on the track.

Along with the capacity to exercise, I am also learning patience, which is definitely not one of my strong points. Last week, for example, I came down with a virus and was sidelined for four days. Fortunately two of the days were Saturday and Sunday, which are my days off. But on Monday and Tuesday, I pretty much stuck to the couch daydreaming and napping. Being sick while retired is really a lot nicer than while working. If this virus had struck during my working life, I would have gone into the office anyway, prolonging the bug and probably infecting my colleagues. Instead, this time I dozed my way through it, patiently allowing my body to deal with the pathogen at its own pace.

The lazy couch time reminded of the days during my childhood when I was allowed to stay home alone when I was sick, while my mother worked in town and my dad worked on our ranch nearby. I was never lonely and enjoyed having the house to myself. My favorite solitary game was to pretend I was a shopkeeper, selling my mother's many pieces of fine china and Wedgwood to imaginary customers. After showing them around the built-in hutches in our dining room, I would unstick the pieces they selected from the shelves (my mother never dusted so things were pretty grimy), wash them, wrap them in newspaper and put them in grocery bags. I would continue this until mid afternoon, when I would unpack everything and put it back on the shelves. Strangely, I never once broke a single piece.

It took a few days after I got over my illness to get my strength and stamina back. On the first day back I did only one exercise block, then two and on the third day, finally the full set of four. This took a lot of patience, but I am slowly learning to trust my body, rather than to fight with it. Perhaps the most remarkable change is that I now look forward to exercise, at least most of the time. I am excited about what I can accomplish during the next two weeks before I leave for vacation. I plan to intensify some blocks. I may even attempt to jog for the first time!

Pleasant Distractions

The past few days it has been difficult sticking to my exercise regime. My daughter has been here, visiting from the opposite coast with three of my grandchildren. Their four cousins, who live nearby me, are besotted with the visitors and have spent most of the past four days and some nights here too. We had a great July 4th cook-out, with just the immediate family (18 people including the live-in mothers of my sons-in laws, Alicia and Jenny, the super sweet and competent au'pair. ) And then on July 5 my daughters organized a retirement party for me with fifty members of my extended family and a few of my dearest friends.

This huge extended family is a surprise. My father was an orphan and for most of his life had no older, living relatives. I had four first cousins on my mother's side, but they lived far away. I yearned for the extended families of the neighboring farm kids, but when I finally did get a chance to visit my cousin he grossed me out by throwing green mashed potatoes made by his schizophrenic mother or possibly my eccentric uncle, who was the first person I ever knew who cooked for his dog. My dad, and each of the succeeding generations, bucked the trend of declining birth-rates in industrialized countries, by marrying early and often, and creating large numbers of children with each union.

I do love the intimate chaos of my current family parties -- as long as they don't last too long. Inevitably there is a sour note, because I just can't keep from going crazy over my grandchildren and irritating my husband and sons-in-laws (and possibly others who are too polite to say so)by failing to set limits and catering to their every wish. I was a goner the first time I laid eyes on my oldest grandson. When he was born, my two auntie daughters and I kept searching for the right way to describe him. We tied "really cute," "amazingly cute," and "unbelievably cute," but these failed to describe his appeal, which was so intense it caused me to have a physical heartache. We finally hit on "unbearably cute." And now all seven are like this. It's just too much for me to take in at times.

So between three meals a day for this brood, two parties, and innumerable cups of juice, ice-cream treats, and band aids, it was hard to exercise. Stretching and floor exercises were out because they literally ran circles around me tripping on my limbs and using my protruding stomach as a trampoline. They also kept letting our two black labs into the room, so I was also covered with dog saliva.

My salvation was the swimming pool where, under the supervision of Jenny, my daughter and my husband, I was interrupted only ten times or so, as I did my water walking, lap swimming, and water stretching. I also counted as walking blocks trips to the super market and the natural history museum. So everyday except my my off days (Saturday and Sunday) I did my required four blocks. This might have made me feel virtuous were it not for the two cupcakes, three slices of wonderful retirement cake (a gorgeous almond cake with raspberry filling from the best cake bakery in town), and five peanut butter cookies that I have consumed over the past four days. If I am not in a diabetic coma tomorrow, I must eat very lightly and go to the track.

A Sense of Accomplishment

Today is Friday and I have completed the first week of my new program. I feel very proud of myself and strangely my body already feels different. I have been doing a lot of stretching and I feel as if I have elongated my backbone by adding air between the vertebrae. I seem to be sitting up straighter. The tension from between my shoulders is gone. I can see muscle definition in my forearms.

I have tried a number of activities this week, but my favorite is walking in the swimming pool. I love the sensation of the water surrounding me and supporting my weight. The pools where I exercise are neighborhood pools. One is the pool where four of my seven grandchildren swim on the summer team. I am dedicated to this swim team to the point of fanaticism. The summer meets are fun because I know all the families and can cheer for all the kids. Last year I even won an award for being the the most supportive fan. While I am walking I can wave to everyone. I am a bit of a celebrity there, not only because of my high-pitched screams during close races, but also because of the exploits of my grandchildren. I don't want to brag (don't believe this for a minute), but my eight year-old grandson has set two team records so far this summer!

The other pool is my neighborhood pool. It it is womb-like because it is protected by small hills and surrounded by trees. I know few people in my neighborhood, so while walking I fall into a trance-like state, not making eye contact, and pulling the warm, velvety, turquoise water toward me with each arm as I stride. I watch the clouds form and disperse in the summer sky. I feel totally happy doing this.

On the opposite end of the spectrum is walking on the track. I have to force myself to leave the house and I already feel tired and crabby by the time I park the car and make my way down the sidewalk and stairs to the field. The track itself is a pleasant. It is soft black asphalt that I wish would smell like the warm tar I loved as a child. But is smells like nothing. So far I walk three-quarters of a mile each time I go. This is exactly 20 minutes worth of exercise -- a "block" in my terminology. By the time I start the third quarter mile, my lower back begins to hurt and I feel anxious that I will be too tired to climb the stairs to the car when I am done. This is completely psychosomatic because today I walked for and hour and a half in the super market, doing a giant grocery shop in preparation for July 4th, and I felt just fine. This hatred of the track does not bode well because someday I will have to spend more time there if I want to reach my goal.

I am not going to worry about that now. Instead I am going to order another pair of running shorts and smugly enjoy my new spine.

Day One

Today was the first day of my new life. I finished work on Friday, spent the weekend at swim meets, and woke up this morning with the alarm at 7:30 AM. I had not slept well and I felt like shit. My first thought was that I needed to call in sick. And then I realized with a rush of adrenaline, "I'm retired!"

I jumped out of bed, downed my first cup of coffee and told my friend, Alicia, who lives with my husband and me, that I would be ready to start at 8:30 AM.

OK. So everyone wants to know what is my plan? And everyone has many, many unsolicited suggestions. I should hire a personal trainer. I should join a health club. I should take a water aerobics class so I won't hurt myself. I should join a senior track team so I can train and make new friends.


Let's just say that I know myself well, and none of these ideas would work for me. I am a recluse or hope to become one soon. I once told my therapist that I would rather clean and organize my kitchen cabinets than attend a party of my friends. It's not that I don't like people. It's just that I like them in very short doses and one or two at a time. I absolutely hate clubs, and the idea of sitting through another meeting makes want to run down the hall screaming and pulling my hair.

I am also dramatically stubborn and independent. Suggest a book that you loved and I won't read it. Give me directions and I'll take a different route, which I am certain is shorter. Recommend a restaurant and I know I will find fault with the quality of the lettuce or the texture of the lady fingers in the tiramisu.


So a personal trainer is out because I won't follow directions. A track team is out because I would have to be friendly. And the concept of be flailing around in water aerobics with other fat people wearing flotation belts emphazing our large girths reminds me of the scene from Fantasia in which the elephants dance wearing tutus.


So I am doing this on my own. I am using the block method -- four blocks of exercise each day, five days a week. Each block must be 20 minutes or longer. Any type of exercise is OK. Today I began with stretching with Alicia to a woman's relaxation CD, which reminded me of the first 12 bars of Grofe's The Grad Canyon Suite repeated over and over again. I kept waiting for the clip clop but it never came.

Secondly to the pool for45 minutes of water walking. Then home for wholewheat pasta with pesto, and then back to the pool for a twenty minute lap swim (I had to rest several times in between laps, but I kept going, if only at a snail's pace). And finally 20 minutes of ballet in the water. This is not to be confused with water ballet otherwise known as synchronized swimming. When I do ballet in the water, I do bar work using the side of the pool, followed by leaps and squatting stretches resembling a Russian dancer. All this is possible with the water supporting my weight and providing balance assistance. Thank God the pool is large and no one seemed to watching.


So how do I feel after all this? Hungry, but not the least bit tired. I feel elated, even a little manic. I am not sure how long this feeling will last. I know I will crash at some point. But right now I plan to go with it and not ask a lot of questions.

My New Wardrobe

Every athlete needs clothes, and I am no exemption. Most large women don't like to shop, but I do. I am fascinated by "What Not to Wear, and believe that clothes are not just superficial but make a statement about who we think we are. For a fat woman, clothes are very important because they can convey a level of self acceptance which others will validate. A well dressed fat women sends a message , "I take myself seriously and you should too."

In order to make good on my plan to run a mile, I am retiring. June 30 is the big day, when I am 60, say goodbye to the office for good, and am reborn as someone obsessed by exercise rather than by watching TV. The only downside is that I no longer get to shop for work clothes. Fortunately, a whole new category of merchandise beckons --- exercise clothes.

Any big wardrobe transition requires a shopping trip to New York, so after a long bus ride, and a wonderful meal enjoyed by my yet to be reborn self, I hit Lord and Taylor. Why you may ask, would some one go to L&T for exercise clothes? The answer is a whole floor of plus size, well made clothing! Here I find the mother load of Kate Hill separates. Stretch cotton pants, T-shirts and sweat jackets so soft they feel like my favorite pajamas. I select a color palate -- black, royal blue and white, and I buy a set.

Back in the hotel, I model these for my friend who exclaims that they fit beautifully -- not too tight, yet not voluminous. And I feel like I am wearing pajamas they are so comfortable. I can't take them off. I wear them to dinner which means we have to go to a sports bar and eat sliders. The next morning before boarding the bus home, I rush back and buy another set.

Back home spring has arrived with the first spurt of warm weather. I need shorts. I search the web. I look on the Junonia site -- a brand for active large size women. The shorts look dowdy. Then I try Landsend and bingo! Beautiful shorts and yoga pants. And a singlet with a built- in bra in my size. I touch the purchase button and I am on my way to my new self!

The Dreaded Physical Exam

Warning! Before undertaking any new exercise program always visit your doctor. For those of us who are really fat, this is huge disincentive. We imagine we have heart disease, cancer, diabetes, and almost every other disease that is contributed to by obesity. We also know we will have to get weighed by a stern, skinny nurse, and wear a paper gown that does not fit and gapes in the front (or back if you are man). Finally we know that our doctor will be horrified and speak to us condescendingly and put us on an impossible to follow diet of 1200 calories a day, consisting largely of boiled chicken. Mostly we know that it will be implied, if not just not plainly said, that we are lazy gluttons and that our bad habits are killing us.

My experience was just about this bad. I found out that I have diabetes (blood sugar 127) and because of this, need to reduce my blood lipids from a total cholesterol of 211. My doctor said my blood pressure was high, even though every other time I have had it checked recently, it has been an acceptable 120/70. I got in a huge fight with her, because she wanted to prescribe statins, which seemed premature since I am hoping my training will improve all these numbers. She wanted to send me to a nutrition class, but i told her I work with professional nutritionists and am quite familiar with a diabetic diet. She told me to take fish oil tablets and I told her I would even though they make me burp a fishy taste. And then she sent me for a stress test, and a bone density test. Why bone density? I always thought fat people naturally had thick bones ... for us life is a weight-bearing activity.

The idea of the stress test stressed me out. I cancelled it. Then I made a new appointment after having to plead with the receptionist to extend my referral , which had expired three days before. I was particularly concerned that either I would have to ride a stationery bike which really hurts my crotch, or that I would be asked to run on a treadmill until I was gasping for breath. And then while gasping, I would be told I needed a stent or at the very least a test where a bag of iodine is past through my groin into my heart.

But I passed! I walked nicely on the treadmill on the flat, and then up hill and then more briskly up hill, and then truly quickly up hill with electrodes all over by chest and sides, and really nothing happened. My heart rate went up mildly. My blood pressure stayed within the normal range.

I got the OK to begin to an exercise program. The nurse asked me what I intended to do, and I decided not to mention running in a track meet. "I will walk briskly," I told here (retaining what I had read in many brochures), "and once I loose some weight I may jog."

"Oh no," she said, "Walking briskly is good, but don't jog. It's too hard on the joints." I grabbed my passing report card, made my escape, and took the elevator down two floors to my car.

Morbidly Obese Woman Trains to Run a Mile

In March 2009, as a devoted swim grandma, I attended the Junior Olympics to encourage my talented, smart, funny and focused young grandson in the meet. The warm-ups took forever, so I decided to explore the giant sports complex and found myself in the bleachers watching the US National Master's Track and Field Championship.

The first event was the mile for men 85 years and over. Three gentlemen participated. One ran smoothly save for a hitch in his gait. One ran and then slowed to a jog, and then sped up again to finish. The third, who was 93, ran only the first few yards and then slowed to a moderate walk. As each past my seat, I joined the audience, which consisted largely of other athletes waiting for their events, in clapping and yelling encouragement.

The meet continued, working backwards down the age groups, alternating men and women, until my group appeared, women 60-65. There were quite a few participants -- some who looked like seasoned athletes, others who looked as if they had taken up running later in life, but were built for it, and a few, who looked extraordinarily ordinary. They had upper backs sloped forward with post-menopausal humps, varicose veins, and legs that seemed flaccid and had no definition between calves and ankles. Despite this, all of them finished.

I could do this, I thought. Somewhere in me is an athlete, albeit buried deeply under layers of fat. I know I could run. I know I could look convincing in shorts and a singlet. I know I could go a mile.

This would not even have been a thought worth noting, let alone writing a blog about, were it not for the fact that I am 5" 3" and weigh 279 lbs. I am morbidly obese. I do an management job and sit at a desk all day. I love to eat. And I don't walk anywhere, except when I absolutely have too. I always take the elevator and avoid stairs. I spend lots of time looking for those close-in parking spots.

This blog is the story of my attempt to make good on my pledge to myself: to run a mile at some sort of organized track meet. I am writing it mainly for myself, to document my ups and downs. And to keep myself honest. I hope you enjoy my story.

Miriam