Back on the Track

Since I have returned home, I have been struggling to get back on track with my exercise and healthy eating. Yesterday I decided to try bribing myself. I made along list of things that I would like to have or do, and I told myself I could pick one, if I stayed on program for a week. Apparently this worked because yesterday and today, my eating has moderated, and I have started exercising again. Yesterday I stretched for a block and a half and then walked for half a block. Last night I didn't sleep well. Just this much exercise (40 minutes) had boosted by mood to the point of near mania. I went out to dinner and to the movie, It's Complicated, with Allyson. (Brief review: Although the semen line and the scene where they show up stoned at the engagement party were funny, if I had the Meryl Streep character's house and garden in Santa Barbara, I would be so entranced I wouldn't give Alec Baldwin, or God forbid Steve Martin, a second look). Then I was up until 1:00 AM (this is unheard of, I'm a morning person.) I cleaned out my purse, organized my receipts from my trips, wrote two thank you notes, and made hotel reservations for our next trip to Miami. I wasn't the least bit tired, but I made myself go to bed. I tossed and turned all night. Exercise has this effect on me, at least for the first few days. It makes me extremely energetic. I also have been eating extremely well, thanks to Allyson who keeps preparing healthy snacks for me.

Today I awoke at seven to take care of my granddaughter, Gabriela, since Joe is still out of town. (He usually likes to do this except for combing the tangles out of her hair). After I got her off to school, I crashed on the couch until 11:00 AM. This did not leave me with much time to do the deeds I set forth for today: (1) clean up the kitchen and put away everything on my counter tops to create a smooth work surface 2). re-pot my bonsai jade tree in the container I bought in San Francisco (3) set up the paper white bulbs I received for Christmas, (4) pick up Kenny and Lawrence from school and take them to swim practice ( 5) walk for at least

two exercise blocks, and (6) write about it in my blog. Believe it or not, I finished this list. My kitchen looks the way I like it, and the sun room/conservatory has two new inhabitants. The little jade tree is very pretty, if I do say so myself.

I squeezed the two blocks of walking in between picking up the boys and dropping them at the pool. This was Allyson's idea and it worked like a charm. The high school track near the boy's house was open! This really cheered me up because I much prefer walking on a track to walking on terrain that goes up and down. The first time around the track my Achilles tendons were tight and my legs felt very heavy, but they got lighter the longer I stayed with it. The boys jogged and did crunches in the infield and I kept moving because, although partially sunny, it was cold. By the way, everyone in Northern California kept quizzing me about the weather here and asking how I can stand it, but I have to say I saw the sun only twice during my two weeks in the San Francisco Bay area. O.K., it is cold here, but at least the sun shines fairly regularly in the winter, and things are not deeply and constantly moist like they are on the north coast of California.

As I was enjoying the sunshine on my face as a turned the corner for the finish line on my second lap on the track, I had the urge to jog. So I did for 32 strides. For reasons unknown, even to me, I chose to count the jogging as four sets of 8 strides. I could feel my knees and lower back strain under my weight, but I finished the first set of 32 strides and nothing seemed out of place body-wise. I was not even breathing heavily. So I walked about a sixteenth of a mile more and tried the thirty two strides of jogging again. This time it actually felt OK, and not scary at all. By the time I finished my workout I had jogged 32 strides four times. It is amazing how much faster you go around the track when you jog instead of walk. I felt like I was going at warp speed.

And why was I able to do this today and not before? Because, while I was in California, I forgot to buy planetarium tickets at the Lawrence Hall of Science, and we only had three minutes until the show, so I jogged back to the main entrance, bought the tickets and jogged back (on a concrete floor no less) and absolutely nothing went wrong with my body. So there you have it. I am a jogger! And I have been eating well all day. I hope I can keep this up and win my price next Monday.

Inactive Pie Eating in California

I am in California, helping my oldest daughter, Sophie, with her three little ones while she is between au'pairs. Before I launch into my lack of progress on the eating and exercise front, I would like to lay claim to starting the fad of naming little American girls Sophia/Sophie. My Sophie is 39 years old and at the time Joe and I named her, I truly was unaware of anyone under the age of 70 in the U.S. that shared that name. My Sophie (full name Sophia) is the essence of the name, with dark chestnut curls framing a beautiful heart-shaped, pink-cheeked face. She has dark skin, which shocked me when she was born, because I come from a family where most babies are blond and pale. To complete this perfect archetype of a Sophia, my Sophie has beautiful deep blue eyes, and voluptuous, womanly body. Once, when Sophie was about a year old, Joe and I stopped to get gas, and the gas station attendant spotted Sophie in her car seat, and said, "Your marriage must have been made in heaven, because your daughter looks like an angel. " When my Sophie was about 8 or 9, Bette Midler named her daughter Sophie, and started a trend that could be analysed as a model in social networking. This year Sophia/Sophie is one of the top five most popular baby girl names in the U.S. I guess I shouldn't mind, but it bothers me when I hear a mom call her blond, straight-haired daughter Sophie. And now my two other beautiful daughters' names--Lillian /Lilly and Rose/Rosie are becoming popular too. What is a mother to do?

So I am now in Northern California helping the original Sophie and her handsome Italian husband, Federico, with my beautiful, smart, and funny grandkids. I had hoped this would be the occasion for me to get back on track with exercise, but it has been unusually cold and depressingly gray ever since I arrived. Today I discovered a high school track nearby, and a patch of blue sky appeared sheepishly overhead for about 15 minutes right before sunset, so maybe tomorrow will be the day. I also really need to stretch too because this damp, Bay Area fog gets in between my vertebrae and deposits shooting pains and miserable twitches.

Despite some half-hearted efforts, my eating has also not recovered from Christmas excesses. Three days ago, I went to the local World Market and they had my favorite Christmas treat--British deep-filled (Joe once misread the label and berated me for eating "deep-fried" pies, as if the real butter crusts weren't bad enough) mini mince-meat pies on sale for 75% off. I once met a woman who told me she lived near the factory in Britain that makes these little wonders, and she said that the whole town smelled wonderfully of simmering raisins, citrus and brandy.

I bought ONLY one box of 6 and put it on top of Sophie's refrigerator along with the other goodies she keeps out of the kids' reach. No one but me knows it is there. Now, every time I go to her house, I eat just one. But one mini pie is enough to throw off my blood sugar, and make me crave sweets throughout the day, so I am also consuming the occasional organic, biorythmically produced, compostable (I am in Marin County) double-decker ice-cream cone, or three to six pieces of personally-selected See's candy. So when will I stop this self destructive behavior? In three days, when those yummy little pies are gone.

New York Blocks

I have just returned from three nights in New York to celebrate Allyson's 62nd birthday. We walked and walked and walked. One day I was on my feet for over five hours. That is 15 exercise blocks in my system. There is no way I could have done this before I started my program. So it seems that even though I have not been doing any exercise blocks lately, I have a residual level of fitness that is remaining.

The Bolt bus took seven hours. It was the Sunday after Christmas and there was bumper to bumper traffic from the southern border of New Jersey all the way through the Holland tunnel. We were sitting in the front seats, across the aisle from each other, among a group of middle age travelers. It appears the young and hip go to the back of the bus and immediately plug into their electronic devices. We entertained ourselves with lively discussions, at first with the woman New Yorker to Allyson's right. The conversation centered on saving money at Christmas by shopping for bargains throughout the year. I affirmed that I would be on the look out for cool stocking stuffers for Christmas 2010 during this trip. Allyson mentioned re-gifting the body lotion I had given her because the scent of gardenia was way too strong. With this, the lesbian couple just behind her abruptly entered the conversation, "We quite like gardenia," the woman on the aisle said with a heavy British accent.

We saw five very intriguing museums in three days: the Museo del Barrio, the Guggenheim, the Neue Gallery, the Hispanic Society of America Museum, and the Frick. We used the bus system to go up town to Spanish Harlem and loved looking out the the window onto the city sidewalks and store windows as we crept along. We met a professional window dresser looking for work in an ill-conceived Hallmark Store, who claimed he had done the Christmas windows in Bloomingdales and Barneys. As the bus inched by we got a good look at his work, a disturbingly macabre, Victorian view of the holidays. I missed miniature trains and Santa's foot appearing and disappearing up a chimney.

Allyson is a professor of Spanish and Latin American Studies, so our visit delved into Spanish and Latin American culture with an intensity that I would not have been able to generate on my own. The most unusual place we visited was the Hispanic Society of America Museum with its imposing statue of El Cid in the central courtyard. The wind chill was nine degrees and our leg joints barely worked as we attempted to cross Broadway at west 155th. We thought the gallery door was locked because the wind made it so difficult to open, but a doorman suddenly pulled it open from within. He guided us to a large cloak room which was furnished with amazing Spanish antiques and hung with a fascinating group of Spanish and Latin American paintings. The art immobilized us before we even had a chance to begin to unwrap our layers of protective clothing. Allyson, who is cold even on a mild day, was either suffering from hypothermia or dumbstruck by the art because she was rendered speechless for the first 15 minutes of our visit.

We used the rest room which was down a winding narrow staircase paneled, as is the rest of the museum, in rich hardwood. It was a huge, cavernous room, with a single, modern, metal toilet stall in one corner and an old, shallow, washtub type sink in the opposite corner. Along one wall was a large, pragmatic wooden dining table, with brochures including one for a Spanish language children's theater. Upstairs, the wood-lined galleries were packed with treasures from Spain and Latin America, all displayed in dim light in rooms with a feel of the 1700s. Everything smelled of mothballs or some other type of wood preservative. The collection, which was put together by the philanthropist, Archer Milton Huntington, was assembled with one aim -- to collect pieces that are in anyway connected to Spain or the Spanish language. Allyson and I were some of the few viewers, so we got personal attention from a women seated in a dim corner selling booklets and postcards in the most casual style imaginable for a public institution. When we asked for specific information she rummaged around in a dark, tall closet behind her only to extract the most beautiful booklets and facsimiles of the fantastic works on display. The museum has some Goya masterpieces, but my favorite is a painting by Velasquez, painted in 1644. It is a painting of a young girl that looked as if she could walk off the canvas into the 21st century.

We also saw the Kandinsky retrospective at the Guggenheim, which was well worth the hour line which snaked around the block in the bitter cold. The sheer quantity and intensity of Kandinsky's work and its display in the building he helped inspire was mind blowing. After an hour of slowing circling upward with my headphones, dutifully listening to narration and contemporaneous classical music composed in no key, I felt as if my brain was pleading for a rest from too many neural firings, not to mention that my legs were begging for a rest, burning from exertion. We retreated to the wonderful restaurant on the main floor where, remarkably, there was no wait to sit at the common table. We were surrounded by Italian visitors, who agreed with us that the food was exquisite. I savored the baked parsnip and cauliflower soup with a string of port. Hats off to the chef, whomever she/he may be.

Now I am home and feel as if I can walk anywhere. If I ever feel stymied by walking blocks again, I will just hop a train to New York.