Detour

Dog Days of Parenting

"I know it sounds selfish," my friend said, peering sheepishly at me from under the bright pink running hat.

"No..." I started to say, but she was off.  Two year old Christopher  was running headlong away from us wielding a stick. Five year old Beatrice was spinning wildly in circles the other direction, arms straight out to the side, singing loudly, on a trajectory leading straight into a wall.

She seemed so...guilty.  She'd spent the day, a rare day off of her demanding job as a lawyer, getting a mani-pedi, going for a run, getting a massage. Sandwiched in between drop-off and pick-up at childcare.   I wanted to reassure her, ease her guilt.  Let her know that it was ok to treat herself as a human; to respond to a need, any need, of her own.  But all that I could think of in the split second of attention she could spare was platitudes: It's like the oxygen mask on the airplane, you have to take care of yourself before you can take care of them.

Even that is about them.

***

"I think you're enabling him."  In the  nanosecond before the anger fueled adrenaline surge overtakes me, I feel...envious.  Her tone is both condescending and conspiratorial.  As if to say "I've been holding this in for a while, but now that we are good buddies, I'll give you my opinion of how to turn this thing around.  I know you'll be grateful."

I remember exactly how it felt to be that person.  So young and sure.  The lines were black and white.  You observed other lives and knew The Right Thing To Do.  You knew because you had been a child with parents once.  You were on the receiving end of how not to do it.  When the time came you would know how to do it; avoid the pitfalls.  Not make the same mistakes.

Then you have a baby.  You tear up the list. 

***

"I'm just not comfortable with this.  Would you be?"  She looks searchingly at me.  I feel so at home here, with her.  We are both working single moms.  We grew up in the same town; we're the same age; our boys are both 17.  Their fathers are...leaving it to us. 

"I would not be comfortable with him having his girlfriend spend the night.  Even with her parent's permission."  We share a wry smile.  I know my son is sexually active.  He has been in a committed relationship for two years.  He is caring and responsible.  I am ok with the fact that he is sexually active.  But, having them together like that in my house does not feel right.  My honest thoughts are: we did it in cars, so can you.  Don't confront me with it.  I still take your temperature when you are sick, remind you to wear your helmet,  sign permission slips.

We feel the pressure of preparing them to go soon.  We wage internal battles everyday, how much to push, let go, guide.

We are exhausted.

***

"I don't understand why you ever believe him.  He lies to you all the time."  she says matter-of-factly.  It's true.  My son lies to me constantly.  Her tone makes me feel like those mothers you see on tv, mothers of mass murderers caught dead to rights who say "My baby would never do those things." 

I want to say: but you can't just punish all the time.  It doesn't help.  Policing is exhausting. There isn't a solution for this. It's a process. You punish, you cajole, you lecture, you stay consistent.  So do they.  They will disappoint you several times.  The best you can hope for is a shift someday.  You know it will happen later, when they are out leading their adult lives.  Too late for you.

I say, meekly. "Because I don't want to believe that." 

That's true, too.

***

"The thing about parents is, well, you will never love them as much as they love you." She smiles sweetly.  At 32, she is closer to her parents than anyone I know.   She talks to her mother every day, drives the hour to visit with them every weekend. 

 As a daughter I disagree; as a mother I know it's true.  It's the unrequited love that strips our souls bare.  It is expected of us.  We must love best of all.  That's why the Susan Smiths of the world are the lowest of the low.  They are below even the child rapists and killers. 

Mothers can only give; they should not expect to take.

***

'I mean do you know how crazy I sound to him?" she laughs.  "He's 23 and I'm telling him not to slam the cupboard doors" She cradles her chin in her hand.  She thought she was done. 

She was the one who said in high school that she wanted lots of kids.  We knew that's what she would do. She was built for it.  Her kindness shone like a beacon amidst our raggedy crew of misfit wanna-be thugs.  We were livng the halcyon days of the late seventies to the fullest;  sex, drugs and rock and roll was our religion and we were devout.  But she was just marking time, driving us places, hosting holiday parties, helping people get along, wrapping us in her warmth until she could have children of her own.

She had three kids and opened a daycare.  She went through a divorce and some particularly harrowing years as a mother.  Now she was at a loss as to how to eject her 23 year old from the nest. She is ready for some time alone with her boyfriend, some time for herself.

She talks about it in hushed tones.  Only to us.  The other mothers.

***

I was smug a few years ago about parenthood.  We divorced when he was still a baby, and he always spent time at his father's. I had time to myself.  Relationships.  Time to work out.  I shook my head in dismay at those mothers on "What Not To Wear" who hadn't bought an outfit or had a haircut in 15 years because they took care of everyone else and neglected themselves.  I wasn't like that.

I was always fascinated by the part in the show where the women broke down.  They inevitably did.  It was because they had forgotten how to shop for themselves and were at a loss, or because they were profoundly uncomfortable with the atttention, or because they weren't used to spending money on themselves and making the switch wasn't the joyful fun experience we all wanted for them; it was hard.  I thought, give me the five grand, I know what to do! I wasn't like that.

His father moved away a couple of years ago...not far...but he's not so involved anymore.  And the teen aged years have been...labor intensive. There are negotiations around curfews and driving and schoolwork and college applications and getting a job and cigarettes and alcohol and all the rest. 

I've been thinking about getting a massage,  For about six months. I stopped and asked myself why I haven't scheduled it and thought, oh well, because it's not something that needs to be done for the manchild or the dogs or the house...

So I am a little like that.

I admit to feeling a bit wrung out.  I'm on the eve of my fiftieth birthday and it's mile 20 of the marathon of parenting: the wall.  I know that if he goes off to college in a year, leaves me, I will have succeeded in some way.

And I am terrified that will be the moment that I break down and realize I have forgotten how to just be me.

 

 

 

 

 

Check In

Its been a while.

I've had a busy year.  Here are some quick updates in order of priority in my life:

The boy is making me proud.  He is a much more together teenager than I was.  Ok, that's not saying much.  He's actually doing very well. Mid junior year, he's thinking about colleges and majors...something we wouldn't have thought realistic at the end of the first semester of sophomore year. Can I get a "Hell ya!?" 

The boy dog is also making me proud.  There was a low point when I thought we might have to send him away.  He was taking umbrage with anyone who tried to come near my house.  By "taking umbrage" I mean "trying to kill."  SInce he is 100# of solid muscle with all the strength of a bully breed, we did not take that behavior lightly.  Several hundred dollars and hours of work later, he has made a remarkable turn around.  He no longer tries to kill my guests.  We are happy about that. 

Fitness -wise, I'm dealing with some injuries, but getting stronger nonetheless.  I'm riding my bike again, Yay!  People I used to out ride regularly are currently leaving me for dead on rides. No worries.  I'm happy just to be on the bike. On my last ride there was actually a buzzard circling but, fuck him, I lived.

2011 is shaping up to be a good year.  But! Shit.  I have a birthday this year that I have some anxiety about.  Suffice it to say that I got a membership card in the mail this week from those motherfuckers at AARP.  The hell?  I didn't think 50 was actually going to happen to me.

Fuck.

Sweet Sixteen

I remember watching My Cousin Vinnie, sitting on the floor of that big house we used to rent in the hills.  I was huge, a week past my due date.  I'd been on the Stair-master that day in an attempt to make him uncomfortable and maybe decide to come out.  I hadn't had an ultrasound, hadn't seen the appendage that confirmed his gender, but I knew in my marrow he was a "him."

I was ready to be done being pregnant; I had no idea if I was ready to be a mother.  I wasn't someone who grew up imagining I'd have kids.  Until a couple of years before (I was 31), I didn't want them.  I wasn't sure I felt a connection to this being growing inside me.  I was scared. 

I was transfixed by Marisa Tomei's sassiness in the witness box when I felt a little "discomfort."  It was more annoying than painful and I didn't think anything of it.  Then I realized the discomfort had a rhythm.

And we were off.

Twenty-two long hours later and I had this person in my arms.  He was beyond perfect.  He was born at 6:30 p.m. March 23, 1994.  I was exhausted after-wards, labor and delivery had been hard and I hadn't slept in 36 hours.  

But I stayed awake that first night just looking at him.  Everything had changed.  Now there was someone I would die for.

Sixteen years later and I feel the same.  He turned out to be just as extraordinary as I knew he was then, and I still have to repress the urge to cut anyone who dares to intimate that he's not.  He's got a movie star smile that he uses often.  He's smart as a whip and as hapless as only a sixteen year old boy can be.  He is lovable and loved by many.  I think it's a miracle that he came from me.  He's better than me.

I wish for him a life filled with adventure and excitement.  Great loves, passionate fights, work that thrills him.  I could care less what college he goes to, how much money he makes, or whether or not he gives me grandchildren.  

I want him to follow his dreams and to never, ever to feel trapped in a life he doesn't love.

Happy belated 16th, son.

teenage angst

So this morning I woke to Omar's chin on the side of my bed earlier than usual: 4:30 to be exact.  Chin on the side of the bed means "I need to go out. Really."    He is so damn cute that I get up every time, even though this morning was frigid. FRIGID.  It was like 45 degrees out there.  I know.  I am a Californian.  We do not handle any kind of weather at all. 

Omar is "causing problems" again. This time he decided that he was Not! going to the park with That Woman. That Woman is someone he knows well, she comes to our house daily to walk the girl dogs.  But!  She doesn't take him on park trips.  Someone else takes him on park trips.  Notwithstanding a disasterous first meeting with her, during which he tried to bite her foot off, he now waits for her by draping his head over that back of the couch and looking longingly at the front door.  For hours.

But she is on vacation, so That Woman is doing his park trips instead.  Yesterday, it was explained to me, he snapped at That Woman while she was trying to get him out of his crate.  He has rules.  The walker does not do park trips.  Sigh.  Things that did not bother him yesterday bother him today.

And also?  He has started protest pooping.  I took him out the other night for half an hour.  When we came home he promptly pooped behind the couch.

Canine adolescence.

My next dog will be a labrador.

 

ski week

I took this week off of work because my son's public school has a "ski week" this week. Well, they don't call it that because that would be saying out loud how ridiculously privileged the families in the district are. But, in a move that proved to be the right thing and also long overdue, my son transferred to a private school a month ago and that school doesn't have the week off. I needed a break so I kept my planned vacation.

I'm working on a post about public schools; stay tuned.

As is typical of me, I did not spend the week relaxing, rather I built an Olympic lifting platform for our garage.  Check it out:

  

Cool, huh?  Our weights aren't here yet, so I haven't been able to workout, but it should be fully functional in 10 days or so.  Yay! By far the hardest part about this project was rearranging and making space in my garage.  That's also not finished, but I was able to create the space to build the platform.  

I have decided to back off on my running and crossfit "metcon" workouts for 3 months.  What's a metcon?  From the crossfit discussion boards:

Metcon doesn't have a strict definition. Its about intensity. Intensity is about power output.

If i had to define metcon i would do it like this 

1. High Heart Rate 

2. Simultaneous Use of Many Muscles 

3. Continuous Movement 

4. Short to Medium Time (5-30 min) 

and the best way to tell if your doing a metcon workout..... 

YOU'LL KNOW IT !!!  

An example of a metcon is this (from my gym's site):

30 Deadlifts @ 225# (men)/155#(women)

Rest 1 Minute

30 Pull-Ups

Rest 1 Minute

30 DB Snatches Each Arm @ 45# (men)/30#(women)

Rest 1 Minute

30 Knees-to-Elbows (Hang from the pull up bar and raise your knees to your elbows. Try it.)

Looks horrible doesn't it?  These workouts are all about power and your heartrate spikes very high, but they are short.  Most metcons are timed; the person who performs all the prescribed reps/distance (sometimes 200 or 400 meter runs are thrown in) in the fastest time wins. Sometimes there is a prescribed amount of time and the person who does the most reps wins.

Being able to handle heavy metcons is the holy grail of crossfit.  

So why am I giving them up?  

Well, let's think about power.  How can you increase your power output?  Power is work over time. So I can get stronger or I can get faster.  Or both. 

Since our metcons usually involve lifting heavy shit, getting stronger will make me faster.  In the workout above, if my single rep max (the amount I can lift one time) is 160#, doing thirty reps at 155# will take me all day.  If my single rep max is 250#, this wil be a much easier and faster workout for me.

My strength is a limiting factor.  I am strong compared to the average 5'3" 135# woman.  But I am not strong enough to kill those metcons, or even to make a decent showing in olympic lifting.  

And here's the rub: doing too much high intensity power work or running will interfere with your ability to get stronger. The best way to get strong is to lift as heavy as you can (in the 1-5 rep range) eat a lot and sit on the couch.  Anything else you do (working, parenting, running errands, housework...) will detract from getting stronger.  

So in order to get better at the heavy metcons, I need to stop doing them for a while. Seems incongruous, but it's not really.  Athletes have been using strength training to lay a foundation for (later) speed for years.

So, I am going to do only strength workouts for a while: heavy front squats, back squats, shoulder presses, push presses, power cleans, clean and jerk and snatch. Also pull ups and bench press. I will still do HIIT (high intensity interval training) running workouts once or twice a week (those are generally also strength workouts and are a good compliment to Oly lifting)

But what about my heart and lungs?  Yes, my conditioning will suffer.  But that's ok, at the end of 3 months I will start training for general conditioning again.  And the beauty of it is that you can generally keep your strength gains when you go back to doing metcons.

I hear women complain about their inability to get stronger sometimes.  Well, if you are doing a gazillion hours of cardio per week, you won't get stronger or it will be very slow.  If you want to get stronger, build in a strength cycle.  Athletes do this in most disciplines, even endurance athletes. It's a good idea even if your primary goal is to be a faster runner or cyclist.  It requires patience and managing our emotional relationship to exercising.  In other words, recognizing that you do not have to be sweating profusely and burning a certain number of calories per session to be making gains in fitness.  

This is training for performance.  Here are some pictures of strong crossfit women I know:

 

  

 

 

I love these photos.  I love crossfit.  It is the hardest sport I've ever been involved in.  Every one of these women, these different body types, is incredibly strong and getting stronger all the time. These women all push themselves, on a regular basis, to a place most people don't ever experience. They all inspire me every day.

That's me running in front (no, I wasn't winning anything, we were warming up):

My son and I in a competition last year:

 

  

I'm off to lift something heavy now...

P.S.: I am officially the "Coolest Mom on the Block" for building an olympic platform in my garage on my vacation.

i suck

Things that are pissing me off right now:

• My sloooow progress on adding weight to my olympic lifts.
• My loss of strength in other lifts.
• My waistband's refusal to loosen despite a few weeks of dieting.
• My dog's need to chew every damn piece of furniture in my house.
• My son's inability to do a damn thing, including getting up in the morning, without my intervention.
• Sarah Palin

Things that are making me happy right now:

• My going to the gym anyway.
• My  improved form even if I still can't pick up any damn weight.
• My son's amazing progress in his lifting and that he is getting a charge from it.
• My son's happiness in his new school and my JOY at no longer getting daily calls from the public high school
• My improved running.
• My impending week off work next week.

I don't know what I can do about the kid and the dog.  The kid is getting lectured and the dog is confined to an ever shrinking area in the house.  Soon, he will spend entire days in the bathroom. The dog, not the kid.  Actually, come to think of it, the kid spends a lot of time in the bathroom already...

I can do nothing about Sarah Palin.

But I might have a shot at fixing my fitness problems.

It's hard to keep up your inspiration to keep dieting/training/keeping on when the results are so slow that they are not discernible.  I have a couple of tricks for those times.  I go back to the first step as laid down by Black Hockey Jesus:

The crux of the First Step in The 365 Day BHJ Fitness Regime is intense self loathing: “We admitted that we are disgusting excuses for people and we hate ourselves.”

I look in the mirror and tell myself I suck.  It's my fault that I am not doing better. This is true.  Fitness is like high school grades:  Results are a reflection of effort.

Actually, I don't hate myself.  But I do suck.  This is an important distinction because hanging my "value as a person" on how disciplined I've been is stupid.  But recognizing that my results reflect my effort is right.  Also, it will save me tons of time I could otherwise spend wondering alternately if I have "a metabolic disorder" or why God hates me.  

This is not negative thinking.  This is recognizing that how fit I am is in my control.  This is positive.  I have control over my level of suckitude.

Then, I tighten it up.  I recommit to the principles of of my diet.  I talked over here about how important diet is in losing weight.  No more "tiny cheats."  

Then, I take a look at my workouts.  Have I really been going as hard as I can?  Or have I been letting that tiny voice that says "good enough" stop me from lifting that heavier weight or going that much faster? Have I been letting fear drive the bus? Am I complacent?

Do I let it creep into my brain that it's "good enough" for a 48 year old?

Fuck that.  I have no idea where my limits are.  I am not up against them yet, I know this deep in my heart.  

I need to hit it harder.  I need to pay attention to detail.  I need to do the extras, the stretching and the abs. I need to do the foundation work and squat 2 days a week.

I need to keep my eye on the prize and keep my goals in mind.  I also need to remind myself that I have been moving towards them and that the changes I am making will get me there faster.  When I want that ice cream I will ask myself if it will help me lift more weight.

Bottom line: be honest about I got where i am and what it will take to change it.  Then: Just Do It.

  

find your thrill

Well, that was fun.  Five days and a bottle of Vicodin later and I feel almost human.  I think I may actually be able to work out tomorrow for the first time in several days.

When I can't exercise I get cranky.  Really, it's a mood enhancer for me.  Which is why I'm such an addict. I wrote here about how it started, my bodybuilding past.  

I did bodybuilding style workouts for 16 years, even when I was no longer a bodybuilder.  I think there are huge benefits to lifting weights.  After bodybuilding I ran (all distances from 5k to marathon), rode and raced bikes (road and mountain),  and did triathlons (up to olympic distance).  I threw myself into each sport with fervor and dedication.  I ran 70 mile weeks when I ran, rode 250 mile weeks when I was a cyclist and trained for 12-15 hours per week as a triathlete.  I don't understand moderate.  Sometimes I wish I was one of those people that can go for a meandering 10 mile bike ride along the bay on the weekend.  But unless there is some sort of way to compete with someone, or conquer a weight, distance or speed I haven't done before; I'm not too interested.

I've thought a lot about that, my competitiveness. And I think it's ok to be competitive. It's important to channel it to those places where it's appropriate.  I always have an outlet  in my life where I can compete in a healthy way.

The point is; I don't throw myself in halfway.  When I started running my first training run was a 5k and I immediately started running 6 miles a day with stadium stairs thrown in once a week.  When I bought my first road bike in college (days after I had finished a marathon and could no longer stomach even the sight of my running shoes), my first ride was 70 miles with a hill they called cardiac hill.

I'm still trying to make my point which is not that I'm a badass, but that I never got hurt.  Nope.  No knee problems or overuse injuries no matter what crazy shit I threw at my body.  Why?  I believe it is because I had such a strong foundation from lifting.  

A few years ago (during my triathlon phase) I stopped lifting. I had just burnt out on the bodybuilding style workout...lift a weight you can manage for 8-10 reps, rest repeat...on and on for each body part.  I was bored.  I was bored with the workouts and bored with the gym.  So I stopped.  I did yoga instead.

I started getting hurt.  Tendonitis in a knee that made cycling excruciating.  Then a torn hamstring that impaired my running for a year (including the several months that I employed my usual treatment: ignore it and hope it goes away).  It sucked.

So I started looking for a more interesting way to lift weights. I also was burning out on the hardcore endurance activity.  During my triathlon training I discovered my body responded pretty well to interval training and i started doing more of that than the traditional "go lots of miles at a steady pace."  Also, my own theories of weightlifting had evolved, I only wanted to do movements that gave me a lot of bang for my buck.  Think pull ups instead of bicep curls, the benefit of pull ups is you don't only work your arms but your entire back.

As I got older, I found that shorter workouts of extremely high intensity were what I wanted to do. By accident I found Crossfit.

I love Crossfit.  I love the intensity, I love the fact that there is skill work, I love the lifting, I love the competition.  Crossfit introduced me to Olympic Lifting.  So now I run, do crossfit and Olympic Lifting.  I usually only run up to a 5k distance, once a week I run sprints.  I am always going for intensity.  I love the community I have at my gym.  I am sure that if I ever get tired of it, there will be something new to get fanatical about.

Sometimes I run into people I haven't seen for years.  When they ask me what I'm up to and I tell them about my latest thing they say, "You're so disciplined."  Well no.  I am actually doing the things I love.  I loved getting close to nature on my long runs and bike rides, loved getting to places I wouldn't otherwise see.  I love seeing a new city by running through it; nothing can compare.  I love lifting a scary ass barbell above my head and encouraging my friends to do the same.  I love doing all of those things with my son.  

For me, this is just living.

imagine

I pull into the oral surgeon's parking lot behind the paramedics.

Shit.  This is not reassuring.

The staff greets me warmly.  They know me well, I've been coming here for the last two and a half years. I'm pretty sure I am singlehandedly responsible for fat bonuses and vacations to Greece. Today is the final surgery in a major oral reconstruction that will run me, when all is said and done, over $40K.  

...He places the gas mask over my nose.  It is not sitting firmly enough; I strain my neck. I push my head up further on the chair in an attempt to make the mask sit flush against my skin.  I don't want any air; only gas.  I breathe deeply though my nose...

I am a loser in the genetic tooth lottery.  I was born with a jaw that did not occlude well, soft teeth, a tendency to form tarter. Then there was bad dental care, avoidance of care, traumatic early experiences, a lack of (needed) orthodontia in my teens, years without insurance.  I entered my forties with lost and broken teeth. Though not visible in my smile, my dental condition was a source of a deep and abiding sense of shame. Every tooth I lost had also had a root canal. I needed more serious intervention.  l needed bone grafting, braces, root planing, extractions, implants, crowns. 

..."You might feel a sting here" My eyes are clenched against catching any glimpse at all of the needle I know he is wielding. In my imagination it is impossibly long and large. I flash back to some time in my past: I was high, the car was moving too fast and recklessly; I'd crawled into my head.  I'd thought of the beautifully written novel on my bedside at home. Surely I wasn't ready to leave a world with such beauty?  I couldn't speak to make him slow down; I could only escape further into my head, turning over a perfectly wrought sentence I'd read the night before. It had made me feel anchored to the world. I looked for an anchor now. The quiet conversation I'd had with my son the night before, him in the passenger seat beside me talking in a low voice, sitting perfectly still, devoid of his usual fidgeting...

I must have done evil with my teeth in a past life. Possibly I was a piranha or maybe a lion?

The final straw in my dental degradation was breaking a tooth during a marathon.  I had a good job and good insurance; no more excuses.  I went to a dentist who suggested that the quickest fix was a "partial."  This would be a piece of plastic with teeth on it that would go into a glass on my bedside at night.

Um, no.  Not yet.  I had just come to terms with the necessity of reading glasses in my life.  I was not ready for removable teeth.  

...I felt the needle puncture my cheek and willed myself to stay still, hands clenched under the drape.  It was not a sting or a pinch but a more robust and full bodied pain.  I couldn't think of the word for that.  We only have words to minimize pain. I thought of how inappropriate the word "discomfort" was. I took yoga breaths.  The epinephrine hit my system and I felt clenched, taught. I felt in danger of seizing or floating right off the chair.  I sent my mind back to the night before...

...the car was gliding through the inky blackness towards the eerie lights of the refinery.  The refinery always seemed oddly lifeless as if industry had eliminated the need for humans entirely. We were on the less traveled bridge; a long span that curves over the quiet side of the bay. At this time on a week night it is as silent as the Sierra after a snow storm.  We were coming home after a hard and rewarding weight lifting session; confronting our fears at the barbell.  Can I get this over my head? What if I fail? Lifting it anyway. The relaxation that follows a hard effort was already creeping into our bones; the satisfaction that follows facing down your fears was creeping into our heads, soothing anxiety.  I was relaxed and happy, enjoying his company, enjoying this time we spend together every week.  I was proud of his efforts in the gym; I do not want him to have to journey to hell to learn to take care of himself, like I did...

My dental staff and I (dentist, orthodontist, periodontist and oral surgeon) mapped out a treatment plan. It was to span almost three years and many thousand dollars; it required me to spend hours in the chair.  I would start with getting my gums and teeth healthy; then braces; then implants. Six of them.  

...I close my eyes and cannot help picturing myself laid out in the morgue.  My person hood has receded, as it must in death. I am only a mouth, held open wide by some device.  It feels huge and I am afraid my jaw will unhinge. I feel the surgeon hovering over me, a knee propped on the top of the chair, bent over his task like a demon.  Putting his back into it.  But when I open my eyes he is merely standing next to the chair, working at arms length...

...My boy is talking about "The Little Prince."  I have not read the book since I was a child.  I remember how much I liked the elephant in the snake and how, even then, I knew I there was a point and I was missing it.  He says "The allegory is, well, to me, that the people he meets on the planets he visits represent man's sins or flaws."  I stay silent, hoping he'll go on.  "There is the man who thinks he is king of everything." He pauses. "Hubris."  I say.  "Exactly, and the guy who lights the lamp over and over; workaholism.  And there is the alcoholic..." He need not explain, we have a deep mutual understanding of this human flaw...

Today, the doctor is placing the final three implants.  In four months, they will get crowns and I will be done.  I will again have a fully functional mouth.  The braces and regular care has done wonders for my smile.  I am no longer self conscious.  I am also no longer afraid of the dental chair.

...the surgeon is screwing in the titanium screws.  I feel my jawbone expand as he tightens down. I think, for the thousandth time since this all started, about how dentistry is such a rudimentary science; the tools it uses mimic those in my toolbox at home.  He is screwing in the second one on the bottom, I feel more than I should, he is anchoring the screw below where the anesthesia went. I get a preview of how it will feel when the drugs wear off...

...The boy continues, "The Prince leads this simple life on his own planet, taking care of a rose.  He is happier doing that than are any of those other people he meets, on other planets. I think it's about the difference between childhood and adulthood.  How you lose something, imagination, when you become an adult..."

The assistant asks me how I'm feeling. 

"A bit woozy."  She looks at me.

 "Queasy?"  

"No.  Woozy."

"Do you want some apple juice?"  What?  Is it spiked with methaphetamine?

"No, thanks." I have been in the chair for over 2 hours.  I am desperate to leave this place.

"Ok, well I'll give you a minute and then you can..." She launches into a explanation for the third time on how I can start with over the counter meds for pain, how I must take the antibiotics every 8 hours, etc. etc. etc.  I want her to shut up so I can go home and take my vicodin immediately. 

I want to curl up with my dogs and my son and pretend that time is not passing.

flashdance

I started exercising in the Dark Ages.  No, that's not a reference to the fact that I am a crone, it's a reference to the fact that that I cut my fitness teeth in the eighties. 

The eighties were not the age of fitness enlightenment.  Oh, we thought they were! We had discovered fitness as a nation.  The "jogging boom" of the seventies had given way to aerobics studios and walk-a-thons.  We were breathless in our enthusiasm: Low-impact aerobics!  Low fat diets!  Rice cakes!  Walkmans! 

America had discovered being in shape.  It wasn't just for athletes any more.  There was a whole generation of women whose marriages had unexpectedly imploded mid-life. They went to work for the first time.  They discovered Jazzercise and sweat for the first time.  It was the embodiment of the American dream; you could reshape yourself into someone better.  Start over.  Not age.  Jane Fonda made workout videos.  Jamie Lee Curtis showed us that we could be perfect.  Oprah got skinny. 

Here was the dogma:  Eat a low fat, high carbohydrate diet.  Exercise at a moderate intensity and you will burn more fat.  Stay around 60% of your max heart rate for at least 40 minutes a day and you'll look like Jane and Jamie.

Yeah. Bullshit.

Let me back up.

Where was I in the eighties?  Well, aerobics saved my life.  After my tentative start, I dove in with mind, body and soul. I took two classes per day.  WIthin 6 months, I was teaching classes myself. I was an evangelist.  I checked out nutrition texts at the library and read them cover to cover.  I preached to my classes about good food; complex carbs, the importance of calcium, the benefits of nonfat dairy products, the evils of saturated fats.  I was happy for the first time in my adult life.  I looked good, I felt good.  Most importantly I was helping others to do the same.

One day, I was in a fitness equipment store shopping for something that could make me even fitter. Ankle weights or some stupid shit.  I was checking out the muscle magazines.  I loved seeing photos of female bodybuilders.  Maybe it was because I felt that I had a better chance of looking like that than I did of looking like a fashion model.  I've always been kind of solidly built, big arms and big legs, short limbed.  I didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell of ever becoming "willowy".  But these strong lean women were something else.  I loved their strength and I really loved that this was an alternative view of feminine beauty and perfection.

"Where do you train?"  Oh fuck.  Was that the guy at the counter?  The one I may have noticed before in this store who may have been part of the reason I stopped by?  And "train"?  How cool was that?

"Um. I don't.  I just like to look at these."  I managed to stammer while bending down to retrieve the magazine I'd dropped when I jumped.

"Well you look like you do."  He looked amused.  

A viewing of Pumping Iron II sealed the deal for me. Bodybuilding was a sport I wanted to try.

So I joined his gym, a hole in the wall called "Solid Sweat" and spent the next few years changing my body drastically. That's the point of bodybuilding.  It's the only sport i know where the competition has nothing to do with the training.  Training to build muscle is hard.  It requires lifting heavy, scary weights, regularly.  It involves coming face to face with your limitations.  You either lift it or you don't.  There's nowhere to hide. 

BTW, this is why you won't, especially if your female, "bulk up" if you start lifting.  It's fucking hard to build muscle. It's so hard that I seriously considered using steroids.  To build muscle you have to lift so hard you can barely fucking walk.  It will not happen by accident.  You will not wake up big.  Fuck.

And training for competition is so much harder.  Because on top of the workouts, you have to be fanatical about diet, rest, and every other aspect of your life.  It took over my life, but with a lifetime of "fatty" comments floating around in my brain, I had something to prove.  I was going to get on stage in a tiny bikini.  And I did.

I learned so much about what works and what doesn't work in terms of getting fit and lean. Bodybuilders have been getting lean for years.  Bodybuilders did not jump on the high carb band wagon in the eighties.  I finally got lean following a bodybuilding diet that was high in protein, low in carbs, low fat and made up of mostly unprocessed food.

The recommendations for a healthy diet seem to change every few years.  The low fat craze of the eighties is likely a factor in the fattening of America; the introduction of "low fat" processed food was co-incident with a steep rise in sugar and high fructose corn syrup consumption.  In the 80s the NIH funded an advertising campaign to encourage people to reduce their consumption of eggs that was based on flawed science.  We are increasingly aware that the government agencies charged with setting our nutritional standards are beholden to big agriculture and sometimes bad science. 

There are voices of dissent to mainstream nutrition.

The same can be said for what sort of exercise to do to get in shape.  There are many different theories on what works.

I will talk more in my next post about what I have learned over the years about what works and what doesn't for getting "in shape".  I will talk about my own results on a diet that is way too high in fat for the nutritionists, but has helped me improve my performance across the board.  I want you to take all I say as one data point in your quest to find what works for you.

I want to make one point in this post:  If you want to get fit, do your homework.  Figure out what you want to do or be.  Then research it.  Find a plan and STICK TO IT for a prescribed period of time.  Keep track.  Track results.  Find what works and what doesn't.

You have access to the best laboratory in the world: your body.  Research on it.

Let me give you an example of what I mean:

Let's take the marathon.  "Old school" marathon training has runners running 50-100 mile weeks. Newer "less is more" theories have runners doing shorter workouts at higher intensities.  The old school method is the one that works for me if I want to run a marathon (which, btw, is stupid for me.  Not a good sport for me.  I have learned this the hard way.) I know what works because I've followed both types of programs.  I followed the program religiously (even when I felt one wasn't working) so that I would have good information.  I've raced using both and one is clearly better than the other for me.

So, if I ever run another marathon, well, please shoot me if I talk about it.  If I survive and insist on running anyway, I know what method works for me.

If you use a coach, trainer or nutritionist, trust them, do what they say.  If it doesn't work for you, move on.  There are many, many ways to get there; wherever there is.  Become an expert on you and you will find your path.

how to get fat skinny

Many of my favorite bloggers are in the midst of new fitness and/or weight loss regimens (new year, new decade). Many, like Jonniker, are using Jillian Michaels 30 day shred.  (Hi, Jonna! Don't worry, the nausea will pass and, also, you will be able to pick up your baby again at some point...) Some are running.  Many are combining their workouts with nutritional changes; check out the challenge at MamaPop.

Since I've been at this fitness thing for over 25 years (fuck), I thought I'd share some of what I have learned about what works and what doesn't.  Not that you asked, but blogging is better than bossing my friends around. Which is what I usually do.

First, there is a distinction between getting fit and losing weight. I'll stick to  losing weight in this post since that's what most people think they want to do (I'll talk about fitness later):

1.   Losing weight is ALL about diet. 

2.  I'm not kidding.

3.  You can lose weight without exercising at all.

4.  Really.

5.  You can exercise like a mofo and not lose an ounce (or any size).

6.   I am not shitting you.

7.   You can do all the crunches you want; abs are made in the kitchen.

Heresy one:  Exercise is not the most important thing in losing weight.

You are stuck with the calories in vs. calories out equation.  Sorry.  If you lower your fat intake to 5% of your diet but are still taking in more than you burn you will gain weight.  If you drastically reduce carbs but are still eating too many calories (my personal favorite way to do this is with the excessive consumption of almond butter) you will gain weight.  Yes you will.  You can train for a marathon, run 50 mile weeks and not lose weight, if you eat what you burn.  I've done it.

Heresy two: A reduction in calories is what matters for weight loss.

People will argue with the above statement and claim that low carb diets are more effective.  Science doesn't back this up. To the extent that low carb diets are effective at all  it is because they are low cal diets. The same can be said of weight watchers, south beach, zone.  Every one of these diets reduces caloric intake. (Again, we are talking strictly weight loss, there are benefits to a carb controlled diet in managing some chronic diseases like diabetes and I am not even going to pay attention to extreme shit like going into ketosis, I'm sure there are sites that cater to supermodels that talk about that kind of insanity)

But! Some people find they are more comfortable slashing calories if they do it by lowering carbs.  In other words, having a higher percentage of your calories come from protein and fat may control your appetite better that just cutting calories.  This is true for me, if I am cutting calories, I have to cut carbs or I will chew off my arm.

Heresy three:  The quality of your calories doesn't matter for weight loss. 

No shit.  You can eat only Snickers and lose weight (however, see above about chewing off arm). You may increase your chances of developing a disease, but we don't care about that!  We just want to look hot! The best source of information I have found about this is Lyle MacDonald's site. Lyle has been working with athletes and bodybuilders for years and has been collecting scientific literature on fat loss, much of which is indexed on his site.  Bodybuilders get leaner for competition than any other athletes and we can learn a lot from them (the only time I ever got below 10% body fat was following a bodybuilding diet and training program).  You can learn a lot from them and from Lyle. 

Personally, I find that eating whole, unprocessed foods makes me feel less deprived mentally because I can eat more volume and bulk than if I eat processed food.

Heresy four (the corollary to number three; I'm telling you this shit is hard):  Just changing the quality of your food is likely not enough to put you in a calorie deficit.

Unless you had a pretty crappy diet to begin with or are a 15 year old boy with a ridiculous metabolism, you will probably have to keep track of what you eat, and this means weighing your food.  This is definitely true for small framed women over 40 who have a desk job.  Why?

Well, take me for example.  I'm 5'4," old as fuck, have a desk job,  and usually weigh between 135-140 lbs.  (Shut up.  I have a lot of muscle)  If I want to lose 2 pounds a week and I'm not exercising, I need to limit my intake to 850 kcals day.  (fuck, fuck, fuck) It would be very, very easy to blow this number and inadvertently add 200-500 kcal per day. Don't believe me?  Watch Leigh Peele's video.  In my case, that's adding over 20% to the my daily intake. How much does that suck?  The only way to really know you are sticking to a low calorie diet is to weigh your food. Obviously, if you can eat 2500 kcal per day and lose weight, there is more room for error. However, you will need to reduce your intake by 3500 kcal per week for each pound you want to lose.  Which is why it is difficult for smaller, older females to lose weight rapidly.  More reasons it sucks to be me.

Heresy five: You need to cheat.  

"What?  You just got done telling me I need to weigh everything..."  You do.  If you are serious about losing weight you need to keep track of what you eat.  But!  This shit will make you crazy. No.  Really crazy.  When I was pre-contest dieting for bodybuilding, I had a dream one night that I sat down with a spoon and a box of nonfat dry milk powder and pigged out  That was a good dream!  I was beyond deprived.  Do not go there.  Trust me.  You need a mental break.   There are also some good arguments for why you need regular breaks physiologically (again, look at Lyle's site, his more extreme diets have structured re-feeds. Look up info about the hormone Leptin).  I don't think you can separate the mental from the physiological here, allowing yourself a cheat meal or a cheat day will make it much easier to stick to a plan.  Again, if you are me and can only eat a pittance to begin the fuck with, you have to be careful of your cheat.  That sundae as big as your head can wipe out a week of dieting.  Fuck.

I remember being in a Venice Beach Supermarket the morning after the Mr. Olympia contest. There were several professional bodybuilders walking around with carts filled with Twinkies, fruit pies, donuts and other crap.  Extreme deprivation will seriously mess you up.  The urge to binge can become uncontrollable.  Do not fuck with extreme deprivation.

Ok. Here's the thing.  Nothing that I said above is about good health.  Nothing that I have said above has anything to do with performance.  Nothing I said above has anything to do with fat loss vs. loss of lean body mass. To cut calories without regard for the quality of your food, your macro-nutrient ratio, or attention to your activity level is straight dumb. You might as well also smoke and take amphetamines if all that really matters is losing weight. Save your flames; I AM NOT RECOMMENDING THIS APPROACH.  But you must know the basic facts to design an effective program and this is part of the equation.