Chicken Soup for the Dieter's Soul (9 page)

“Oh, that’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard!” she exclaimed, breaking into a big grin and reaching for the large microphone stretched across her cash register. “Mr. Sidensticker,” she called with delight, “do you know if we sell something called Skinny Munchies?”

Mr. Sidensticker, the store manager stationed in the customer service booth one aisle away, reached for his microphone. “Skinny what?” he asked.

“Skinny Munchies,” she answered over the PA system, ignoring my stammered pleas to “never mind.”

“She says they’re a Weight Watchers product. Isn’t that cute?”

“Never heard of ’em,” Mr. Sidensticker’s voice boomed back. “Do they work?”

Feeling the amusement of every well-proportioned shopper standing in line behind me, I managed to choke out, “No, uh, uh, no, never mind . . . it’s not important.” Desperate for a quick exit, I grabbed my Cheez Doodles and Diet Orange Crush and began pulling them over the scanner myself.

“I don’t know, I’ll ask her,” Clarista’s voice echoed. Still holding down the “on” button of the microphone, she turned to interrogate me further, “Do they work?”

Shoppers throughout the store looked up to the speakers in the ceiling, anxiously awaiting an answer. Sucking in my stomach and pitching my Cini-Minis down the conveyer belt, I offered breathlessly, “Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?” Rushing to scrawl out a check, I made my escape.

Never again would I argue with the smug voice that was smiling in my head and tut-tutting,
I told you so
! From now on, if I can’t find the diet product I’m looking for in the grocery store, I’ll save myself a grocery-cart-full of embarrassment and substitute a high-calorie equivalent.

Sally Clark

Amazing Apple Vinaigrette

M
AKES
2
SERVINGS
E
ACH SERVING
: 0
GRAMS SATURATED FAT

1 handful of fresh parsley

¼ cup flaxseed oil

½ cup unsweetened applesauce

¼ cup apple juice

1 tablespoon brown sugar

¼ cup apple cider vinegar

2 garlic cloves, chopped

¼ teaspoon salt

Toss all ingredients into a blender or food processor and puree until smooth and creamy. Serve with mixed greens.

Note: You can store this vinaigrette in a covered container in the refrigerator for up to two days.

Reprinted from
The Gold Coast Cure.
©2005 Andrew Larson,
M.D., Ivy Ingram Larson. Health Communications, Inc.

Trading Fat Cells for Barbells

T
o be tested is good. The challenged life may be
the best therapist.

Gail Sheehy

She whips out her appointment book and cheerfully rattles off open times. “First thing in the morning is always good,” she lies.

Nothing is good first thing in the morning except coffee in bed. In fact, the best thing first thing in the morning IS my bed.

“What about 5:00 or 10:00 AM?” Dancing brown eyes shimmer over a smile that cuts her face in half. She is all teeth and joy. Even her name is cheerful—Lorri Ann. I had hoped for someone as somber about this situation as I. If fitness centers are great places to meet people, I wanted someone I could relate to right off the bat. Someone who knows that this is the last stop on the road to the end of the world. At least the world as I knew it.

“Weight training is so exciting. You won’t believe how it will make you feel. We can reshape your body like PLAYDOH. When you come in, first thing we’ll do is fat testing. Then we’ll measure your dimensions.”

I was never keen on tests in school. My fat did not wiggle for joy upon notice that it too would endure a test of its own.

Her enthusiasm ricocheted off a forty-foot ceiling. “You’re really gonna love it,” she lied again.

Cautiously, I returned to the gigantic lobby of the big, fancy health facility (BFHF) early one Friday. Thawing out under the bright lights of the BFHF, I pondered the lighting. Brightness burst through big windows and down from the ceiling like those merciless bulbs in dressing rooms that highlight your figure flaws when you are at your most vulnerable—trying on clothes.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Suzan!” Lorri Ann Code bounced toward me with that beaming face of hers.

Health clubs make me feel uneasy. Over the years I have entered their doors after occasional bouts of bottoming out from my lifestyle of denial, indulgence, denial, indulgence, repeat. These clubs attract spandex-laden lassies with perky ponytails who strut in glittery tights. I wear old maternity pants just to get through the buffet line during the holidays.

“Let’s begin!”

I filled out health history forms, then, with Lorri Ann, established “measurable goals.” It was important that I understand what I wanted out of this undertaking.

I wanted it to be over.

I also wanted stronger bones and tighter everything else. I knew that New Year’s resolutions often fail because we promise on the heads of our children to give up something without considering that we are actually taking on a lifestyle change. Clearly, bowing out of this commitment would be difficult with Captain Code around. Accountability this time had a face with a big grin on it.

We headed for the equipment—gigantic contraptions of metal with pulleys and cables connected to an array of weights. Captain Code demonstrated each apparatus, which strengthen and tone different muscles. I followed her lead, receiving encouraging remarks and gentle corrections, “Keep your wrists straight, put your head back, align your back, don’t rotate your shoulders.” She wrote copious notes on my workout sheet denoting the number of repetitions, weight used, posture, seat height, where my feet belonged and so forth.

Code does not tolerate a sloppy performance. “You’ll get great benefits but you have to use the machines correctly. When you come back next time, you’ll go first and I’ll tell you what you are doing right and what you are doing wrong. It’s the best way to learn.”

I can hardly believe I am finally keeping a promise I’d made for fifteen years—to learn weight training.

“The first four weeks we build a base,” she says. “After that, we’ll develop a program where you can work your upper body one day, lower another or do a combination. Does it hurt yet?” she smiles. “Four more, three, two, one, rest and stretch for sixty seconds. Do you mind being sore in the morning? Wait until tomorrow night!”

I claim I don’t mind pain later, but in the heat of the moment I am adverse to it. She says something else but I don’t hear it, distracted by a man with arms the size of the Sierra Nevada mountains. The next fifteen reps whip by. Some views in the BFHF are not designed to go unnoticed. People of all ages and sizes are there. A variety of “before, during and afters,” I consider. It is comforting to see folks in their thirties, forties and fifties. I thought mostly twenty-year-old blondes in tights went to health clubs. At forty-five, I was in the right demographic in my Big Dog gym pants.

We concluded with a cardiovascular workout. Captain Code gave me a choice of stair steppers, exercise bikes, treadmills and other pieces of equipment designed with your sweat in mind. “You’ll start to burn fat after twenty minutes.”

“Put the timer on thirty,” I bravely retort.

“Good girl! You’re doing great!” she says this for the twentieth time. I love hearing it. An hour of being the center of attention when I am used to ignoring my needs in lieu of family demands felt surprisingly rejuvenating. I wanted more.

Lorri Ann whipped out a set of headphones called “Cardio-Theater” and plugged them into a box on the machine. Two television sets hang from the ceiling in front of us. “This TV is Channel 4, that one is Channel 15, or you can listen to music or talk shows.”

Working out wasn’t so bad after all. The handle of my treadmill measured my heart rate. I felt sudden exhilaration. I had a trainer! At long last I was learning the correct way to use intimidating equipment that would tone my body in new and unexpected ways. And perhaps my attitude might get toned in the process. For the first time in ages, I felt like a star.

Suzan Davis

The Exchange Rate

After years of inactivity, my expanding waistline forced me to swap vegetables. I traded my membership in the couch potato club for one in a squash club.

After handing over my credit card for initiation and monthly dues, I discovered fitness didn’t come cheap. With the money I had left, I bought a squash racket and a tennis dress that fit my budget better than my body. It groaned when I zipped it up, but if I didn’t breathe too deeply maybe the seams would hold until I lost ten pounds.

Over the next few months, between running around the court to pick up missed balls and the odd rally where I actually returned the shot, my outfit stopped protesting. It took another couple of months for the court, which rivaled a football field in size, to shrink to standard dimensions. The rallies lengthened as balls that had previously whizzed past my racquet were now within reach. Having previously exchanged vegetables, I nowexchanged vowels as I moved from fat to fit. The time had come to ratchet up my exercise program another notch. Although the club director had mentioned a workout room on the top floor, for the first six months I hadn’t had the energy to make it past the second floor. Now I was ready.

The third floor housed two small rooms, divided by a wall of mirrors, to form one larger area. Stationary bicycles and rowing machines filled one side; the other held racks of free weights. Large doorways allowed a banked wooden track to circle the perimeter of the two rooms.

I headed for the track, sprinted off and promptly collided with a runner charging through the doorway. He pointed to a sign and continued running. I hobbled over to read the sign, which directed members to run clockwise on even days of the month and counterclockwise on odd days to avoid uneven build-up of muscles. I pictured a clock, complete with hands, and set out again in the opposite direction.

Off to an inauspicious start, I figured my running experience could only improve. With eight laps to the mile, the hardest part would be keeping track of the number. I needn’t have worried. By the end of my first lap, I was huffing and puffing so hard I had to stop. Something was very wrong.

Stumbling off the track, I realized the “something” was “someone.” Me. The flushed, sweat- and mascara-streaked face that greeted me in the multiple mirrors confirmed it. I erased the word “fit” from my vocabulary and replaced it with “cardiac victim.”

After my heart stopped pounding, I crept downstairs to the women’s locker room and splashed cold water on my face. As the redness faded, I made a vow to my reflection: one day I would run a mile, if not with ease and grace, at least without sounding like a steam engine. And I’d wear waterproof mascara so I wouldn’t look like a raccoon at the finish line.

Over the next few months, I arrived at the club an hour before my squash game and forced myself upstairs to the track. I ran clockwise and huffed. I ran counterclockwise and puffed. After being rear-ended when I slowed suddenly, I learned to keep to the outside of the track in the “slow” lane when another pair of feet pounded behind me. I considered slapping a bumper sticker on my rear end that said “Beginner Runner—Beware” but decided anyone close enough to read the sticker was about to crash into me anyway.

I used a clicker to record the laps. Not that I couldn’t count, but it made me feel more like a real runner. Although my laps started adding up, they still didn’t total the magic number eight. I kept at it. Two months passed and I spent more time running and less time huffing and puffing. Other runners stopped offering to drive me to the emergency room of the nearest hospital.

Then came the day I stopped thinking and simply ran, feet pounding and arms pumping at my sides. Just me and the track. The laps glided by until I glanced at the clicker in my hand and saw the counter change to seven. Only one more lap stood between me and my goal. I ran on.

I rounded the last turn, crossed the finish line and stopped in amazement, nearly knocking down the guy behind me. I apologized and hastily stepped off the track to savor my victory. I had done it. I had metamorphosed from couch potato to Queen of the Track. Okay, maybe just her lady-in-waiting.

Having conquered the mile, I’ve set new goals. I’ve started training for two miles. Next I’ll go for three miles. Then four miles. Then marathons—though at the rate I’m going, I’ll probably be running in the geriatric category. I don’t care. I am runner—hear me roar!

Harriet Cooper

Facing the Lady in the Mirror

F
itness—if it came in a bottle, everybody would
have a great body.

Cher

Pudgy, never quite good enough—that’s what the lady looking back at me from the mirror preached. I swallowed all of it.

My daughter’s Christmas present changed everything. It looked innocent enough: a few printed lines in an envelope. But my stomach turned inside out as I read them—a gift certificate for twenty-four fitness classes. My daughter smiled expectantly. I smiled back through clenched teeth.