Siren Song

"Welly, well, well, if it isn’t Fatman & his tubby little sidekick, Boy Blubber. Yet again, you are under my control. You know, your inability to avoid temptation really doesn’t provide me with much of a challenge, Fatman. Forgive me for saying so, but you’re not a very effective superhero."

"Holy guacamole, Fatman! It’s Betsy Crocker, Betty’s evil twin! And I prefer “pleasantly plump” to "tubby", thank you.

"So Betsy, you have discovered my weakness: savory snacks, good cheese, and baked desserts – nothing too sweet, and preferably with a flaky pastry. That wasn’t a very nice thing to say about my career choice, by the way. Ooh! Are those Kalamata olives?"

"You are so naïve, Fatman! When will you learn that you if cannot save yourself from the siren song of cocktail parties and cookouts with their endless procession of hors d’oevres, snacks and desserts, that you will never save anyone else? You are what you eat, you know. And not for nothing, but have you ever tried working out?"

"One day, Betsy. One day I will prevail and this town will be bothered by your excess fat and calories no more!"

"Oh, Fatman. It’s so amusing when your double chin jiggles like that!"

"Uh, Fatman?"

"Yes, Boy Blubber?"

"We’re out of crackers for the crab dip."

"Shut up, Boy Blubber."

Memorial Day picnic, Baby Shower, Fundraiser, Graduation, End of Year school picnic, Going Away party, Father’s Day gathering

     That is a partial list of events we have attended since May. This doesn’t include dinner with friends or relatives, or dinner out as a family. All of these events are festive occasions. Festive occasions call for festive food. Festive food is food not served at your everyday meal. Festive food is finger food, fattening food, wonderful food offered by people wearing bow ties and wielding little trays. Festive food is desserts. Desserts are tartlets, cookies, pies, and cakes with whipped cream icing; desserts are brownies, cream puffs, and beautiful cupcakes on adorable little tiered cupcake servers. Festive food is tempting, taunting, tortuous, and oh, so delicious.

     Little wonder I’ve made scant progress on my quest. I’m pleased I haven’t been heading in the wrong direction, but still… Five weeks in and not a whole lot to show for it. Coming in direct contact with so much temptation on what is sometimes a daily basis is, for me, just brutal. I’ve tried visualization. You know, where you’re supposed to picture the situation in your mind and imagine what you’ll do when the time comes so you’ll be prepared. Somehow that never seems to work. There are people who advise, “Just say no!” Well that’s the problem, isn’t it; the inability to stay away from food I enjoy. To be fair, I have turned away bow-tied, tray-wielding food pushers several times, and have even managed to avoid the dessert table once or twice. Clearly, though, I haven’t been able to stand my ground often enough.

     I have friends who seem to have wills of iron. They too, are “effecting lifestyle changes” and seem able to avoid party pitfalls with relative ease, whereas I am drawn to the buffet line like the clichéd moth to the flame. I admire and detest them (My friends, not the moths. Although I'm not wild about moths, either.)

     Interestingly, this is what my horoscope said today (fact):

Life may force you to confront your ambitions. There are some areas of your life that need complete transformation, but all you see is the shovel and the dirt.Keep your mind focused on the end results.

Apropos, yes? It may be time to seek outside assistance. Which, I suppose, could come in the form of counseling, Weight Watchers, jaw wiring or divine intervention. I’m not sure. I believe a little research is in order. I have beefed up the exercise for those of you who are thinking, “just get up off your arse already, you lazy cow.” I am trying something (Not Zumba. I’m too chicken to go there yet) and I’ll see how it goes. Because yes, the bottom line is eat less, exercise more. It seems like it should be easy. And it is. Until I encounter a strawberry rhubarb pie. Oh, or some nice coconut shrimp. Or a really good crab dip...

On Aging and Aliens

     
     I waste a lot of time on Facebook playing Castleville. In fact, just this week I spent an entire lifetime playing this one game; time better spent reading, writing, cleaning my house (which is disgusting) or *ahem* exercising. Anyone familiar with Facebook is well-acquainted with the advertising that runs along the right side of the screen. One ad that invariably lurks beside my game is from Realage.com. This is what they have to say: “Prepare to be shocked. Your body may be older than you think.” Easily obsessed, this gave me something on which to fixate for a while.

    What if the opposite were true? What about people who look much younger than their chronological age? What about Dick Clark, (May he rest in peace) or Iman? It just so happens that I am related to a few of these folks. There are members of my immediate and slightly extended family who never seem to age. My father, for instance, and his sister – my aunt – have always looked at least ten years younger than they are. Thinking about it, my grandmother, some of her sisters and her brother looked dewy-fresh for a long time as well. So what gives? Is there some kind of closely guarded family secret that is passed down only to a select few? Do they bathe in vats of Oil of Olay? Is the sacrificing of goats or chickens involved?

     

     As I was pondering this mystery, I recalled a conversation I had with this same aunt over dinner just the other day. She told me that she has been reading this blog (Hi Auntie!), and whatever my aversion to exercise, I should remember that it’s important for both physical and mental well-being. She made that point several times. I did not go home without that thought lodged firmly in my brain. My aunt enjoys exercise. My dad is a big proponent of exercise; he has run or rollerbladed, or gone to the gym or whatever for years. My sister is a yoga queen who does some hula hooping on the side. If I tried to hula hoop I’d get stuck and end up looking as though I was wearing a colorfully bright and sparkly belt I stole from a clown’s closet. My grandmother was always busy doing something active. She bowled in a retired teachers’ league – held her bowling ball straight up over her head. I was always afraid she was going to drop it and render herself unconscious. I also remember going to a line dancing class with her long after she’d retired. I could probably still manage to do The Alley Cat if pressed.

     Then there’s longevity. Think about Jack Lalanne. He was the original television exercise guru, and was swimming around some harbor or other dragging tugboats with his teeth well into his eighties. My husband’s grandmother and grandfather lived to be 96 and 102 respectively. Grampy had a sister who lived to be 103, although they did have a brother who passed away several decades earlier. Grammie and Grampy were active folk who lived in their own home for over seventy years. Every Saturday night for seventy some odd years, they had hamburgers and baked beans for supper. After the meal, every Saturday night for seventy some odd years, Grampy would take a slice of white bread, soak up the hamburger grease in the pan, salt it, eat it, and enjoy it. This did not harm him in the least. He seemed impervious to heart disease or other ailments. 

     

     Maybe there is such a thing as a youth-preserving gene. Perhaps it runs in families like red hair or twins. Possibly it’s some kind of chromosome that lies dormant, and like an allergy needs an outside stimulant to trigger its activation. Let’s suppose that, as some believe, life on Earth was started by extraterrestrials. Wouldn’t it then make sense that some vestige of that DNA would linger somewhere? 

    

     My theory is that exercise activates this age-defying gene in people who possess an Alien chromosome. Yes. Alien DNA is at work here. Scientologists believe that the human is an immortal alien trapped on Earth in a physical body (Thetan). Maybe Scientologists are not as crazy as they seem. Ignore all their nonsense about ethics over morals (The ‘me over the we’ – which may explain why Scientology’s so popular in Hollywood) and a lot of other gobbledy gook and focus on what they refer to as “purification rundown” or detoxification, which is an emphasis on saunas, exercise, vitamins and light jogging (Yes. Specifically “light jogging”. I don’t know why – more research, which I do not plan to do, is required.) 

     Kate, you may ask, if that trait runs in your family, why not strap on your running shoes, sally forth and release the fountain of youth? I’ll tell you why not: Because I think that only those family members with an affinity for exercise in the first place have inherited the gene. Only those who bemoan the absence of activity receive the anti-aging benefit at the onset of renewed motion. I imagine it’s a recessive gene, and I seem to have inherited a boatload of dominant features: brown hair, brown eyes, nearsightedness, heavy eyebrows, broad shoulders… The alien anti-aging exercise affinity gene likely isn’t dominant, or more people would be born with it, see? 

     It is true that exercise can help the average person achieve a certain level of fitness, perhaps elevate his or her mood, maybe even put a bloom in their cheek. But exercise cannot help just anyone become almost ageless like my dad, my aunt, or William Shatner (he’s 80!). They have a little something you can’t get at the gym. Just ask a Scientologist.

Fear and Loathing in Connecticut

"Holy double chin, Fatman! I can't move! We're trapped!"
"It does look that way, Boy Blubber. We appear to be ensnared in a gelatinous web of self-loathing, doubt, anxiety, and fear of failure."
"What sort of madman would set such a nefarious trap, Fatman?"
"It seems to be of our own making Boy Blubber. It is logical then, that we must also have the means to free ourselves somehow. It might be... oof  here in my ungh Utility Belt. Which I can no longer erf see. If I can just bend... ow."
"Hurry Fatman! That Japanese whaling vessel is getting closer! erm...Want me to call Greenpeace?"

     A friend of mine who recently lost a quite a bit of weight (of whom I'm proud and more than a little a bit jealous) made a very kind gesture. She offered to lend some of her in-grown (as opposed to out-grown) clothes to see me through for a while until I was a smaller version of myself. The only problem was that the clothes she was offering were all the size I am already wearing or larger. I did not respond well. My first thoughts were

• Holy crap! Just how bad DO I look?!
• What, she thinks I'm going to get BIGGER?!
• o.m.g. I am her low-point barometer.
• Someone please shoot me.

     Of course I realized I was being an ass, acknowledged that she was honestly just trying to do me a favor and said thank you. But I was still depressed. Really, really, really depressed. So I did what any sensible person would do. I stopped eating and moped around for the better part of a week. Yes, you heard that right. I stopped eating (much). No need to worry though, citizenry; I didn't go all Mary-Kate (or was it Ashley...?) on you.

     During my period of mopage I started looking online for local Zumba classes. You remember - the ones I said I was going to start attending but haven't yet. There are some places like the local Y that have maybe three classes a week during the summer. Then there are places with names like "We Love Zumba" that claim to be all Zumba all the time. Only, they're not. The classes they offer seem to cater to people who either have really flexible work schedules or do not work outside the home and have someone to watch the kids for a good chunk of the day. Since I'm probably going to be out of a job soon, I'm guessing my schedule's going to allow for a class or two. A day.

     There was one studio that posted videos of some of their classes. As expected, the instructor was a crazy Shakira-like being, swinging hips and hair and having a fine old time. The women in the class seemed to be following along ok - except for... (insert dramatic music here) the two women in the back row who had absolutely NO idea what was going on. They looked like someone's drunken uncles trying to do the electric slide at your cousin's wedding. Pitiful. And that's why I'm afraid to try something like this. I have all the coordination of an ox on crutches. I find it very hard to imagine that I will be the Shakira in the front row and have no problem believing that I will be drunken uncle number three in the back.

     Worrying about looking ridiculous during an exercise class is perhaps indicative of a larger issue. I'm always afraid of being thought of or seen as foolish or stupid. I worry that if I try something and it doesn't work out, then people will think less of me. I worry a lot about what other people think.  I'm not exactly sure why. By staying safely within the boundaries of what I know and what I know I can do, I feel confident, knowledgeable, and secure. I know my stuff. But staying safe has had a price. I don't try a lot of new things. I am not going to put myself out where I think I might look silly. Heck. I don't even jump out on the dance floor at weddings, even though everyone is doing something silly, like the chicken dance or something. I don't meet a lot of new people. New people are scary. I'd rather not go somewhere at all, even if it's just the dining hall, if I have to go by myself. 

     When did I become such a chicken? I've always been this way. I just hide it better sometimes. It's always there, though. Might have just a little to do with my weight problem, you think? Got a little self-confidence/self-loathing thing going on? Perhaps. I think this needs to be examined more closely. In the meantime, there are Zumba classes to be conquered attempted considered.

Oh, and does anyone happen to have a phone number for Greenpeace?