Monday, June 29, 2009

Are we ready for matching track suits or divorce court?

To avoid the tennis ball, I cocked my body to the left, taking a hit in the kidney. Instead of a ball, I returned a glare.

“I wasn’t trying to hit you,” my husband said, “I was just aiming in your general direction so you wouldn’t have to run to get the ball.”

Who says chivalry is dead? No one who exercises with their spouse. It doesn’t start this way. It begins as man-on-woman competition, like Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs.

My husband took up kayaking a year or two before I did. Then he presented me with a long yellow boat for my birthday. The first time we went out on the lake together, he was paddling like a native on the introductory sequence of Hawaii Five-O. I couldn’t even get the thing to go straight. Instead I circled like a wet dog trying to bed down for the night.

The first time we went biking together, I was sporting only a sports bra and shorts. I assumed he was enjoying the scenery as we climbed Hurricane Road, especially the standing pedaling hill sequences. Afterwards, I asked him if he had a good time. “I could have gone faster,” he said flatly. It was the last time I asked him on a bike ride.

I know couples who can’t play tennis together unless it’s a doubles game with his and her attorneys. Why is it so difficult for a husband and wife to exercise together? Are Mars and Venus that far apart when it comes to working out?

Men are inherently stronger. My arms are about half the size of my husbands. And I am just behind Jada Pinkett Smith in that department. I can be paddling nonstop and he has to stop every ten seconds or so and pause so he doesn’t get too far ahead of me.

It’s no different on dry land. I overheard him talking with his friends about the qualities they wanted in their second wife: tall, blonde, and fast walking. He’s constantly three paces in front of me. It works in Afghanistan where there are so many land mines, but it is annoying when you are in the parking lot at Target.

I walk and bike to the beat of the Wicked Witch of the West’s theme song, it’s a perky song you can dance to, just enough for Toto’s ears to blow back a bit, but it’s not going to tire Lance Armstrong.

Walking or biking with my husband does allow me to step it up a notch, which can be helpful if you want to increase the intensity of a workout. But few of us want to increase the intensity of marital conflicts.

For this reason, when exercising with a spouse, approach it like a checkers game with your children or grandchildren. Be there for the experience, not the victory.

For men, it means pulling back a bit on your ability and not striving to prove your superiority. You won that contest way back when you shot that first wildebeest with a hand-hewn arrow.

For woman, it means bringing it up a notch from the leisurely pace of “Those mint green shutters do not work with that jewel tones landscape palette” to a point where you can’t talk or sing because you are breathing so hard. There, in the middle, Mars and Venus might find a place just as comfortable as the couch, but with greater health benefits.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

It's too hot, cold, wet, dry for that

It's raining again. Doesn't this make healthy living impossible? Even though I should be exercising every day...I can't if it is too hot, too cold, too wet, too dry. If it's not nice out, that's an excuse. If it is beautiful day out, shouldn't I do something more enjoyable than exercising?

The weather is a ready-made excuse for not exercising. Unless it's 70 degrees sunny with a ocean breeze, how can we expected to get out and do anything? According to this principle, only residents of Santa Barbara, California, should be biking or walking on a regular basis.

I own a raincoat. Actually I have a few of them. I even have snow pants, hats, and gloves. I am equipped for just about anything Mother Nature can dole out in New England. Just look in my garage. I have bikes, hiking boots, ice skates, snowshoes, and skis. But aren't those things just for vacations...to be harnessed to the roof exclusively for use two and a half hours from home?

Our bodies are meant to move. Our brains prefer to stay put. If I listen to my brain, it will manufacture excuse after excuse for not exercising. It might even convince me to do laundry or vaccuum instead. The key is to listen to my body.

My body likes to move. It smiles from the inside out. My heart pumps blood to warm my aging joints. My muscles applaud the chance to tighten and tone. My lungs celebrate the deep rhythmn of breathing faster. I get in touch with my with body as a whole and its individual parts.

The inbox at work seems a little shorter. The dirty kitchen floor a little less irritating. My criticizing sister a little further away. Those are rewards worth reaping.

I'm breaking out a noisy track suit, my iPod, and a bike helmet. I've got a date with a hill and it is not weather permitting.

Friday, June 26, 2009

A Beautiful Day For It

On Thursday, the sky was a deep, thick gray. It was warm, but very cloudy. But my husband and I decided to risk it and go kayaking. As we were approached the boat launch, two fishermen were coming in.

One smiled warmly at us and said, “Beautiful day for it.”

I was thinking, “Is this guy for real?” It is completely lousy out. I laughed shortly and said, “Well it could be better out.”

“It’s better than working,” he said, his eyebrows scolding me.

He wasn’t joking. He went on to say how much he loved fishing there and how he was there for a special trip with his twin brother. Come to find out he grew up in Keene. We parted warmly after sharing a few stories.

Our goal was to paddle out to an island and picnic. It was very windy and I had trouble keeping the boat headed in the right direction. Dark clouds were on the horizon threatening us. As we approached the island we came upon two more fishermen. One of them nodded, smiled, and said, “Beautiful day for it.”

Yes, those exact words. “Is this a fisherman’s code or creed?” I was thinking. This time I answered politely, “Indeed, it is.”

As we ate quickly to avoid getting caught in a thunderstorm, I couldn’t help but think about the fishermen’s comments. It was so strange that they both had said the exact same thing. I asked my husband what he thought of it. “I think they are just really happy to be out fishing,” he said.

After lunch we circled the island. As we completed the circle and approached open water, the conditions had deteriorated. “It’s going to be very hard getting back,” my husband said. “I don’t think we’ve ever paddled in conditions this rough, it’s windy and there are a lot of white caps.” He asked if I wanted to hug the shoreline, which would take longer, but might be easier. I said I was OK with crossing open water.

As I got into a stride, I actually enjoyed myself. I was working really hard, but it was fun to be fighting the wind and watching waves break over my boat. My body was completely centered on paddling in a way that I don’t have to be in calm water. But my mind was still hung up on the fishermen.

I felt like there was something I was missing, something they could teach me. “Beautiful day for it,” was running over and over in mind. Then it made sense to me.

“It” was about knowing what the “it” is. Today was about kayaking, about plunging and pulling the paddle through the fresh, green water. It was not about the dark sky. It was about the water.

I was so concerned about the weather I had lost track of what was most important. I had a bad attitude and no focus.

These errors in my thinking don’t just apply to boating. I have done this for years with eating. I have spent days or weeks souring my attitude about an event where I won’t be able to eat anything I want in any amount I want. I never realized my bad attitude, not my eating plans, is what would stop me from having fun.

…Even if it was a beautiful day for a… wedding, banquet, shower, bat mitzvah, or family reunion. The “it” in all these cases was about family, friends, ceremonies, and celebrations. It is never about food. Food is more like the weather—secondary to the main event, not the core activity. It is always something else. No one is ever going to say it is a beautiful day to overeat.

I realized I need to do a better job at figuring out what the “it” is. I need to focus on making that the most important thing. If I do, I’m much more likely to enjoy myself. I need to stop packing my own clouds to take on vacation.

By the time I got back to shore, I was thoroughly pleased with my paddle. I could have kept going. I was sorry to see it end. It really was a beautiful day for it.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

The Image in the Mirror

I saw a glimmer of sun through the gray skies so I headed to the beach with a book. By the time I reached a lounge chair, the clouds had closed back together. It was windy and raw. I lasted about two pages.

I wasn’t going home from this vacation without a tan. I decided to high-tail it to the mall to get a spray tan. It would be my first fake retail tan. A Mystic Tan® required only forty-five seconds for healthy looking glow.

After a video tape and staff introduction to the spray tanning booth, I was alone with the machine, a towel, and a very large mirror. My northern New England thighs hadn’t seen the sun since September of last year. It was late June.

I remember someone saying if you put your thighs close together, perfect legs would have open spaces above and below the knees. I gave myself the test. There was a sliver of space. A strip of duct tape might improve the situation.

There I was alone and naked with my thighs. The tanning salon staff and patrons were all bronzed, blond, bathing beauties. I, on the other side of the door, was white, dimpled, and fleshy. Indeed, I had the thighs of a 45-year-old mother of two. They weren’t worse than some of the images I’ve seen at the tabloids at the grocery store. But they seemed looser than last year.

I hid my thighs for many years, along with my stomach and upper arms. If you are overweight, certain body parts are off limits--never to be seen or touched. I pity the man that pinches a woman’s triceps or inner thighs. He’ll have an elbow in his ribs before he releases his grasp.

Standing there under the green florescent lights, the blame started. My exercise routine was more intense last year. My knee problems had stopped me from walking as much. I wasn’t doing my physical therapy schedule. It was time to dust off the thigh toner from underneath my bed I told myself.

My thighs didn’t match the image I had of myself. I was a confident, strong, beautiful woman. Whose thighs were these? Weren’t my thighs toned, taunt, and sculpted like the Victoria’s Secret™ models wearing the swimsuit I bought? Given that I am old enough to have given birth to her through these thighs, probably not. Given that she was airbrushed in person and digitally, probably not.

I held my breath and stepped into the Mystic tan booth. They wouldn’t be as white when I came out, but they’d still be mine, a badge of honor, not a source of shame. My legs have carried me up many steep hills in life. They gave me the strength to stand up, put myself first, and take one step at a time toward a healthier, happier life. If I dislike them, I dislike me. I may not show them off, but I have a bust and biceps and other assets to emphasize. But I will not be ashamed or embarrassed. They are real life. Magazines and catalogs are fiction. I am too old to believe in fairy tales or should I say fairy tails.


WeightWatchers.com

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Keeping My Head Above Water

Health is not a destination. It’s a journey. I am healthier today than I have ever been. But I haven’t “arrived.” I still have to work at it every day. I will never stop trying to be healthier.

It’s like any other journey, whether by car, bus, or airplane. There are wrong turns, accidents, breakdowns, delays, and wrong turns. At the moment, I’m on day six of a seven day vacation at a lakefront cottage in New Hampshire. I have seen a loon, Great Blue Heron, and a snapping turtle…but not the sun.

It has rained every day. Not the kind of rain that lightly mists your L.L. Bean Gore-Tex® pullover so you glisten a bit. This is the kind of rain for which you need the knee-length, hooded, yellow shiny plastic puddle-jumping rain coat you wore in the fourth grade. In a pinch, you could try outerwear worn by crab fishermen in the Bering Sea.

My bike is in the kitchen. My kayak overturned under a tree. My sneakers drying out in front of the gas fireplace. The tennis rackets never even made it out of the car.

I could let the weather be my inspiration for a nonstop eating and drinking fest. After all, what else am I to do? My vacation is ruined and it was hard earned. I finally finished my MBA after six years of studying nights and weekends. I just buried my father after a long period of failing health.

Haven’t I earned a row of Oreo® cookies? Shouldn’t the Lay’s® potato chips be proudly perched atop the grocery bags nested in the back of the wagon? Doesn’t this disappointment give me permission to go fishing in a peanut butter jar with a Hersey’s™ bar?

I can hear them from here. Two packages of freshly minted milk chocolate bars are behind cabinet doors--separated from their pre-determined partners--graham crackers and marshmallow puffs. Their messages taunt and torture me. “We treat sympathy.” “We offer solace to the sunless.” “We manufacture smiles.”

I don’t think so. I have worked too hard for too many years to let a little bad weather bring me down. Instead, I remind myself that one day soon I will find the time and place to be in a bathing suit. When I do don it, I imagine myself as strong, fit, and beautiful. I will overcome these clouds. I’m going to do a few sit ups and push ups on a neoprene pool floatie on the living room floor. It can be used as a flotation device in an emergency.