Broken Traditions

My sisters and I were padding around nervously in circles barefoot. My mother shouting instructions from the kitchen as she popped corn and mixed lemonade. “Make sure you go to the bathroom.” We were changing into our flame retardant fleece pajamas, finding our favorite pillow.

We’d stretch out in the back of the 1970 Pontiac Catalina station wagon. A spiral insect repellant burned next to the crackling speaker. We were lucky to go to ehe drive-in theater maybe once a summer. My younger sister never stayed up for the whole movie. We saw Disney princess movies like Cinderella and Snow White, back when they were fresh from the vault not digitally restored.

There were dancing hot dogs, acrobatic hot dogs frankly. Parading popsicles. Popcorn boxes that juggled. French fries that conversed with soda pop. Hamburgers that did backflips by themselves on the griddle. Smiling brunettes with white aprons and paper hats mixed ice cream floats, milkshakes, and cotton candy.

Oil, fat, and sugar. Oh my.

“It was good enough for you then,” my father would say if he was alive. “Why isn’t it now?” “What do you expect a portabella mushroom burger with soy cheese, chopped salad, and quinoa?

“Ahh, yeah.” I would say…”and so should you.”

He died just a few months ago from colon cancer, weeks after turning 70 years old. He had type II diabetes, heart disease, and other chronic dieases. I think he could have benefited from a few more veggie burgers and a few less French fries.

Like many people today, he died too early, because of what he ate and how little he moved.

It was April 2006 when I realized I was slowly killing myself. Dr. William Castelli, co-founder of the Framingham Heart Study was presenting at Grand Rounds, a continuing medical education seminar at the hospital where I worked.

He had rock-star status among the physicians. I could have booked Mick Jaggar with no less fanfare and excitement. Our medical staff leaned forward in their chairs as if trying to get closer to this world class physician, the man whose emerging research they studied in medical school, the researcher crediting with discovering the connection between heart disease and cholesterol. Their mouths half open in awe, half smiling is silly glee. It was one of those moments in life when you think every few minutes, “This is important. I have to remember this forever.”

Dr. Castelli lectured on all the medical problems caused by obesity, particularly when a person carries his or her weight in the belly. At the time, I was a stand-in model for the prenatal ultrasound program, even though my “fetus” could walk, talk, and empty the dishwasher.

He reviewed the complications of obesity: hypertension, diabetes, osteoporosis, heart disease, stroke, colon cancer, esophageal cancer, breast cancer…. The list went on and on, slide after slide. The blue blur of lapis frames with violet letters and bar graphs began swirl and dance, like hot dogs and hamburgers. Each diagnosis sent my chin flailing from one shoulder to the next. The truth was being beaten into me. I was a dizzy boxer on her way down.

“I’m killing myself,” I realized. The space around me thickened and stiffened. “I am slowly putting myself into an early grave.”

The excuses no longer mattered. And I had a long list, children, middle age, hormones, depression, marital stress, unemployment, housework, isolation…

As Castelli wrapped up his lecture for questions he quickly added, “I recommend Weight Watches to my patients. It’s the best way to lose weight, keep it off, and learn proper eating habits. It’s the best program out there.”

That’s all I needed.

Now I am sitting in a minivan at the drive-in movies with a Tupperware full of butterless popcorn and a cooler full of diet soda. The dancing dogs should be on the big screen any moment. But I will only go to snack bar to pee.