Chicken Soup for the Dieter's Soul (16 page)
Read Chicken Soup for the Dieter's Soul Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
Sometimes it is that special occasion that seems to pop up right after I have made yet another vow to cut back, cut down, cut it out! It could be a favorite sister’s birthday, a friend’s promotion or a child who needs consoling after a big game. Nothing says comfort like a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup, peach pie with ice cream, or homemade chicken and dumplings. Yum.
Of course, there is always exercise. My dieter’s block interferes with my exercising all the time. Experts always say you should not work out within an hour before eating or two hours after eating. Do these experts have no life? The way my schedule has been lately, I have exactly seven and a half minutes a day that is safe for me to exercise. With a two-hour commute and an hour for lunch added to an eight-hour day, it always seems that other things lay claim to those precious minutes, and I tell myself, “I’ll start tomorrow.”
Dieting has become a way of life for many people. Who can blame them? There is a diet designed to fit almost any need: low-carb, low-fat, low-calorie, the list goes on. If you are not fond of veggies, go with the high-protein, low-carb diet. If you can’t stand the thought of eating meat, do the vegan thing. Skip meals, add meals. There is truly something for everyone. The only drawback is . . . you actually have to do the diet. There’s where my dieter’s block gets in the way again.
I am a great one for talking about a diet, or planning a diet, but actually dieting? That will take some doing. Today’s not a good day, you know, we had a company-wide meeting with refreshments. I had to participate, it’s part of my job. I can’t start on Friday; everyone knows the weekend is a terrible time to start a diet. Maybe Monday. But Mondays are so harsh. What an awful day to start a diet. Tuesday? Doesn’t someone have a birthday on Tuesday? Didn’t I promise to bring cookies?
Terry A. Lilley
A
waist is a terrible thing to mind.
TomWilson
Only Jell-O is supposed to jiggle.
But any overweight person knows that a whole lot of shaking goes on before a bountiful body becomes a lean, dream, fit machine. Instead of benefiting from the physics of exercise equipment and the knowledge of personal trainers, many dieters never set foot inside a gym or health club.
If life were fair, consistently exercising smart food choices would be the only activity needed to rid the body of the bulges that wiggle and jiggle.
But life isn’t fair, as my whining children often hear. I had to eat those words myself when my naturally slender friend, Barb, unknowingly fed them to me.
Until that day, I’d assumed her model figure came naturally. It had, the self-proclaimed junk food lover said while eating a dinner salad. But when she hit middle age, gravity began pulling at her butt, boobs and midsection as relentlessly as it tugged at the rest of us. And her junk food diet started adding on unwanted pounds.
Instead of joining the chorus of whiners bemoaning the injustice of gravity and slowing metabolisms, she moved to counter nature’s effects.
Literally.
She began rising before the sun, getting in forty-five minutes of aerobics and weight training in the quiet comfort of home while the alarm clock let her family sleep until 5:00 AM.
Completing this morning ritual is now as automatic as keeping her weekly manicure appointments. Fair or not, she said, it’s what she has to do to maintain the look she wants.
Aha!
I thought, swallowing more than the last of my dessert.
With enlightened resignation, I pledged to get physical once again. This time, though, the pledge was sealed with a commitment to hang tough over the long haul. Long enough to see whether exercise coupled with my diet would work for me, too.
Early morning walks along neighborhood streets more familiar to the wheels of my car than to the soles of my feet were the start. Then, apprehension following a close encounter with deer made me retreat to my home. I did aerobic video workouts and calisthenics using hand weights or the natural heft of my body parts.
The euphoria of my new commitment propelled me day to day from tape to tape for a while; so did disdain for the jiggles and the girdles, now called body shapers, marketed to keep bouncing bodies in check. Feeling tight and toned was my long-term goal.
Completing a ninety-minute aerobics tape without panting like a puppy was the short-term one. It loomed large, like an Olympian challenge far out of reach.
But it wasn’t.
My fitness pledge fueled a new morning ritual. Whether a leap or a crawl moved me out of bed, the video trainer put me through my paces every weekday. Before sunrise, just like Barb.
In time, I was running out of tape long before I ran out of breath.
And the jiggles came to an end.
I still remember glowing in the gold medal moment of that realization.
It was a typical morning, except that instead of wearing the spandex leotard that helped me pretend my muscles were taut, I wore a sports bra and cotton briefs. This outfit revealed the first signs of the change taking shape—the waistband was loose and the seat was baggy.
There were other changes, too. I was stepping higher during marches in place because a big belly no longer blocked the lift of my knees. My butt didn’t bounce when I stopped moving and my flexed arms showed definition from biceps toning up.
The jiggles were gone.
Of course, none of it happened overnight. Diet and exercise progress in incremental bites must have fed my commitment subconsciously any time the lure of the pillow threatened to smother the lure of physical fitness.
A full plate of changes still feeds my commitment to the lifestyle changes I’ve made, including:
• Seeing boobs, not stomach, when looking down toward the floor. Feeling hip bones, not love handles, when my arms are by my side.
• Having oversized T-shirts and sweatshirts glide over my hips, not bunch at my waist. Getting more days from my pantyhose because thunder thighs aren’t rubbing holes in them.
• Realizing leggings should not feel like girdles.
• Walking around naked at day’s end without seeing telltale underwear marks.
• Wearing form-fitting workout gear, not loose, extra large anything, even at home alone.
No, life isn’t fair, especially the dieter’s life. Now I know it takes the consistency of smart food choices and regular exercise to banish the bulges that bug me. It’s a combination I pledge to continue so that all that jiggles is my Jell-O.
Edwina L. Kaikai
T
hose who do not find time for exercise will
have to find time for illness.
Earl of Derby
I caught a glimpse of myself in a full-length mirror at the mall last Tuesday. On Wednesday, I introduced my credit card to the nice man at the fitness outlet.
Finding the perfect exercise bike took a bit of effort. It had to have a nice, big seat. And if I was going to be riding it everyday, I may as well buy one of the air resistance models. That way, as I ride, I can blow my hair at the same time. It would have to be black to match my stair stepper machine/coat rack and would definitely have to be equipped with a calorie counter. This way, I could see how many chocolate bars I had earned . . . I mean burned, each time I rode.
My investment did not arrive preassembled. It was packaged in a huge, flat box and weighed approximately 700 pounds. Getting the unit into the minivan was one thing; getting it out and into the house was an adventure. I slid it out the side door and then turned to open the gate, which anyone with half a brain would have done before unloading their cargo. The latch promptly gouged me in the side, and I got my left thumb tangled in the chain link. After much struggle, I finally made my way to the front steps. Halfway up I had to stop and rest, and I prayed that none of my neighbors were watching me. I like to make people laugh, but sledding down the front steps while screaming and sitting on top of a box wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.
Once I had it inside and was able to pry through those gigantic staples, I could see why it had been packed in such a large carton. Inside I found a hundred bike parts and twice that many pieces of cardboard and Styrofoam. So the floor of my office is littered with nuts, bolts, tools, bike parts and dozens of tiny cardboard chunks. I picked up the instructions, and right then I knew I was in big trouble. There, on the paper, was a parts list a mile long and a picture of a bike with ten thousand arrows pointing here and there. Worst of all, not a word of the instructions was printed in a language I could read.
I sat with a pair of pliers in one hand and a cookie in the other, wondering how I was ever going to get the stupid thing put together so I could start burning some calories. Putting the seat on was the easy part: just put two pieces together and tighten the knob. When it came to assembling the moving parts, I had a little more trouble. I had to turn the bike upside down and hold it in place with one knee while I held the pedal on with my shoulder and tightened all the coordinating nuts and bolts. It fell over three times, leaving a mark on my wall and a bruise on my leg, and by this point, I figured I had burned at least 100 calories, so I ate another cookie.
The right pedal wasn’t any easier, but I managed it without further injury. After half an hour, I stood the bike upright, feeling quite proud of myself. Then, glancing at the diagram, I realized I’d forgotten a few steps. I was supposed to put the handlebars and rods on first, then the pedals last. So once again, the bike was turned over and I was taking it apart. Note: It was at this point that I closed the door to my office. I had just spent all my money on a new bike, and the last thing I needed was to have the kids rush in and demand that I start putting quarters in the “bad words” jar.
I had been home with my new purchase for a total of two and a half hours. Within that time, I had assembled and reassembled it three times, screamed at the cat, scraped my knuckles, acquired numerous bruises and eaten nine peanut butter cookies. I was fatigued and sweaty and decided this was probably the best workout I’d ever had. I stood back and admired my handy work. Everything was put together perfectly; it looked great, and I could hardly wait to ride it. But I was too tired.
The next morning when I got up, my muscles ached and I noticed the shiner that the bike had left on my leg. But I was not discouraged. I always heard that exercise was best in the mornings before eating, so I didn’t have a bite. I fixed the kids some breakfast and began my leisurely ride. I hiked my ankle-length nightgown up to my knees and climbed onto the seat. Peddling steadily, I watched the calorie counter mark my progress. The children rolled their eyes at me as they left for school, but I barely noticed. I just rode and rode, feeling very proud of myself and wondering if Richard Simmons exercised in his jammies, too.
Ann Morrow
T
hat which we persist in doing becomes
easier—not that the nature of the task has
changed, but our ability to do has increased.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
H
ealth is not a condition of matter, but of
mind.
Mary Baker Eddy
“You’re having twins, aren’t you?” the woman at the checkout counter smiled and asked.
“No, just one,” I replied.
“Oh,” she said after a long pause, while she stared at my midsection. Then she turned abruptly and started stocking the shelves behind her.
Ms. Twins wasn’t the first person to ask that question during my pregnancy, nor was she the last. I attempted to brush off these comments and others like, “You shouldn’t wear such bright colors, dear.” Instead, I endeavored to bask in warm expectant-mother thoughts, but deep down the remarks hurt. I had a difficult time putting aside the feelings of shame and guilt that I’d felt about my weight since childhood.
I received my first diet book in junior high. My mother bought it for me because she worried over how much I “filled out” during puberty. People constantly referred to me as a “big girl.” A swim coach told me to work harder since I was solid and would drop like a stone to the bottom. One guy who tried to pick me up during vacation on a cruise-by said casually that he “liked big girls.”
The adolescent diet book was the first of many diets I tried throughout the years. Other diets included outright starvation (followed by bingeing, of course), pills, high fiber/grains, low-fat, no carbs, grapefruit, excessive exercise and the ever-popular divorce diet. I eventually came across a book on how people used weight gain as a buffer against events and situations in life. Armed with that knowledge, I started looking at my own life. When did I gain weight? When did I lose weight? What worked for me? I realized that I was an emotional eater. I ate to insulate myself against family friction, school and peer pressures, job stress, and unhappy relationships. Every major change in my life brought on scale tipping as well.
A few years ago, my life settled down into a steady routine. I joined a YMCA less than a mile from my home and signed up for kickboxing classes. By being vigilant, I learned how much I could eat versus how much exercise I needed to lose weight and then maintain it. No more yo-yoing up, up and down the scale. I thought I’d finally captured the balance. I felt great. I was in control. I was confident: I told myself I’d never be a “big girl” again. Then I left my job and my life as I knew it and moved back to my home state. My wonderful balance spun out of control. The combination of starting over, trying to reconform to family pressures after being away for a decade, and a whirlwind romance filled with wining, dining and ice cream sundaes with my soon-to-be husband took its toll on my newly balanced figure.