Drop Dead Healthy

by A. J. Jacobs

  Later, I was running around the reservoir, and passed by two European tourists slowly walking and blowing smoke from their Gitanes in the paths of runners. I turned around and glared at them the way the New England townspeople glared at Hester Prynne.

  Sometimes my self-righteousness slips out. Julie was eating her Honey Bunches of Oats cereal this morning.

  “How are your empty calories?” I asked.

  “Delicious!” she said.

  Then she added, “You’re starting to sound like Marti.”

  She’s got a point. Last time Marti was over, she told Jasper, who was drinking milk, “That’s baby food. That’s not meant for you, that’s meant for baby cows. Baby food.”

  My self-righteousness is only reinforced by evidence that I may, in fact, be in good shape. Or at least in better shape than a major motion-picture action star.

  My trainer, Tony, told me that Matt Damon works out at our gym. This is surprising, because it’s not a fancy gym. There are plenty of gyms boasting varnished wooden lockers, coat-check girls, and cafés serving egg-white omelets. The gym I go to has a depressing Eastern European feel.

  Tony says that Matt Damon comes into the gym a couple of days a week and works out for about half an hour till he’s sweating and panting.

  And here’s the important part: His workout is less strenuous than mine. At least according to Tony, who says, “He wouldn’t be able to do what you do. The jumping lunges alone would get him.”

  There’s a chance Tony is saying this to make me feel better. There’s also a chance Matt Damon is training for a role as an out-of-shape character, maybe for a biopic of Meat Loaf.

  Still. It’s exciting. I love bringing this information to Julie, who adopted Damon as her celebrity crush a few years ago after deeming Tom Cruise to be a nutter. “You like them apples?” I ask.

  Chapter 13

  The Teeth

  The Quest for the Perfect Smile

  I’VE BEEN PUTTING OFF DEALING with my teeth for months. Like four out of five consumers, I fear dentists. I also have empathy for dentists, mind you. It can’t be fun being so loathed, to be the cod liver oil of the health care community.

  But still I fear them. Perhaps it’s because I got off to a bad start with tooth care. I had an orthodontist in fifth grade who, in his own way, was as sadistic as Laurence Olivier in Marathon Man. He’d sing me off-key Hebrew songs as I sat there, powerless to protest. He also had a cruel selection of magazines in his waiting room: Instead of Highlights, he had several copies of Antiques magazine so all the eleven-year-olds could marvel at the Townsend cabinets.

  But I can’t ignore my mouth forever. Because the annoying truth is, your teeth and gums are closely connected to the cardiovascular system. One study from Emory University found a significantly higher mortality rate—23 to 46 percent higher—among patients who suffered from periodontitis or gingivitis. Mouth bacteria—there are as many as a thousand types of it lurking in the cracks of your teeth—can seep into the blood and cause inflammation and hardening of the arteries.

  Clean teeth are linked to a healthy heart. Their connection is why you get the scary—if not quite scientifically rock-solid—estimates that flossing will add 6.4 years to your life.

  Right now I’m at a “dental spa.” The Internet listed several and I figured I should try one. I didn’t know what I’d find, but the word “spa” sounded so tranquil, I assumed it had to be an improvement in tooth care.

  I thought perhaps it’d be a hushed oasis in midtown New York filled with the sound of bamboo wood chimes, the scent of citrus, and the sight of toned bodies. I’d slip on my complimentary fluffy white bathrobe and fluffy white slippers. I’d ease into a hot tub, maybe get a little seaweed wrap on my face. Then my spa dentist would massage my teeth with a lavender-scented loofah, not the mini-pickaxes used by regular nonspa dentists. Then I’d rinse my mouth with natural springwater from Baden-Baden and leave in a state of joyful repose.

  Instead, it turns out, a “dental spa” isn’t too different from a “dental office.”

  Oh, they try to gussy it up a bit. There are purple-and-white crystals in the waiting room. A red Buddha figurine. And most spalike of all, I get a complimentary ten-minute foot massage. As I lie back, mouth ajar, with a dental hygienist jamming cotton into my cheeks, a bald man squeezes my toes and ankles. Not bad.

  Still, there is no disguising that this is a dentist’s office where unpleasant dental procedures take place. You can put patchouli oil on a pig, but it’s still a pig.

  Then again, maybe I should stop complaining. I just read an interesting and terrifying book called The Excruciating History of Dentistry. If you ever feel mopey about modern life—about how you can’t get Wi-Fi in the train station, say—pick up this book. I don’t have room to explain its horrible revelations, but consider these two facts: Dentists used to extract teeth with a large wrench while squeezing the writhing, unmedicated patient’s head between the legs. And ancient Roman dentists prescribed tying a frog to the jaw as a way to fix loose teeth. So in comparison, a dental spa is paradise.

  The dental spa offers the usual delights—fillings and root canals—but I’m here to get a regular old cleaning. And also to try a new procedure, or at least new for me: teeth whitening. CNN ran a story on my in-progress health quest, and I went ahead and read the comments on the Internet about the report. You know, just in case I was feeling too happy or secure. Some were nice, but I’ve blocked those out. The only one I remember: “He has yellow teeth, and he’s trying to tell me how to be healthy?”

  I wouldn’t call them yellow. I prefer butter, oatmeal, or calla lily, or something else more Benjamin Moore paint wheely. But the commenter had a point. So off I went.

  The dental hygienist—a bald, pudgy man—squirts bleach on my teeth, paints my lips with petroleum jelly, and inserts a large, blue rubber Hannibal Lecterish mouthpiece. Then he pulls the UV-light blasting machine down and sticks it against my teeth. I look like I’m kissing a DustBuster.

  He explains that the UV light will activate the bleach and give me glowing teeth.

  “Ishn’t oo-vee light da-n-er-ous?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No, no. This UV light is not dangerous.”

  He flips the switch, and the DustBuster starts humming. Forty-five minutes later, I look in the mirror. My teeth are definitely a few shades whiter. No one is going to mistake my mouth for an Antarctic snow drift, but they’re better than before.

  When I get home, I Google the safety of UV-light tooth-whitening treatments. Sure enough, it’s not recommended. One study in a journal called Photochemical & Photobiological Sciences found that the treatments gave patients four times the radiation of sunbathing. Vanity can be dangerous.

  String Theory and Practice

  In the weeks preceding my dental spa appointment, I’d made several pilgrimages to a traditional, Western dentist and also interviewed an American Dental Association spokesperson. My question: How do I get the world’s healthiest teeth? The answer is threefold, two-thirds of which are disappointing.

  Let me get those out of the way first. Brushing and flossing. You can’t avoid them.

  Before this project, I’d flossed maybe three times in my life. I saw it as unnecessary, a bit show-offy. I brushed my teeth. Wasn’t that enough? Sadly not. You need to clean your tooth cracks of the aforementioned thousand types of bacteria before they migrate to the bloodstream.

  I started sharing Julie’s Glide Comfort Plus floss. I do it each night before brushing (before is preferable, so that you can brush out the dislodged bacteria). Were you aware there’s controversy over flossing methods? One faction recommends pulling the string all the way through the crack between each tooth so you don’t cause damage when you tug the floss upward. I tried this. It took almost an extra scene of 30 Rock to get through. So I’ve gone back to the slacker up-and-down method.

  It’s both amusing and depressing to me just how quickly I became self-righteous about my dental
regimen. Only a month after I began flossing regularly, I had lunch with a friend who said she never stuck string between her teeth.

  I looked at her dismissively. Then I heard myself saying: “How can you not floss?” Ah, the enthusiasm of the recent convert.

  I also changed the way I brush. I got a soft toothbrush and pledged to scrub for two minutes. Two minutes! This is no small thing. Normally, I brush for twenty seconds. Two minutes requires Dalai Lama–level patience. It’s best if you do those two minutes using what’s called the modified Bass Method.

  “Let me give you a lesson,” I said to Julie one night in front of the bathroom mirror.

  “Don’t go up and down like you’re erasing a pencil mark. Start at the gum at a forty-five-degree angle, and push the brush down. Then lift the brush back up to the gum and do it again.”

  She listened and tried it.

  “Now, that was actually helpful,” she said.

  “That’s nice to hear.”

  “It’s weird to realize you’ve been doing something wrong for forty years.”

  I know what she’s saying. Before this project, I never knew I was doing so many everyday tasks incorrectly: chewing, going to the bathroom, brushing my teeth. Am I yawning properly? Sneezing? High schools should offer a class called Really Basic Life Skills 101.

  And now for the third, far more pleasant part of tooth care: chewing gum.

  Several studies have indicated that chewing sugar-free gum after meals can help prevent tooth decay. This is especially true if the gum contains xylitol, a sweetener found in such brands as Ricochet, PowerBite, and some Trident products, because bacteria can’t break it down. The Nordic nations are far ahead of us on this one. In Finland, schoolchildren are encouraged to chew xylitol gum. There’s some evidence xylitol can help prevent ear infections in kids.

  Chewing gum provided a double thrill—unconsciously, I felt like I was doing something wrong, thanks to years of antigum propaganda from my parents. But intellectually, I knew I was doing something right.

  Checkup: Month 13

  Weight: 158

  Total miles walked while writing: 810

  Total hours spent watching Dr. Oz show: 156

  Years closer to death: 1 (I had my birthday).

  Sweet-potato fries stolen from my son’s plate at various brunches: 36

  I’m plugging away at my to-do list. Did I mention it’s got lots of items? This month I was able to check off a big one: I attended a religious ritual, which is, at least arguably, good for the health.

  We went to a Purim festival at our synagogue. Purim, as you might know, is the celebration of Queen Esther’s rescue of the Jewish people from the evil King Ahasuerus. But over the centuries, it’s evolved into a kind of Jewish Halloween. You dress up in costumes and eat high-fructose food.

  It’s preferable if the costumes have some sort of Jewish connection. My kids wore a Superman costume, a Batman costume, and a Flash costume.

  I consoled myself that Superman is kind of Jewish. Like many Jews, he was an immigrant who changed his name. (Jules Feiffer calls Superman the “ultimate assimilationist fantasy.”) Plus, he works in the media, which is a good Jewish thing to do.

  In any case, we’re off to temple.

  “Come on, superheroes!” said Julie. “Let’s get on those sneakers.”

  Let me take this moment to say that—as long as I don’t eat the simple-carb-filled hamantaschen—this ritual is probably good for my health.

  Numerous studies have shown that religion and health are linked. A study by the University of Texas’s Population Research Center found that those who made weekly visits to a house of worship lived, on average, seven years longer than those who never visit.

  As Stanford biologist Robert Sapolsky writes in Why Zebras Don’t Get Ulcers, religion is thought to be healthy for several reasons, including:

  • It provides a close-knit community.

  • It gives a sense of purpose to life. You believe that events happen for a reason—a worldview that lowers stress. If your child gets sick, you can say that God gave you this challenge because He knew you could handle it.

  But before you go out and buy a stack of Bibles, let me toss in a whole bunch of caveats. As Sapolsky points out, studying religion’s impact on health is tricky. There are tons of complicating factors. For one thing, some religious people might be less likely to smoke or drink heavily. Plus, he says, “Religion can be very good at reducing stressors, but it is often the inventor of those stressors in the first place.” If you believe that masturbation will land you in hell, your cortisol will rise.

  In any case, there’s at least some correlation between religion and health. Which isn’t exactly why we joined the synagogue. Julie and I joined this synagogue after my year of living biblically because we wanted to give our sons a taste of their heritage, even if they decide to ignore it later.

  I won’t, unfortunately, get the stress-reducing benefit of believing that everything was meant to happen for a divine reason. I’m agnostic. Or more precisely, after my year of living biblically, I’m an agnostic with a veneration for rituals. As a pastor friend calls it, I’m a “reverent agnostic.” Whether or not there’s a God, I feel there’s room for the sacred in my life. Prayers of thanksgiving can be sacred. Time with the family can be sacred. Dressing up as Superman—definitely sacred.

  And the Sabbath—that can be sacred as well. I still try to observe the Sabbath. I don’t do the full Orthodox no-pressing-elevator-buttons Shabbat. I just try not to answer my e-mails or do Facebook updates, and try to spend the day with my family.

  This year, I’ve had to grapple with whether to exercise on the Sabbath, since for me, exercise is work. I figure running after my kids as they zoom down the sidewalk on their Razor scooters? That’s okay. Going to the gym? I try to avoid it.

  There haven’t been a lot of rigorous studies on whether the Sabbath reduces stress, but I do know that I get a feeling of release on Friday night, a school’s-out-for-summer wave of relief.

  On Purim, we arrived at the synagogue and went downstairs. Dozens of Spider-Mans and princesses and a couple of Scooby-Doos scampered around the synagogue basement. The kids flipped the stuffed frogs into the holes in a carnival game. Zane got a smiley face painted on his cheek by a middle school volunteer. He’ll later cry about spilled toothpaste, and his tears will smear the smiley face, an irony that even he, a four-year-old, had to admit was kind of amusing. But overall, it’s good to be a part of this community, any community, and my cortisol levels recede.

  Chapter 14

  The Feet

  The Quest to Run Right

  I AM IN A CHAIN of sixty people, a sort of conga line without the Gloria Estefan music. Hands on one another’s shoulders, we are snaking our way through a park in Harlem.

  About half of the human chain wears no shoes. Many other feet are encased snugly in red or yellow or black Vibram FiveFingers shoes—those gloves for the feet that my kids call “monkey shoes.” Others have fashioned their own footwear. Two college-age guys have taken flat rubber soles, attached leather straps, and entwined them gladiator-style around their calves.

  I’m here at the meeting place for the first annual Barefoot Run in New York, led by the high priest of shoeless jogging, Christopher McDougall, author of Born to Run.

  We will soon set out across Manhattan, but first we are warming up by pattering around Marcus Garvey Park. The organizers have hired two guys in tracksuits to thump African drums to get us in the barefoot-running mood before we head downtown. Not that this herd of runners needs it, really. They are already converts.

  The conversations revolve around the time they saw the light. That moment they revolted against the footwear industry, and threw off their well-padded, overengineered lace-up chains. “I just said F it, and took off my shoes!” recounts a woman in red shorts. They talk about their freedom from plantar warts and aching arches.

  I’m working on my feet this month because they are a huge
, and often overlooked, health hazard. Americans suffer an estimated nine million foot injuries a year. And as I get older, I can look forward to more and more malfunctions. They take a beating, those feet. Even a lazy American still walks the equivalent of the earth’s circumference in his or her lifetime.

  I spot McDougall. He’s a tall man with his Vibrams tucked into the waistband of his forest-green shorts. A purple do-rag covers his bald head.

  I introduce myself. He’s warm and welcoming—and just as surprised as anyone that his “niche book,” as he calls it, sold nearly a million copies and started a movement. The idea of the 2009 tome is simple. Our feet evolved to run barefoot, which is what humans have been doing for thousands of years. Then along came these foot prisons called shoes. In the 1970s, Nike made everything worse with their fixation on soft padding. Instead of preventing injuries—which is what sneakers promised—they actually caused them. They encouraged us to land hard on the heel, putting stress on the knees and the shins. McDougall’s ideal runners are a tribe in Mexico’s Copper Canyon called the Tarahumara, who wear slender pieces of rubber strapped to their feet.

  I bought Vibrams a few months ago. When I brought them home, Julie and the boys had a nice belly laugh at the way they looked on my feet.

  “Poor Ashton Kutcher. He can’t wear them,” Julie said, showing me a line in the manual that says Vibrams won’t fit on webbed feet. Apparently, Kutcher has webbed feet. My wife’s knowledge of pop culture knows no bounds.

  I took a couple of runs in them. I haven’t yet decided on whether I prefer them to sneakers. The Vibrams have their advantages: The rubber is so thin, you feel like you’re jogging around New York in bare feet. You can make out the contours of the curb with your toes. Which is liberating and hilarious, an almost naughty, sensation. Bare feet! In the city! It’s like Columbus Avenue has merged with your bedroom, or has magically transformed into a Caribbean beach. And so far, no rusty nails or blisters.