Drop Dead Healthy

by A. J. Jacobs

  “The hand is really devalued in Western society,” he says. When he shows his hand tricks at parties, snooty intellectuals often dismiss it as a mere gimmick. “This might sound out there, but I almost think the mind is threatened by the hands,” says Greg. Or as comedian Emo Philips once said, “I used to think the brain was the most wonderful organ in the body. Then I realized who was telling me that.”

  Holding Hands

  I’ve made another discovery: I shouldn’t keep my hands to myself. Holding hands is healthy. A study by James Coan, a professor of neuroscience at the University of Virginia, brought sixteen married couples into his lab and subjected them to the threat of electric shock while he studied their brains on an fMRI machine. He found that wives who were holding their husbands’ hands experienced less stress. Even holding a stranger’s hand calmed the women’s brains, though not as much.

  I’ve been on a mission to hold Julie’s hand as much as possible to reduce my stress level. (Strangers’ hands, not so much. To me, the health benefits are outweighed by my fear of microbes and of getting punched in the face.) I’ve been clasping Julie’s hand a lot: as we walk, as we talk, as we watch TV.

  I’m surprised how much I like it. I’d forgotten how good human contact can be, even if that contact isn’t in bed and goal-oriented. When we lock fingers, I visualize an fMRI glowing in my brain’s happiness nooks and crannies.

  At first, Julie liked it, too. I even got a few “Awwws.” But she has limits. When I tried to hold her hand during a fight over how to discipline our kids, she pulled away like I was a patch of poison oak.

  “It’ll lower our stress level during the fight,” I said.

  “I want to be stressed during the fight. That’s the whole point.”

  My sons are less discriminating. I better take advantage now, while they still let me. It’s a shame that male hand-holding is socially unacceptable in America (though not in the Middle East). Holding Jasper’s little hand on the way to school is such a joy, fleeting though it may be.

  Typist’s Cramp

  Thanks to Finger Fitness, my hands feel more dexterous and stronger than ever. Julie even complimented my skills when we attempted to tie plastic lanyard bracelets for the boys. If my upcoming triathlon included origami, I’d be set.

  Ironically, though, this chapter has taken me a bit longer to type than usual. I switched my typing style after talking to Dr. Michael Hausman, a noted hand surgeon in New York.

  Hand and wrist aches are more common than ever. New hand maladies pop up every day: Wikipedia lists BlackBerry thumb, Rubik’s wrist, Cuber’s thumb, stylus finger, and my favorite, Raver’s wrist, which you can get from repeatedly waving a glow stick in the air (see, kids, ecstasy really is bad for you).

  Apple products haven’t helped. The new fad for touch screens has caused problems, including swiper’s finger, and whatever you want to call the cramps people get from pinching the images bigger and smaller.

  But the most common cause is probably typing. “You remember the carriage return?” says Dr. Hausman. “The carriage return was your momentary rest. Now you just type on and on page after page with no pause and that causes lactic-acid buildup. I tell people they should get those annoying digital watches. And every ten minutes, have it beep. And then shake your hands.”

  I took Hausman’s advice. Every ten minutes, my iPhone goes off. I have it set to the “slot machine” sound. I get a momentary dopamine spike before I realize I haven’t won any money and remember to shake my hands.

  I don’t think I’ll continue the ten-minute alarms. Studies show that distraction is unhealthy. Lack of focus can cause depression and stress. In this case, I’m going to screw my hands.

  This means I may be at risk for a repetitive stress injury. But at least I won’t get carpal tunnel syndrome, which is a separate malady that involves the squeezing of the nerve in the wrist. Despite common misconception, carpal tunnel is mostly inherited, says Hausman. One of the only activities that seem to be associated with carpal tunnel is using a vibrating power tool in a very cold room. “It showed up in people who were processing human cadavers—cutting off limbs for orthopedic use.” Hausman adds: “Jeffrey Dahmer was probably at high risk for carpal tunnel.”

  Checkup: Month 23

  Weight: 158

  Miles walked while writing: 1,144

  Push-ups till exhaustion: 167 (admittedly with several breaks)

  Potatoes eaten per week: 2 (trying to eliminate, since many nutritionists think they cause weight gain)

  Biceps curls using Lucas as weight: 33

  My triathlon is in two weeks. I’ve convinced my trainer, Tony, to join me, so that he can share in the triumphs, humiliations, and lactic-acid body aches.

  I’m training every day. Also worrying every day. Mostly, I’m terrified of the arctic water, a longtime phobia. I have spent hours scouring the Internet for ideas on how not to become hypothermic. I found the world’s only electronically heated wet suit. It’s got two graham-cracker–size lithium batteries sewn into the neoprene. Could work. In my risk assessment, electrocution is better than freezing. But it costs a thousand dollars, so Julie put the kibosh on it.

  I’ve had to settle for plan B. I’ve rented my neoprene booties, my neoprene skullcap, and my full-body nonelectronic wet suit. I took them all for a test swim in the JCC pool. As I walked out of the locker room, I got some quizzical stares. Was I a Navy SEAL on a mission to assassinate one of the white-haired women in the Aquafit class?

  I slid into the pool feetfirst. Unfortunately the water was eighty degrees, which won’t help me toughen up. Regardless, while I was there, I figured I’d do some laps. I started my crawl. A fiftyish man switched lanes to get farther away from me. “Your outfit is making me uncomfortable,” he said. Which gave me a virile thrill.

  In nontriathlon news, I got an update on the Jack LaLanne interview. Today his publicist left a voice mail.

  “I’m sorry about this, but Jack has to postpone because something has come up.”

  Ugh. I’ve already bought my tickets and made my hotel reservations. He can’t honor his commitment? What kind of a man is he? Something better came up, did it?

  I dialed the publicist, ready to snap at him.

  “What happened?” I demanded.

  “Jack’s got health problems. It doesn’t look good.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah. Really not good.”

  “Oh.”

  “Things are shutting down.”

  I’m simultaneously ashamed of my pettiness and stunned that Jack LaLanne is going to die. Jack LaLanne passing away? That doesn’t compute. He said it himself many times, “I can’t die. It would ruin my image.”

  But the publicist wasn’t lying. A few days later, I read on CNN.com “Jack LaLanne, fitness guru, dies at 96.” There he is, a photo of him in his blue jumpsuit, his arms raised in the “check out my guns” pose, beaming.

  First my grandfather, then LaLanne. Two vibrant men in quick succession, both gone at ninety-six.

  I do an Internet search for “Jack LaLanne and Dying,” and find this quote: “I train like I’m training for the Olympics or for a Mr. America contest, the way I’ve always trained my whole life. You see, life is a battlefield. Life is survival of the fittest. How many healthy people do you know? How many happy people do you know? Think about it. People work at dying, they don’t work at living. My workout is my obligation to life. It’s my tranquilizer. It’s part of the way I tell the truth—and telling the truth is what’s kept me going all these years.”

  In honor of Jack, I head off to the gym to work at living.

  Chapter 24

  The Back

  The Quest to Stand Up Straight

  MY LOWER BACK HURTS. Which doesn’t make me particularly noteworthy. I’m one of 65 million Americans with back pain, about twice the population of Canada. Back pain is the single most common reason people visit the doctor.

  My backache is mild. It us
ually kicks in at the end of the day. But as I age it’ll get worse, especially with my posture.

  What a disaster, my posture. I amble around looking like Hominid Number Three in those evolution charts. Partly, it’s out of laziness. But partly, it feels odd to me to thrust out my chest, almost presumptuous. During my biblical year, I learned that the Talmud suggests that we not walk in a jaunty, upright manner. Be humble in your posture, it says. Stooped shoulders were a sign of respect. So when my posture is criticized, I explain that I’m honoring my forefathers.

  Unfortunately, bad posture exacerbates back pain. It puts pressure on the discs, and can also cause neck problems and knee problems. I need a spinal makeover.

  When I comb the Internet for posture experts, I find a guy named Jonathan FitzGordon who was profiled in the health section of The New York Times. His website says he teaches yoga, but he’s most famous for his walking lessons.

  FitzGordon came to my apartment the next week. I’m not sure what I expected an official Walking Instructor to look like—perhaps Phileas Fogg in Around the World in 80 Days, a fastidious Brit with a crisp bowler who said “Spit-spot!” John was not that. He’s a burly, sweatshirt-clad forty-eight-year-old who grew up in Brooklyn. He retains a bit of an accent.

  “Do you have any experience with walking?” FitzGordon asked.

  Um, yes? A little? I didn’t want to come off as too cocky, but the truth is, I’ve been walking for quite some time—decades even.

  FitzGordon slipped off his shoes and observed me as I stood, then as I walked across my living room. If it’s possible to cluck your tongue with your eyes, that’s what FitzGordon did.

  His verdict: I’m a sloucher. My pelvis juts too far forward, my shoulders lean too far back.

  I shouldn’t feel too bad. I’m just a typical American. Thanks to our sedentary lifestyle, Americans don’t know how to walk and stand correctly.

  FitzGordon fishes a photocopied cartoon out of his bag. It’s Robert Crumb’s famous “Keep on Truckin’” illustration, the one with the blue-suited man leaning so far back while walking, it looks like he’s lying on an invisible La-Z-Boy. He embodies America’s problem. We lean too far back.

  “Walking should be falling forward,” says FitzGordon. That’s the way we were built. “Go to the playground, kids walk leaning forward. They turn their motor on.” FitzGordon walks across my living room with his body angled forward, like Wile E. Coyote about to break into a sprint.

  The key is to stick your butt out, says FitzGordon. Kim Kardashian has the right idea.

  “See how Julie is standing with her pelvis tucked under?” FitzGordon says.

  Julie has taken a break from work to join us in the living room. I’m not sure she expected a critique of her pelvis.

  “Release it, Julie. Stick your butt out.”

  She tries.

  “More. More. Nice.”

  Julie, her rear protruding, is giggling. She says she feels like Mrs. DeLauria, her sixth-grade teacher, who was famous for her steatopygic figure.

  But FitzGordon is pleased. “Moms tell their daughters, ‘Tuck under.’ Women feel like, ‘I’m walking in the street, I’d better hide my stuff.’ I say, you better strut your stuff.”

  I try to strut. I walk past the couch with my butt extended, my body leaning forward, my arms dangling. “I feel kind of like a monkey,” I say.

  FitzGordon lights up. “That’s exactly what I’m looking to hear. Go ape, young man! That’s one of my main phrases.” Gorillas have flat lower backs, so they can’t lean backward.

  I look at Julie and give a faux-humble shrug, as if to say, “Who knew I’d be the teacher’s pet!” Julie gives me a faux smile.

  I ask John what he thinks of traditional posture advice. It’s a mixed bag, he says.

  Balancing the book on your head is a good idea. “You want to lengthen the back of the neck,” he says. On the other hand, “There’s no worse instruction in the world than to have your shoulders back.” When your shoulders are back, your breath gets shallow. You want to breathe from the stomach.

  After he left, Julie and I spent the next few days trying to walk in the FitzGordon way.

  We agree we like the standing-up-straight part. “Posture!” we’d say to each other as we passed in the kitchen. With my back straight, I felt more decisive, more confident, like I’m an admiral of a midsize navy. There may be a reason for the phrase “get some backbone.”

  I ordered the kids around with decisiveness. “Please do not touch my computer,” I’d intone. And they’d back away, practically saying “yessir, yessir.” Would that have happened if I were slouching? Perhaps not.

  I also loved FitzGordon’s suggestion of walking with shorter steps. It made me feel more efficient. It made me speed up, mentally and physically. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my experiments: The body affects the mind. The quicker the step, the quicker the mind.

  But as for the butt protrusion, it still feels odd, no matter how many times Julie and I do it. We stick out our bums, but within a few minutes, our bums have edged forward.

  To make sure Julie and I were on the right track, I called up a more traditional back expert, Dr. Jeffrey Katz, Harvard professor and author of Heal Your Aching Back. His posture advice? It wasn’t as detailed as FitzGordon’s. Basically, don’t overthink it. “There really isn’t a lot of evidence-based medicine about posture.” AstraZeneca isn’t funding a lot of posture studies. The best we know is just to stand up straight and lengthen the back. So for now, at least, I feel better about ignoring the protruding butt recommendation.

  In his book, Katz gives suggestions on relieving back pain, which I’ve road tested as well.

  • Neck exercises. You should press your palm against your forehead for ten seconds. It’s sort of an extended “oy gevalt,” which is appropriate, because that’s the way I felt when I found out I’d have to be doing another set of exercises (hands, legs, neck—I’m over an hour a day).

  • When sitting at the desk, keep your butt as far back in the chair as possible. A good reminder for both Julie and me, who sit like flour sacks.

  • When lifting an object from the ground, bend the knees and keep the back straight, then push with the legs. This technique I knew about. But had I done it? Not really. It’s a revelation, an immediate relief from pain. I now avoid rounding my back in any situation. If I have to talk to Lucas about an important Yo Gabba Gabba! plot point, I squat down next to him, then I bounce back up. It cuts the usual I’m-an-old-achy-man feeling in half.

  Squatting Revisited

  I’ve become quite the squatting enthusiast, it seems. Which would make FitzGordon happy. He, and a surprising number of other people, believe we should all be squatting at bus stops and while eating dinner, as did many Asians of previous generations. There aren’t many studies on it, but I’ll bet it’s better than sitting. Almost anything is better than sitting.

  The first time I tried squatting for a few minutes, I was in pain. I told Julie it felt like my legs had menstrual cramps. She found the description odd.

  Turns out, I was doing it wrong. To do the proper “Asian squat,” you have to keep your feet flat, your legs spread wide, and your arms forward for balance.

  I tried it at a bus stop after taking Jasper to school.

  “There’s room,” said a man in a Yankees jacket, sliding down the bench to make more space.

  “No thanks. I prefer squatting.”

  He nodded stoically.

  After a month of walking tall and squatting low, my back does feel better. The pain has receded to the occasional twinge. I still sometimes walk like a monkey, but mostly to scare the kids.

  Checkup: Month 24

  Weight: 159

  Dogs petted: 12

  Minutes singing per day (possible stress reliever): 10

  Days practiced didgeridoo: 2

  Frog calls memorized to keep brain sharp: 9

  This month was the triathlon. Here’s how it happened: My alarm chi
rps at 3:30 a.m. on a Sunday. My stomach feels leaden, since I’d carbo-loaded the night before. According to my research, prerace carbo-loading has iffy scientific support. I didn’t care. I’ve been fantasizing for weeks about devouring a huge plate of fettuccine Alfredo, and I wasn’t about to let snooty science get in my way.

  I take a subway downtown to the ferry terminal. Tony is waiting for me, and we wheel our bikes up a ramp and onto the 5:30 a.m. boat to Staten Island. There are two types of passengers on that boat. It isn’t overly difficult to tell them apart. There are those with lightweight bikes, aerodynamic helmets, and water bottles. And there are those with leopard-skin skirts and primary-color hair and thick mascara, teens returning from a hard night of partying in Manhattan.

  “I’ve just got one question,” Tony says as we sit down in the ferry’s main cabin.

  “What is it?”

  “Why?” says Tony. “Why do people do this to themselves?”

  “You mean . . .”

  “Why do they punish themselves by doing triathlons?”

  I’m not sure what to say.

  Tony and I are seated across from a thirtysomething man leaning on his Cannondale bike. He has a thin red beard and thick quads.

  “That’s quite a bag,” he says, nodding at my duffel.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  I believe I’m getting my first triathlon trash talking. Admittedly, the duffel—which was the only one I could find in our apartment—wouldn’t have been my first choice. It is camouflage, but for reasons unclear to me, the camouflage isn’t the traditional green. It is made up of bright pink and red splotches. Which I suppose would be helpful if you’re doing a commando raid on a nine-year-old girl’s bedroom but isn’t so helpful when you’re trying to look like a triathlete.