Suzan Davis
The Exchange Rate
After years of inactivity, my expanding waistline forced me to swap vegetables. I traded my membership in the couch potato club for one in a squash club.
After handing over my credit card for initiation and monthly dues, I discovered fitness didn’t come cheap. With the money I had left, I bought a squash racket and a tennis dress that fit my budget better than my body. It groaned when I zipped it up, but if I didn’t breathe too deeply maybe the seams would hold until I lost ten pounds.
Over the next few months, between running around the court to pick up missed balls and the odd rally where I actually returned the shot, my outfit stopped protesting. It took another couple of months for the court, which rivaled a football field in size, to shrink to standard dimensions. The rallies lengthened as balls that had previously whizzed past my racquet were now within reach. Having previously exchanged vegetables, I nowexchanged vowels as I moved from fat to fit. The time had come to ratchet up my exercise program another notch. Although the club director had mentioned a workout room on the top floor, for the first six months I hadn’t had the energy to make it past the second floor. Now I was ready.
The third floor housed two small rooms, divided by a wall of mirrors, to form one larger area. Stationary bicycles and rowing machines filled one side; the other held racks of free weights. Large doorways allowed a banked wooden track to circle the perimeter of the two rooms.
I headed for the track, sprinted off and promptly collided with a runner charging through the doorway. He pointed to a sign and continued running. I hobbled over to read the sign, which directed members to run clockwise on even days of the month and counterclockwise on odd days to avoid uneven build-up of muscles. I pictured a clock, complete with hands, and set out again in the opposite direction.
Off to an inauspicious start, I figured my running experience could only improve. With eight laps to the mile, the hardest part would be keeping track of the number. I needn’t have worried. By the end of my first lap, I was huffing and puffing so hard I had to stop. Something was very wrong.
Stumbling off the track, I realized the “something” was “someone.” Me. The flushed, sweat- and mascara-streaked face that greeted me in the multiple mirrors confirmed it. I erased the word “fit” from my vocabulary and replaced it with “cardiac victim.”
After my heart stopped pounding, I crept downstairs to the women’s locker room and splashed cold water on my face. As the redness faded, I made a vow to my reflection: one day I would run a mile, if not with ease and grace, at least without sounding like a steam engine. And I’d wear waterproof mascara so I wouldn’t look like a raccoon at the finish line.
Over the next few months, I arrived at the club an hour before my squash game and forced myself upstairs to the track. I ran clockwise and huffed. I ran counterclockwise and puffed. After being rear-ended when I slowed suddenly, I learned to keep to the outside of the track in the “slow” lane when another pair of feet pounded behind me. I considered slapping a bumper sticker on my rear end that said “Beginner Runner—Beware” but decided anyone close enough to read the sticker was about to crash into me anyway.
I used a clicker to record the laps. Not that I couldn’t count, but it made me feel more like a real runner. Although my laps started adding up, they still didn’t total the magic number eight. I kept at it. Two months passed and I spent more time running and less time huffing and puffing. Other runners stopped offering to drive me to the emergency room of the nearest hospital.
Then came the day I stopped thinking and simply ran, feet pounding and arms pumping at my sides. Just me and the track. The laps glided by until I glanced at the clicker in my hand and saw the counter change to seven. Only one more lap stood between me and my goal. I ran on.
I rounded the last turn, crossed the finish line and stopped in amazement, nearly knocking down the guy behind me. I apologized and hastily stepped off the track to savor my victory. I had done it. I had metamorphosed from couch potato to Queen of the Track. Okay, maybe just her lady-in-waiting.
Having conquered the mile, I’ve set new goals. I’ve started training for two miles. Next I’ll go for three miles. Then four miles. Then marathons—though at the rate I’m going, I’ll probably be running in the geriatric category. I don’t care. I am runner—hear me roar!
Harriet Cooper
Facing the Lady in the Mirror
Fitness—if it came in a bottle, everybody would have a great body.
Cher
Pudgy, never quite good enough—that’s what the lady looking back at me from the mirror preached. I swallowed all of it.
My daughter’s Christmas present changed everything. It looked innocent enough: a few printed lines in an envelope. But my stomach turned inside out as I read them—a gift certificate for twenty-four fitness classes. My daughter smiled expectantly. I smiled back through clenched teeth.
That night, the lady in the mirror yelled at me. “Ignore the gift,” she said. “You can’t display your pudgy body at the gym.”
January came; the lady in the mirror convinced me to do nothing. February rolled around; she won again, and the guilt grew. March arrived; another round with my nemesis ended up in a screaming match. By the time April came, I stood up to her, for my daughter’s sake; I’d find a way to survive the humiliation. But she smiled wickedly. I stalled once more.
Out of excuses and scared to death, I eventually entered the dreaded fitness center on a Monday in May, wearing an oversized T-shirt and baggy sweatpants. The young girl at the desk was a size 2 at the most—she probably never ate a cookie in her life. She pointed to the aerobics room.
When I walked in, the lady in the mirror stared back at me. Who let her in? The entire front wall was one huge mirror, top to bottom, left to right! No place to hide. My pudgy arms, jiggly thighs and enormous buns looked back at me. I had to get out of there.
But just as I made my move to the door, the music started and the crowded room came into order. I was shoved into place. The instructor said the aerobic segment would last thirty-five minutes. Thirty-five little minutes— maybe I could survive them.
I did my best to move to the motivational music. The singer told me I looked good today, but she was lying. Ask the lady in the mirror, she’ll tell you. While the singer told me to give it my all, I cheated every place I could. I prayed no one would notice my smaller steps and heavy breathing. The lady in the mirror laughed. Then, the long thirty-five minutes were over.
I went home and had an ice cream sundae with an extra cherry on top.
Wednesday came around too fast, and the lady in the mirror convinced me to skip the aerobics class. I grabbed my favorite magazine, a candy bar and plopped myself on the couch. That’s when the phone rang. “You remember you have class today, Mom?”
I dragged my still sore body to the fitness center. The same size 2 girl sat at the front desk, and the same wall-to-wall mirror glared at me. The dreaded class started. Ten minutes into it, my skin dripped with sweat, and my nose screamed for me to get away from my own smelly self. But as I concentrated on the moves, my body woke me up from the inside out. The awkwardness left, and I enjoyed myself just a little bit.
After class, I bought a new pair of workout pants, the kind the other ladies wore. And I splurged for a red water bottle—if I was going to make it through the twenty-four classes, I’d do it in style! Take that, lady in the mirror!
Friday was rainy, and the lady in the mirror said to take it easy. But my new pants and water bottle called out to me. I went to class and survived. Three lessons under my belt! “Twenty-one to go!” the lady in the mirror scoffed.
When I got home, my daughter had left a little card waiting for me on the kitchen table. “One whole week done, Mom! Way to go.” This time, the lady in the mirror cringed as I smiled.
The awareness of my body snowballed into all of my life. I became more conscious of what I ate. I found myself choosing a few carrots
instead of a candy bar. I drank water with lemon instead of that sugary soda. I made up a new dessert with baked apples and sugar-free Jell-O.
Twelve classes down the road, I was having fun, not needing to cheat quite as much anymore. One of the ladies said I looked smaller. I stepped on the scale when I got home—three pounds off! I wouldn’t boast to the lady in the mirror yet, but I smiled all evening and skipped dessert.
Over the weekend, at my son’s cross-country meet, I ran from one point to another to catch him on the trail. I noticed I didn’t run out of breath. Was I really getting fit? I decided I would try to run one whole mile at home the next Saturday.
“Who are you kidding?” the lady in the mirror said.
When Saturday came around, I laced my shoes, ignoring the lady in the mirror’s laughter. I started to run; one whole mile later, I stopped, my heart soaring. The lady in the mirror didn’t dare talk to me again that day.
My jeans got a bit too loose. I had fun buying a new pair. To celebrate, I went for another run; this time, I made it through the two-mile marker. Could I do three? That would be next week’s challenge.
With the twenty-four classes up, I signed up for another session. The numbers on the scale kept creeping down, ever so slowly. I ran each Saturday, pushing a bit farther each week. Me, the pudgy lady, running five miles! By now I found an almost permanent smile in my heart.
A year later and fifteen pounds lighter, I was loving every class, hardly ever missing a day. I moved from the back row to the front and even looked in the mirror occasionally. The lady staring back at me didn’t look too angry anymore. And most important, she had stopped telling me how ugly I was. At times she almost smiled.
My aerobics teacher got pregnant and taught through much of the pregnancy. At about her sixth month, she asked me to stay after class. When all the ladies were gone, she brought up the idea of me taking over her class.
The lady in the mirror stood up in a fury, back to her old tricks.
“I can’t,” I said. “I’m just a bit too pudgy, if you know what I mean . . .” She gave me a puzzled look.
“Would you at least give it a try? I’d teach you all you need to know until you can be certified,” the instructor persisted.
I dreamed on the way home, but the lady in the mirror turned mean, laughing out loud. I knew then that the confrontation was inescapable.
When home, I slowly walked up to the mirror, mentally preparing myself for the showdown. The lady in the mirror knew I couldn’t do without her. She had been my comfortable enemy, my safe escape from life. Would I survive the dare?
Taking a deep breath, I squared my body and braced myself to defend my newfound self. I opened my eyes to stare her down.
She just stood there, perfectly quiet.
I took a long, long look at her. She wasn’t the way I remembered her: the lady gazing back at me had a new air of confidence about her. I liked her; she looked lovely.
I burst out crying. She cried with me.
I filled out the application and was hired soon after. Since then, I have been certified as a group exercise instructor, and I teach fitness classes, daring women from all walks of life to stare down the lady in the mirror at first—and then to make her a best friend.
And we are winning, one mirror at a time.
Barbara A. Croce
Greek Rice
MAKES ABOUT 6 CUPS EACH 1.3 CUP: 4 GRAMS PROTEIN, 15 GRAMS CARBOHYDRATE
2 tablespoons pure-pressed extra virgin olive oil
1 diced small yellow onion
1 minced garlic clove
1½ cups long-grain brown rice, rinsed and drained
3 cups low-sodium chicken stock or 3 cups water
3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
2 teaspoons dried oregano
⅓ cup diced Kalamata olives
⅓ cup minced fresh parsley
freshly ground black pepper to taste
½ cup crumbled feta cheese
In a medium saucepan with a tight-fitting lid, heat oil over medium-high heat. When oil is hot, add onion and garlic and sauté until softened, about 5 minutes. Add rice and sauté 2 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add stock or water. Bring to a boil.
Cover and reduce heat to low. Simmer 45 to 50 minutes. Remove from heat and let sit, covered and undisturbed, for 10 minutes. Remove lid and fluff ricewith a fork. Add lemon juice, oregano, Kalamata olives, parsley and black pepper. Stir in feta cheese and mix well. Taste, and adjust seasonings.
Reprinted from The Schwarzbein Principle Cookbook. ©1999 Diana Schwarzbein, M.D., Nancy Deville and Evelyn Jacob. Health Communications, Inc
A Diet for Life—Literally
The first wealth is health.
Emerson
My mother is a fighter. A fighter who was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of forty-eight and then diagnosed a second time with terminal liver cancer at fifty-two. The first time around had been rough—surgeries to literally cut out the cancer-ridden cells, chemotherapy that ravaged her petite body, and medicines that manipulated her moods and left her feeling sick and weak.
When she found out four years later that the cancer had returned, and much worse than before, she decided to take a different approach. Since it was impossible to remove the cancer surgically, she set about to transform her body from the inside out. This meant enlisting the help of an “alternative therapies” doctor, someone who would coach her on the path to recovery through mind, body and spirit.
Always an active and healthy individual, my mother was shocked the day that her doctor sat her down and began to rattle off the dramatic dietary changes that she would need to make during her treatment. No meat, no eggs, no dairy, no sugar . . . the list went on and on. At the time, the diet was not merely a suggestion or option, it was my mother’s livelihood, and so although it seemed a bit drastic to all of us, we encouraged and aided her from the very first day. Her new diet consisted of hearty meals that were restricted to organic whole grains, vegetables and the occasional piece of fruit or white seafood.
None of us had anticipated the impact that my mother’s diet would have on our lives. Gone were the evenings when we would come home to the delicious smells of freshly baked cookies wafting through the air. Instead, we found dinners of brightly colored steamed veggies (embarrassingly, some were unrecognizable to our meat-and-potato palates), organic brown rice and whole-grain breads with hummus and olive oil. We had known that this would be a huge task for our mother but never considered (or imagined) how greatly her new eating habits would affect the rest of the family. Needless to say, my initial reaction urged me to grab take-out more than once on drives home from work.
Yet over the course of a couple of months, our family became accustomed to steamed instead of fried foods, bright foods instead of boxed foods. We developed a taste for those unpronounceable vegetables, especially when we added a bit of olive oil and garlic and sautéed them. In fact, they tasted even better than they had before, when they were drenched in salt and butter.
We spent more time on the patio, grilling fresh fish with vegetable kabobs, enjoying the warm summer breeze. We created our own organic garden in the backyard, tending to the tiny plants until they grew strong enough to produce ripe foods, perfect for spring salads and fulfilling in a way that only homegrown goods can be. We started an herb garden and then taught ourselves how to use the fresh sprigs to bring out natural flavors without heavy calories.
Without chocolaty sweets strewn about, fresh fruit Popsicles became indulgent treats. A plump orange or tangerine satisfied a semisweet tooth. And even the worst of late-night cravings was nothing that a sliced apple and yogurt for dipping couldn’t quench.
We began regularly taking the vitamins and supplements that our bodies were deficient in, fueling ourselves the right way. Late-night strolls became commonplace, and Libby, the family dog, finally received the long daily walks that she deserved.
Most importantly, we saw our mother become stronger, happier and h
ealthier. The rest of us shed the extra pounds that had been lingering in unpleasant places and felt our bodies grow leaner every day. A renewed sense of spirit and self took over each one of us, and its dazzling positive energy filled our home.
Four months after her second diagnosis, my mother’s “alternative” doctor called. There was news, and whether it was good or bad none of us knew. The week before she had gone in for a complete body scan that would reveal any other spots that the cancer had quietly crept into. We all spent that night awake, lying in bed in silent prayer. How much longer would we have with this woman who was so eager to take on life full-force when most would give in and give up? Another year? Another month?
The next morning a smile played on the doctor’s lips as he sat my mother down and told her that the traces of cancer had vanished. It had left her body; leaving only minimal scarring in the areas it had once inhabited. Her body was healthy—on the inside as well as the outside.
Celebration was in order—a feast of all the wonderful foods we had grown to love. Although the cancer was gone, there would be no chancing it with chocolate cake relapses and soft, chewy candy. We had given her body the best shot that it had—a healthy, fresh and natural diet, full of the good things that Mother Nature intended to nourish us.
It took a strong family and a strong heart to take on an entirely new diet with such ambition and eagerness. It took driving a few miles out of the way to find a natural grocery store with organic produce, and a few extra dollars to buy the fresh stuff instead of what was prepackaged or boxed. It took a bit of determination to get off the couch, flip off the TV, and head outside for sunshine and exercise. Yet the change that it made in my life, my mother’s and my family’s is undeniable. My mother continues to do well. She still undergoes the medical preventative treatments while maintaining her alternative life changes, and no cancer has returned thus far.
I won’t say that I never get a sudden urge for sweets (or that I never indulge just a tiny bit), but I realize now how amazing the human body is and to give it any less than the wholesome things it deserves is truly only cheating yourself.
Chicken Soup for the Dieter's Soul Page 7
