If Only Thoughts Burned Calories

Today was the first day in 8 weeks that I broke even the tiniest sweat doing something remotely close to a real workout. I rode a stationary recumbent bike for (don’t laugh) 10 minutes.

Yes, I’ve ridden my stationary recumbent bike at home for a few weeks, but this one’s different. It’s the bike at physical therapy. It’s fancier, has more resistance AND…people – namely my PT – are everywhere, they could see me, and a guy was riding a bike next to me. An older guy. At least 10 years older than me.

Competitive (and vain) me was all over that, and within a few seconds I was matching him stride for stride, even though my thighs were burning.

It was the longest 10 minutes of my life. OK, maybe giving birth was harder. But still…

It’s not my legs that have forgotten to work. God knows I’ve been doing enough lower body PT these last six weeks. It’s my overall endurance – particularly in the cardio department – that has me by huffing and puffing right now. How quickly the lungs forget!

While I biked, my thinking was all over the place. From shopping lists to-do lists to “Is it over yet? God a minute feels like forever!” I couldn’t turn my mind off. I remembered something I’d written a few years ago about my thoughts while working out on an arc trainer. When I got home I looked it up and read it and realized that while the way my body works has changed significantly, the way my mind works hasn’t changed one bit. The random thoughts from then were pretty close to the ones I had today on the bike. I wonder if any of them are familiar to you.

From April 2008: Random Thoughts On An Arc Trainer

“I can do this, no problem.

I’m bored. Music? No, wait, I haven’t listened to ‘Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me’ yet. That’ll distract me.

I’m not going to work out very hard. Nope. Gonna go easy. OK, it’s 10 minutes to 8:00. I’ll be done a little after 8:30. Increase to 30. Yeah, that’s it. No problem.

The chick next to you is bouncing around at only 20. What a wimp! She can’t be more than 19 years old and she can’t take more than a 20 intensity? Wait, maybe she’s sick or is just getting back into exercise. What a bitch you’re being, Lynn. But crank it up anyway. 45. Yeah. 45. You want to sweat, Lynn. Show her. Come on, show her what you can do.

OK, back off to 40. I can’t breathe.

How many more minutes left? 35? Ugh. Everyone in here is so young and thin. Stop it, Lynn. You’re not old. I feel old. I’m sweating finally. Did my knee just pop?

This is going to take FOREVER. Why am I doing this? Because you want to stay thin. What if I just stopped now? 20 minutes is enough. No. It’s not. What should I make for dinner? I have to go to the grocery store.

Music. I need music. No, not that song. Not that song. I need to update this iPod. Not that song. There, ‘Back in Black’. That’ll work. I’m half done, thank god.

Hmmm….he’s kind of cute. Don’t stare, Lynn. He’s young enough to be your son. Shut your eyes. Listen to the music. Concentrate for a minute.

Crank it back up to 45. There, that’s good. My butt doesn’t feel too bad. How many more minutes? 18. I’ll do 45 for 2 minutes then 40 for a few then back to 45. Yeah. That’s what I’ll do.

The sun’s shining. Maybe I’ll take a walk today. I need mulch. Maybe I’ll go to Wal-Mart. Did I leave the stove on? Crap, I think I did. I need to vacuum. And call the groomer. And pick up Cooper’s doggie medicine. I have to write a blog. What will I say?

How many more minutes? This is taking forever. What time is it? 8:27. Good. Almost done. Is that girl getting on the stepper now? Man, she just did a half hour on the elliptical. I wish I had that stamina. Wait, she’s not sweating. I’m dripping like I just got out of the shower. Does that mean she’s not working as hard as me or that I’m just prone to sweating? Is my underwear showing?

Oh no, I forgot deodorant. Try to keep your arms down. Man, you smell, Lynn! Will there be a bench available in the weight room when I’m done? Or do I want to do my abs at home? No, do them here. Wait, do them at home. No, because if I decide to do them at home I’ll get distracted and busy and not do them at all. Do them here.

Two minutes to go. Cool down. No, one more minute at 45, then a 1-minute cool down. That’s all you need.

I feel pretty good. I don’t have to do this again for 24 hours. Maybe I’ll like it tomorrow. Maybe I’ll want to do it tomorrow. At least I did it today. What’s for breakfast?”

Wouldn’t it be GREAT if thoughts burned calories? There would be no need for diets because we’d all be thin as rails!

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Congrats to Dayna C who won my drawing for the book, "Women, Food and God"! Thanks all of you for throwing your name in the hat. I just wish I had a book for everyone.

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Learning the Lesson Of “Just a few bites…” Again.

I don’t do it often, but when I do…

Doh!

I couldn’t eat my birthday dinner on Saturday. Not. A. Bite. The culprit: Too many other bites of un-food earlier in the day.

When I say “a few bites,” I mean – quite literally – no more than a few bites of white bread, fake cheese, a store-bought cookie, iceberg lettuce, Jell-O “fluff” with “fruit,” and restaurant coleslaw. But enough “few bites” of several kinds of un-food make my real digestive system reeeeeallllly angry, and late afternoon it was asking, “What the hell were you thinking?”

Well… You know…

What I was thinking was that it was just a few bites on one day. My birthday. Don’t we get a bye on our birthday? (And Christmas, Thanksgiving, Halloween, Labor Day, Mother’s Day, Best Friend Day and every other Sunday in the months that begin with J?)

And, of course, the answer is a resounding, “No!”

I know that bad restaurant salad bars are evil. I really do. I preach it, for cryin’ out loud. “Stay away from bad restaurant salad bars!”

But there I was, face-to-face with a bad restaurant salad bar and all its un-food and I thought, ‘Well, if I hold myself to just a few bites of whatever to get me through the rest of the time out with the grandkids, I’ll be fine.’ I mean, it’s not like I’d ordered the barbecue beef on a huge white bun, served with French fries and ham and bean soup. (No, that would be my iron-stomach/ultra-metabolic husband who could STILL could eat my birthday dinner 8 hours later.)

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve eaten like this in 5½ years, but you’d think I’d have learned the first or even the second time: I can NEVER eat the way I used to. I am physically incapable. All it takes is a few hundred calories of un-food and my stomach revolts, I’m tired the rest of the day, I feel 10 pounds heavier, and it takes two days for my body to normalize.

For optimum comfort, I need to stick to a plan – especially when un-food is on the menu, as it was Friday night. I decided, since we were camping, to have a s’more for my birthday treat. Granddaughter Claire was super excited about roasting marshmallows, something she’d never done but for some reason associates with camping. (She also called Grandpa Thursday night and asked him to bring his guitar so we could sing songs around the campfire. Which we did.)

So we roasted marshmallows and made s’mores our first night at the cabin, the day before my actual birthday.

But I’d planned for it.

(So did my grandson, Luca.)

Two low-fat graham cracker squares, a half of a Hershey’s milk chocolate bar, and one jumbo marshmallow is 170 calories and 7 grams of fat and 100 percent delicious and satisfying. All day I’d looked forward to it. I could taste it. And when I ate it, it was every bit as good as I anticipated. It was a true treat. A birthday gift with no repercussions.

Un-food at a restaurant salad bar? Unplanned and consumed in haste? Total waste of my time, calories, and money, and a seriously HUGE birthday let-down because I couldn’t eat my anxiously anticipated and perfectly planned birthday dinner: an Amy’s California veggie burger, corn on the cob, and my signature roasted potato wedges served with my favorite condiments: fat-free sour cream, ketchup and mustard.

Doh!

(Claire enjoyed my birthday dinner, though.)

In my last post, "Are You Getting It? Really Getting It?" I said that I’d lost weight for me. The same is true for maintenance. I am the only person occupying MY body and you are the only person occupying YOUR body. We are the experts on what too much weight feels like on our own bones and hearts and minds. We’re the only ones who know what eating right or making poor choices feels like. When we talk ourselves into abandoning or are encouraged to abandon our plan for “a few bites” or “just one day,” we suffer the consequences.

Lesson learned. Again. I’m moving on, determined a little more to make a better choice next time. Because there WILL BE a next time. There always is. That’s why a good food plan (and our belief in and love of ourselves…don’t forget that part) is always our best line of defense.

(To read a related blog about indulgences, see “Forgive Me For Getting A Little Testy.”)

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Are You Getting It? Really Getting It?

I didn’t do it to be on “Oprah”. I didn’t do it to get in “People” magazine. I didn’t even do it for my husband or my kids or for all the other folks who love me.

I did it for me.

There are a lot more of you reading my blog these days (Welcome!) and so I thought I’d offer a quick primer (or refresher) to what led to and sustains me in my weight-loss/maintenance journey.

The top three questions I get asked when people find out I lost 170 pounds are: 1) How did you get started? 2) Do you have excess or loose skin? and 3) How did you/do you stay on plan?

I answered question 2 here: “Closer to Accepting the Flabby Bits”.

But I think the more important questions are 1 and 3. And the answer to 3 stems from my answer to 1.

In 2005, I didn’t understand how vital self love and appreciation are in successful weight-loss. “Successful” being the operative word. All the times before, I lost for someone or something else: a guy, a wedding, or to punish myself. But this last time, I’d crossed a threshold, and a two-week starvation diet wasn’t going to cure my ills. I was on the cusp of all kinds of diseases. Scary diseases. And if I didn’t do something to lose weight, I would further jeopardize my health.

Watching the rerun of “Oprah” today, I was transported to 2004. To the day I bought Bob Greene’s* book, “Get With The Program!” The book that finally got me asking: Was I worth one less helping of mashed potatoes? Worth giving up that bag of sunflower seeds every night? Worth waking up out of my food fog and getting real about how my weight was hindering my life?

The answer was within, and within was a scary place.

I hated Bob for a few weeks as I journaled how I felt emotionally about…stuff. Stuff. Lots of stuff. But the more I wrote, the more I realized (AHA!) that weight was about me…ME!...and not everyone and everything else in my life. I had to occupy the center of my life in order to be in the center of my weight loss.

So the answer to question #1 is: The core of your intent to lose weight must be YOU. YOUR health. YOUR future. YOUR peace of mind. Once you believe that you are worth every moment you will spend cooking, eating, and living a more healthy lifestyle, you will succeed. It’s only through that true, heart-felt belief in yourself that you’ll “get it.” That no matter what life throws at you, you won’t let food or excuses dominate your life.

Sure, your eyes may get diverted (dessert tray, anyone?). You might give in a time or ten to “just one more bite.” But once you “get it” – and to answer question #3 – you’ll always have your original intent to remind you why you are on your journey.

I stay on plan because I am worth this journey. I am worth the hard work. 300-pound me told me so when she got out a journal and started writing about it.

YOU are worth this journey, too. Dig out a piece of paper and start writing. Why? Because it’s remembering what you thought about and felt and went through during that path to “getting it” – really committing yourself to yourself – that will sustain you when you get stuck or want to give up or get lost in that fog.

Trust me on this. I have 170 pounds of experience backing me up.
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* When I met Bob Greene on stage on “Oprah” and gave him a big hug (and I feel terrible that I interrupted him during my interview), it felt like my journey had come full circle. I hope one day I get to tell him that in person and to thank him.

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My Oprah Episode To Re-Air Today!

Just a quickie to let you know that I heard from a friend that the Oprah show I was on in Nov. 2007 will re-air again today (Aug. 12).

If you'd like to read about my experience and see a few photos, click here.

I hope you find inspiration, as I did, listening to the awesome stories of weight loss and perseverence of the folks on this show. It was quite a moment for me, but an even greater learning experience that continues to educate me two years later.

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The “Prime” Of My Life

At 8 a.m., I dug a splinter out of the bottom of my left foot. By 4 p.m., the garden was weeded and pruned, the garage was swept, the birdbath was algae-free, the porch plants were watered and the porch was swept, the bathroom rugs were washed, the wireless network was set up, the Jeep was clean (inside and out), my legs were shaved, and the checkbook was balanced.

Clearly the excitement of seeing the bottom of my foot for the first time in 7 weeks started an adrenaline-fueled chain reaction.

Now I’m sitting on the deck with an ice pack on my knee, but it’s worth every minute of today. Plus, it gives me time to think about the close of my 46th year – a year of physical pain, yet perseverance. Still, I won’t be sorry to see the screen door hit its ass on its way out.

I turn 47 on Saturday. I’ll be “camping” (in a cabin) in Cook Forest with my family (including the g-babies!), and my birthday cake will be a s’more. Not sure where we’ll put the candle, but I can’t think of a better way to start my next prime number birthday.

Either by coincidence or the mystery of mathematics, prime number ages have been the most complicatingly life-changing.

19: My daughter was born and my husband died.

23: I divorced a big mistake.

29: My “cougar” year. Although can you really be a cougar at 29? Junior cougar, maybe? Cougar-in-training, perhaps? Whatever, it was a fun year.

41: I started thinking seriously about losing weight. Journaled. Tough but necessary work.

43: 2006. The year of the wedding. Before the deck, before the grandbabies, before goal – things that made me super happy from 44-46 – 43 ranks as one of the best years of my life. By my 43rd birthday, I’d lost 130 pounds and was exercising, my daughter was marrying a great guy, and I was on the path to figuring out who I am.

47: It will be a good year. I can feel it. Even if my knee is swollen like a grapefruit and cowering under a bag of frozen peas.

As my birthday gift to you, I am giving away my copy of “Women, Food and God: An Unexpected Path To Almost Anything” by Geneen Roth. I mentioned it in my blog from a few weeks ago, “Wiggle Your Toes and Breathe.”

I was introduced to mindfulness practice four years ago (prime age 43!), so the book was a good reminder of why I practice. If you’re not familiar with the book, here’s a snippet of the review from Amazon.com: “If you suffer about your relationship with food – you eat too much or too little, think about what you will eat constantly or try not to think about it at all – you can be free. Just look down at your plate. The answers are there. Don't run. Look. Because when we welcome what we most want to avoid, we contact the part of ourselves that is fresh and alive. We touch the life we truly want and evoke divinity itself.”

If you’d like to throw your name in the hat for this book, leave a comment or send me an email at lynnbering@verizon.net, especially if you use Firefox or Safari because it’s nearly impossible to leave a comment on my blog if you use those browsers for some technological reason that is way beyond my understanding. Don’t be afraid to send an email! I promise I won’t spam you. Pinky swear.

I’ll draw a winner next Monday (Aug. 16), when I’m officially my latest prime-number age.

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Not Fried Refried Beans

The first time I made these “refried” beans, I followed the recipe in The Super Foods Rx Diet by Wendy Bazilian and Steven Pratt to a T (a book I ADORE and, honestly, only let me down this one time).

Per the recipe, I soaked the beans in the crockpot the night before, cooked them on low for 10 hours the next day, added the (too short) list of ingredients, mashed the beans with a hand mixer (disastrously frustrating), then took a taste test. Oh. My. God. They were awful. I wanted those 10 hours back, or at least the one I’d spent making that batch of disaster. I hated them so much I actually ranted in my kitchen and wrote across the top (in pencil): “Never make these again! They’re bland and they suck!”

A few weeks went by. I was haunted by those beans, convinced I could make them better. But at that time I was not a recipe strayer, at least not with new recipes. I didn’t trust my instincts because…well…I didn’t think I had cooking instincts. Recipe straying takes confidence, and while I was a good cook within my own tried-and-true recipe arena, I didn’t think I knew enough about cooking to have an opinion.

However, after a few weeks, I really REALLY wanted refried beans and the ones in the can had way too much sodium, thus the reason I attempted to make my own in the first place. I went back to the book, erased what I wrote and instead, challenged myself: “A bit bland. Needs more oomph.”

I bought a couple pounds of dried beans, thought outside the box, and after several experimental batches, came up with this, my modified recipe. 

Lynn’s Not Fried Refried Beans

Yields 2 cups
¼ C equals 50 cal., 0 gms fat, 3.5 gms fiber

8 oz dried pinto beans
2-3 T minced onions (if you like a good strong onion flavor) OR ½ C diced onions OR ½ t onion powder (the diced or the powder will give you a more mild onion flavor)
½ T chili powder
½ t garlic powder
¼ t salt
¼ t cumin
¼ t ground chipotle pepper (optional)
A few shakes of red pepper flakes (optional)

If you remember to soak the beans the night before, do that. But if you’re like me and decide at 3 in the afternoon that you want refried beans for dinner, put them in a pot covered with cold water, bring to a boil, boil for 2 minutes, turn them off and let them sit for an hour.

Drain.

Put the beans back in the pot. If you’re using minced/dried onions or diced onions, throw them in there, too. Refill pot with fresh water. Simmer for 90 minutes or until the beans are very tender. Drain, reserving about ½ cup of the cooking water. (If you forget to do this, no worries. Regular water will work.)

Put the beans in a food processor fitted with the blade. As I mentioned, I used a hand mixer with less than stellar results. But then, I get frustrated easily, so if you’re patient, you will probably have a better experience. You can also mash all this up with a potato masher or fork.

Add the rest of the ingredients to the beans. Process (or mix or mash) for about 30 seconds. Add a ¼ to ½ cup of bean water (or regular water) and process for another minute or so. Check consistency. Mix things around a little with a spatula and process again for another minute or two, adding water if you want them creamier. Check the taste and add whatever you think they need: more salt, chili pepper, whatever. Process again if you need to. Remember, these are YOUR beans and get to make them however you want.

That’s it. Pretty simple, eh?

I think everyone needs something to call our signature food. Something we’re known for. Something people request we bring to a party. My ex-husband made killer spaghetti, and my now husband makes a garlicy scallops dish that, although I’m a vegetarian, would request for my last meal.

My mom makes chocolate chip cookies to die for. Daughter Carlene makes amazing banana bread. Daughter Cassie can do things with lentils that would knock your socks off. They kinda sorta follow a recipe, but they know what ingredients work best for the results they’re looking for, so to duplicate what they do is futile.

How about you? What recipe are you known for?

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On Being Called "Fat"

I’m reading a collection of short stories by Elizabeth Berg, the title of the collection being what lured me: “The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted (And Other Small Acts of Liberation).” Body weight and self-esteem are themes in several of the stories, but it’s the story “Full Count” that I (unfortunately) can relate to the most.

It’s the story of a pre-teen girl visiting her relatives in North Dakota for the first time in two years. She’s so happy to be there among them, free and innocent. She goes to the lake with her grandfather (whom everyone calls Bampo) and cousins, and after swimming, they all play tag. Janey, the main character, is “it.”

“[Janey] walks over to the bushes, laughing. There they all are, every one of them, including Bampo, crouched in the greenery and peering up at her. ‘I see you,’ she said. ‘Y’all come out of those bushes.’

“A kind of guffaw, and then there is the sound of Michael imitating her, saying in a high voice, ‘Y’all come out of those bushes!’ All the cousins laugh. For a moment, she holds the smile on her face, the bright happiness she was enjoying still inside her. But then Michael comes crashing out of the bushes and walks past her with a look of disgust on his face. ‘Lard ass,’ he mutters.

“She jerks back a breath. Lard ass. What does it mean?...

“She is not a stallion, wild and free. She is a girl whose bangs were cut crookedly last time and whose mother told her to stop complaining. Her teeth are too big and her eyes are too small…She does not have any friends, really. And here, the last, she understands she has gotten fat. She understands the reason for the looks that pass between her mother and her father when she asks for pie, for French fries, for more.”

The story ends with Bampo taking his grandchildren to Dairy Queen. Everyone orders something except Janey. She’s hungry, so hungry that she’s lightheaded, but she orders nothing.

When I was a kid, being called fat was the worst thing I could imagine.

And when it happened, it was.

“Try out for cheerleading with me,” said my friend Robin a few months into 8th grade. “We’ll have fun.”

Robin was one of the lucky ones. She was growing into her body proportionately, and she had long blond hair and perfect skin, too. In Robin’s world, trying out for cheerleading was as natural as breathing. For me, I could think of nothing more humiliating. But I was stuck. I knew if I told Robin no, she might not speak to me for weeks, and that was a fate worse than falling on my big-boned ass during a spread eagle jump.

So I stayed after school every day for two weeks, learning routines with the other 20 girls trying out for the four-person squad. It was the first time I’d competed for anything individually, and despite my emotional passivity, I am inherently competitive. My long legs came in handy, allowing me to jump high, do the splits, and nail a perfect cartwheel. By the time of the actual tryout, I didn’t care if I made the squad or not. In my mind, I was a cheerleader.

The results were announced over the loud speaker during daily announcements the following day. I was in third-period study hall with 30 other students from various grades. The room was quiet as Robin’s sister, a senior-high cheerleader, announced the new members of the junior-high squad. Debbie Megard. Debbie Skorr. Robin Martinson. Lynn Haraldson.

The older students at my table turned and looked at me and my face burned red. They smiled and gave me thumbs up and mouthed “Congrats!” I sat there, guts churning, not sure if what I was feeling was pride or dread. I pictured myself on game days, walking down the halls in my saddle shoes, short skirt, and orange sweater with the letter J on the front. People would know I was agile and spirited and not simply some number on the scale. I dared to think that maybe I wasn’t so awkward. Maybe I wasn’t so big-boned. Maybe I really was normal.

Then in the silence someone said, “Great. We have a fat cheerleader.”

It was Ricky, my sixth-grade boyfriend. His friends snickered. The study hall teacher told them to shut up, but the words were out there. I sat in disgrace, no longer the perky girl with the perfect cartwheel.
I was now a fat cheerleader.

1977, the photo from my yearbook.

I’m on the right with with the sloping bangs (stupid curly hair). That’s Robin on the left.

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