kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Health

  • Ah ONE and a…stroke….stroke…gasp.

    I was invited by my VBF to swim in The Cove again yesterday. And I was going to go. I really was. But that sinking feeling was there. The one that I felt the other day before I swam. The one that never really went away even though I enjoyed my swim in the ocean. The one that, if I thought about it a bit, could grow into a full fledged anxiety attack. I can just tell…

    But I chickened out this time. I told my VBF I was sorry, and that by all means, she and my VGF should talk some serious smack about my chicken-ness while they were enjoying their swim in the ocean. Being the grand person she is, however, my VBF said we could get kick boards and do some laps in one of the pools our complex has access to. And she hates pools.

    Relief. Big fat chicken squawking relief. Bwaaaaaaaaahk. Bwahkbwahk-bwaahk. Whatever.

    View from the Garage

    So I got on my erg instead. You know — one of those rowing machines. The one I talked the MoH out of I don’t even remember how many years ago. The one I used to “row” on regularly — oh, for about a whole month — with earbuds in place, the garage door open, and a fairly gorgeous panoramic East County neighborhood view that would lull me into sitting on the damn thing for at least 30 minutes. And because I did spend some time actually learning to row on real water with real people — eight, even — I could almost schmooze myself into thinking I was actually skimming over the water in the bay. While in my garage. I know. Everyone who wants to sell swamp land in Florida, I’m your guy. Yah. Uh-huh. Rowing Machine

    That erg. The one I sort of have to peer at through squinty eyes to try and remember if I like. So I borrowed the MoH’s Sony disc player which also has radio stations I can tune to. I found some less than attractive stretchy pants in my closet I bought and have never worn because they’re aqua colored. It was a lapse of judgement, okay? I popped the garage door open a quarter of the way so the neighbors wouldn’t stare at me to let air in, and wiped the inch of accumulated dust off the erg.

    Sony

    Shoved the Sony in the back of my waistband… adjusted the earbuds and volume. Punched the tuning button until I recognized a voice…Oprah? On the radio? Huh.

    Secured my tennie clad feet into the velcro straps, and pushed “reset” on the info screen.

    Settled my butt on the seat, took stock of my inspirational view of the Grease Behemoth BBQ we still haven’t unloaded on my left, and the side of my car that I hadn’t realized was dinged up as much as it is on my right. Partial view of the nanny van across the street at twelve o’clock. Ready?

    I Tried a stroke or two, and adjusted the tension.

    Went back through my mental rolodex on the proper form and sequence….legs, arms, back, snap….okay….GO.

    Hmmm…I don’t remember my stomach getting in the way when I used to do this. Suck it in, Betty. Oh, this is just a bit awkward. Ooofff. You can do it! Atta gurrrrllllll.

    Oprah, “blahblahblahblah….”

    Should my thighs come apart when I get to the catch, or the release or whatever the hell it is? Do I just not slide down as far? Ugh. Maybe I can kind of do an alternating shift to the right, then to the left. Belly to the left. Lard gut to the right. Ooo…The twinges where my incisions were are a tad gross. Eww…

    Oprah’s guests, “blahblahblahblah….”

    Ummph. Grunt. Strain. To the left. To the right. Stroke… Stroke. At least the freakin’ thing doesn’t squeak anymore. Ohmygawd…30 more seconds and I’m done. GASP! Ten….Five….

    How Many Calories? I lasted five minutes. FIVE whopping minutes. Sweat, pumping heart, gasping for breath. FIVE. I didn’t bother to look at the “calories burned” screen because it was probably 4. Crap, I absorb 4 calories walking into the kitchen.

    And the Sony ended up completely down the back of my drawers which upon inspection resembled some kind of a lid to my rear end. Not attractive. But funny.

    The water in The Cove would have been much nicer. Bwahk…

    But the pool is right down the street. So guess where I’m going today?

    After I spend another 5 sweaty minutes on my erg.

    Update:  10 laps in the pool.  No erg.  Urp.

  • Walking Commentary

    If you’re a peppy and dedicated individual who would truly enjoy being more healthy, or svelte, you have to get off your duffster and move it! You have to join the throngs of others who venture out on a blustery day to get that heart rate up, and sweat glands functioning. (You do understand that I’m attempting to make up for the bitchy grousing I was engaged in earlier today, don’t you?) But it is excellent advice, because you just never know how things will turn out. Besides, you would rather be someone who talks about sedentary Americans than actually be one, right? If you get out and about, it could be possible that…

    • You may get to hear your VBF confirm that you do smell in your laundry basket retrieved walking attire but that it won’t matter because her horse-like doggo is in the car, too, smelling like a dog should and that it’s a toss up on who smells worse.
    • You will get to see signs like this and, well… take a picture of it, then restrain yourself from commenting at this point because your passionate self is on sleep mode temporarily, and that is a completely different set of posts that you don’t want people to have to read on a Sunday.
    • You scratch and wonder about the red stick art thing in this person’s back yard. “Is it really art? Or is it a stick?” And then you notice others, barely discernible through the plants, but equally mystifying. (more…)

  • Weigh-In Methodology: 101

     

     

     

     

     

    Well, it was weigh-in Tuesday this morning and I’ll confess to being open minded about the results Thinner had for me. And while I’m on my knees, I have another confession to make. I always weigh on Monday morning so that I’m prepared for Tuesday. How ridiculous is that? You know, like, I might be less morose or on the verge 24 hours later or something.

    Take into consideration the shenanigans that go on with my weighing-in methodology:

    Before beginning, remove heavy items of bed time attire: (slippers, pajama bottoms and sweatshirt)

    1) Gingerly step onto the scale making sure there is no jolt up to the serious hefty range thereby keeping you from finding out that’s how much you really weigh.

    2) Hold onto the bathroom counter or door frame and then gently release after you’ve stepped onto the scale, thereby easing UP to your real weight. Repeat: Lift…and release — like kegels.

    3) Squat on the scale (so you can see it without having to get your glasses) and try to balance long enough to see which line you are on before falling backwards onto the tile.

    4) After getting back on the scale, do a few little knee bends in rapid succession to jiggle the scale and see if it gets stuck on a lower number.

    5) Take a flying leap onto the scale to see if it can be shocked into submission.

    6) Record the final products of all of the above, add them, and divide by five.

    It looks like I can only claim a total six pound loss at this point. It’s hard to tell with my stupid scale. That means I’m still in the two pounds a week range, which is what I’m shooting for on the Phoodplan. Nothing exhilarating–just satisfying. I know some of you are still saying, “Why bother?” and I’m remembering that old tale about the Tortoise and the Hare. I’ll get there slowly but surely and pay attention to the non-numerical benefits of weight loss I’m learning:

    • Large cotton unmentionables fit a bit better in stretchy jeans now;
    • My knees don’t ache as much climbing the stairs to the office;
    • When pounding the streets, my shins no longer burn in agony;
    • Four miles + 45 minutes = sweat like a hog
    • I have duped myself into thinking that 3 orange or cherry-flavored prunes are candy and savor their juicy sweetness nightly;
    • A 2 oz. shot of red wine in lime-flavored mineral water tastes absolutely disgusting; and
    • If you add orange juice to this, the taste improves, but what’s the point because the whole concept is pathetic. And yes, I drank the whole glass.

    Have I strayed from the Phoodplan? Not too badly. I have walked an average of five days each week (not seven) and have walked about 40 miles in three weeks!

    I drink two cups of coffee (not one) and I’m feeling that caffeine buzz daily as I merrily update my blogs.

    Portion control is going well, but it’s challenging to fit all that pasta in that small bowl unless I mash it with the back of a wooden spoon.

    Wine on the weekends has been more than two 4 oz. glasses on two days — but not horrifically more (we haven’t resorted to straws in bottles again, yet).

    And there will be more partying in Paradise this weekend for Easter. I haven’t figured out what Jesus has to do with parties and drinking wine…Oh, wait…“Bless me Jesus for I have sinned…” but know that it will be consumed, making it easier to filter out the crying baby and howling toddlers in our extended family. “Help me, Je-sus, Help me!”

    Trick.

  • My NUTs. And Yours?

    It’s chilly here today, making getting out of bed a bit more challenging in the feeble light coming through the windows above the blinds. But I can hear the RT in his bathroom, and after a quick glance at the clock, know that if I don’t get up, I will miss seeing him off for school. As he passes by our bedroom door, I notice that although he is sporting a different green tee than he did yesterday, he is wearing the same brown cargo shorts, and has yet to don socks.  I know, with very little analysis, that he will recycle the socks he wore yesterday, slung over his shoes where he left them yesterday .

    I make it downstairs on this non-carpool day, and am rewarded by the RT’s Mom smile– a warm and honest gesture that is often accompanied by a hug. Nice. Ten more minutes before he goes out for his ride into this grey and wet day. I know before opening the patio door that Ms. Jones is not going to want to pee on a wet patio, and I’m probably going to have to venture out in front of the neighbors so she can pee on the wet grass instead. Dog logic? She surprises me by pushing through the partially opened door and gingerly stepping across the flagstones and around the corner to take care of her duty.

    I call up to the RT who has gone to get in a few minutes on the Internet even though I’ve graced him with my presence, “You’re going to need your sweatshirt today.” I know that he wears it most days because it’s soft and comfy, and probably makes it easier for him not to pay attention to The Geometry Teacher, but I have to remind him. One of our cats is trying to rush for the door about now, paranoid that I’ll close it on his tail like I did last week, and makes it through only to realize that it’s wet outside. He backs up, sits near my feet and looks at me as if to say, “What the hell is this all about?” and consigns himself to the view from the back of a chair. Today he’ll have to settle for looking through the window at the birds in the jasmine and stalk their movements with flattened ears and that low “cackling” sound he reserves for moving targets on his radar.

    The RT is out the door about now, 50 lb. back pack hoisted over one shoulder, and the notebook I’ve asked him twice to organize in the past two days, tucked under an arm, still sporting the signs of complete disaster from its edges. I tell him to have a good day, hoping it will be better than yesterday. The two of us decided then that a 50% on The Geometry Teacher’s test was better than what we thought it would be, but getting an F on a test never feels great. I’ll have to put “Giving Geometry Another Chance” on my mental NUTs list. NUTs, you say?

    Nagging Unfinished Tasks, according to Michael F. Roizen, M.D., are things that we could fix, but don’t, thereby causing you and I “aging stress,” which is far more harmful than breaking a bone, because we learn to deal with that. He says those kinds of events are “important, but manageable.” Okay, so let me get this straight. In other words, I’ll just adapt to the circumstances of hmmm…. I know — having a humongous cast on my leg that sticks straight out, forcing me to be in a wheel chair; I’ll be able to get in my compact car, drive myself to the grocery store, carry my crying toddler around while trying to get dinner on the stove. Bathe. Go to the bathroom. Of course, there is absolutely no stress involved in any of that. My malleable demeanor will simply adjust. Instead, what will really get to me while the cast is on my leg, is the items on my NUTs list — the items I don’t take care of that are silently driving me crazy, creating unhealthy levels of adrenaline, cortisone, and other hormones in my system, and leaving me susceptible to myocardial ischemia, and at greater risk of a heart attack. What might those more pressing, driving me nuts, NUTs be if my leg actually was in a cast? Shaving my legs? Reaching that dust ball under the wall unit? Painting the chipped polish on the big toe protruding from my cast? The author cannot be serious.

    But back to reality here, and my current state of angst. In an attempt to embrace the concept of Roizen’s NUTs (no pun intended whatsoever) to identify my own NUTs (anatomically impossible) and add “Relearning Geometry” to the list, I can combine my smarts with those of the RT, and thereby assist him in improving his understanding of Geometry. Bear in mind that because the RT is almost 15, and should be learning to employ skills which will last a lifetime, I actually believe he would be better served taking advantage of the student-run tutoring center at school. However, I also believe I can’t take him there and make him do it. He has to want to do it himself. But that’s because I’m a relentless, suck-it-up-and-get-it-done, erstwhile educator.

    My NUTs: 1) Get a job; 2) Complete filing papers; 3) Call the local charity to get rid of things in the garage so my husband can park in it, too; 4) Complete unfinished upholstery job on two bedroom chairs; 5) Complete stain and seal of outside furniture; 6) Paint unfinished patch over downstairs bathroom door; 7) Truly clean refrigerator

    What are your NUTs?

  • Getting Fit

    The diet gods heard my roar yesterday. All of them. No, it isn’t miraculous — just simple logic. Stupid scale + stupid glasses (sensible food + 6 days of exercise) = respectable 3-4 lb. loss. I can live with that as long as that black skinny line on Thinner keeps nudging down the dial each Tuesday when I weigh in. Why Tuesday? Because I had to have a better attitude today than I did yesterday, or else. Now, I’ll settle in and look forward to two (count them carefully or you might miss them) TWO practical lbs. each week until June 1st which seems like it’s at the end of a very long yawn — mostly because of the wine deprivation. However,  I still have endless horizons in the food department to keep me interested. Are you feeling sorry for the Master of the House (MOH) and RT? They’ll survive and eat well also. No shriveled up taste buds in this hacienda.

    • In the godforsaken department of being perky about of this, here is my list of good things about my food plan:
    • I will have fewer hot flashes at night (more exercise, no hardly any wine, reduced caffeine) and I’ll believe this when Hell freezes over.
    • I will lose weight.
    • I will no longer have a hitch in my giddy up when climbing my stairs.
    • The MOH’s car won’t scrape on the speed bump near our community gate when RT and I are sitting on the same side of the car.
    • I will be able to fit into last spring/summer clothes better than I did last spring/summer or the one before that, or…
    • I will effectively deprive the neighbors of knowing and strike fear in their hearts, that I no longer have the recycler with the loudest clanking (two weeks of wine bottles) in the cul-de-sac as the recycling truck dumps it from a high altitude–or, from its mechanical arm, suspended above its large metallic bin.
    • My body will be drunk on nutrients and slap happy on phytochemicals like beta-sitosterol and carotenoids or chlorogenic acid.
    • My refrigerator’s veggie drawer will no longer have that science experiment gone awry look to it, lacking peppers growing fur, and cucumbers reduced to bottom sludge.
    • I will look great.

    Yesterday when the sun finally decided to come out and warm things up to a modest 66 degrees, I diligently went for my walk. Since I don’t have one of those pedometers, I took the time to get in my car after returning from my walk to measure the distance. Yes, gasoline is well over three dollars a gallon, but I was going to the store anyway, so that counts as multi-tasking. My walking route is 2.8 miles! Go figure. And I achieved my goal of spending 50 instead of 30 minutes walking. Unfortunately, I’m still having cramps in my lower legs and it is annoying. Is it my shoes? Am I walking too fast? Is it the inclines, my stride, all of the above?

    I overcame this trauma by taking along my handy little camera, feigning ignorance when I noticed a few suburbanites who had paused while retrieving their trash cans wondering, “What is that thing in her hand? Why would she be taking pictures? Is there a law suit at hand? Who’s her attorney?” The camera was a pleasant diversion, so I’ll have to take it more often.