A Time for Health, Part II: The Exercise Part

It seems the hardest obligation to meet is to stay committed to some kind of physical fitness regimen. On a tight schedule, exercise is the first thing to go. We’re either too busy, too tired from being busy, or tired from thinking about being busy. Also, let’s face it, trudging out to some sort of work-out session (be it going to the gym, a class in the latest exer-dance craze, a weekly pick-up game of hoops at the “Y”, or the dreaded league bowling night) after coming home once already, is about as appealing as helping someone move. 

My own efforts over the years have run the fitness gamut. Remember 20-Minute Workout? (I won’t mention the decade.) Every morning, Bess Motta would lead TV viewers through an aerobic workout for twenty minutes from a rotating platform, which, if you did it, was probably pretty effective. But as the camera angled in on sultry Bess and her (decade “spoiler alert”) legwarmer-wearing entourage of two as they undulated through their routine, you found yourself mostly sitting on the couch mesmerized and eating sugar cereal from the box.

We can’t leave out the Jane Fonda Workout – another craze not meant for mere mortals. (I’m pretty sure this is when 9-1-1 was invented.) Somehow, I missed the whole step aerobics era – thank God. I gave Latin dance-based Zumba a try, but decided to sit out the rest of that era – Cloris Leachman on Dancing with the Stars has better knees than I do.

My latest endeavor was a cardio-salsa class with a one “Berto”. Even though anything cardio is too much sweating and jumping and excess shaking of body parts, I will sometimes make an exception when it comes to dance. Heck, we women are always complaining, “we never go dancing” — this is better than nothing. In any case, I don’t half mind Berto’s class. Truthfully, all that high-speed hip action makes my back feel better.

Finally, I settled on a form of exercise I thought I could live with:  Physical Therapy.

That’s right, PT. I’ll put physical therapy up against anything you’ve got: weight training, machines, jogging, kick-boxing, Yoga Booty Ballet®, dancing with scarves – even infomercial exercise DVD sets (especially infomercial exercise DVD sets – if I could have the $19.95 back for every one of those I ordered, I could hire a body double with a better figure.)

PT is wonderful; you hardly know you’re exercising at all. First, you lay down and rest while they put warm compresses on you, then they stretch you. I love this – you don’t even have to do your own stretching, and you've only rested! This is followed by gentle exercises that you do from a laying-down position. I had no idea there were so many exercises you could do without ever having to get up! (This laying-down feature is why I also liked Pilates when I tried that!) You might have to use some pieces of equipment: a few movements on an exercise ball, some stretches with strips of rubber material or tubing, or maybe a short routine on the weight machine, but there’s none of this sweaty jumping around. Then, after you rest (again!) on the therapy bed and are ready to leave, there are… lollipops!

How can you beat that? So, Jane Fonda and Billy Blanks, eat your hearts out!

Editor’s note: I do love physical therapy, but this was written all in fun. Do not compare my experience with yours – your doctor knows best. But, oh ranks of the unemployed, do get out and walk — after all, that is what you groused about all the years you were working! 
Pictured in actual photo of mine: salsa class featuring hidden sister.
Copyright 2012

A Time for Getting Healthy, Part I: The Food Part

In the spirit of full disclosure, I provide at the end of this entry, my daughter’s sites on nutrition: Living Roots, her Facebook page, and Some Like It Raw, her blog. I do this because, as I tell my tale, “Ten Days to Better Health, or Who Eats This Stuff”, I will exaggerate for the sake of a better story. 

There are several reasons I was receptive to changing my eating habits at this moment: my age, family heart history, having the time currently to devote to the endeavor, and my “last chance pants”. I’m sure everyone has their version of this garment: the item of clothing you can always squeeze into even when those holiday or Super Bowl calories have prevented you from wedging into your normal wardrobe but, that one day, the button isn’t up to the job and you pray the zipper teeth will hold until you get home. For me, this is my black knit slacks that seem to have a 
3-size range, just for me.

Because my pants were down to their last chance, and because my daughter had done the legwork (Julie has done much more reading and research on nutrition than I will ever do in a lifetime – I would never have the ambition to read research “white papers”), I was ready. So trusting her knowledge, and relying on her guidance, 
I began a 10-day long “de-tox.”

The terms of this de-tox were, in short, to eat nothing but plants and grains. No dairy, no sugar, no carbohydrates (apple, yes; bagel with cream cheese, no), and no animal anything (meat, eggs, butter, etc). Right out of the gate, this eliminated some pantry staples: chocolate, cookies, and Pepsi. Many of my fallback foods that I always thought were healthy would be off limits: egg salad sandwiches, orange juice, and peanut butter on a spoon. Now I’m not a big meat-eater, but what would I put in the center of the plate if I couldn’t even swap in an omelet, macaroni and cheese, or spaghetti with red sauce?

I knew the answer to this question. It was just too horrible to face… 

those scary foods in aisle six.

You know the foods I mean. Aisle six is that short stretch of unfamiliar cans and boxes of foods that your mother did not buy. Packages with brand names I had never seen advertised during Saturday morning cartoons. Things like jars of grey pieces of something in liquid, exotic kinds of beans – none of which were pork and beans, and sacks of grains I had never heard of but which were about to take the place (for 10 days) of my blue box of Kraft. Incidentally, don’t ask me to buy “healthy” ice cream ever again. A.) That’s like creating a nutritious substitute for frosting. 

B.) Ice cream should never be made from legumes.

So, grocery bags filled with aisle six fare, and more produce than I typically consume in a year, I head home to learn the de-tox tricks, recipes, and food substitutions. 
I provide these here:

· there must be 50 ways to serve beans and greens
· the naked salad – learning to live without crumbly blue cheese and other  

  garnishes that add flavor to an otherwise tasteless dish
· one potato, two potato, three potato, four – 7 minutes to a complete 

  microwaved meal (minus the ribeye, gravy, and buttered bread)

· almonds – without dairy, I relied on this nut for my source of calcium – and not 

  because they were covered in milk chocolate
· tortilla chips – a satisfying snack when you crave salt and crunch. Or a pound-

  bag of peanut MnMs. Or a big ol’ hunk of buttered corn bread on vegetarian 

  chili night. (I think you can actually live on them for a short while if you get 

  locked in at Walmart.)
· smoothies – yeah, uh, not the concoction with ice cream and peanut-butter cup 

  pieces – that would be the OTHER concoction sold by, you know, that franchise.

So, how did I do on my de-tox? I wasn’t a miserable failure – l actually started having fruit & flaxseed smoothies for breakfast, and they didn’t suck. Also, three things happened: My cholesterol went down, I learned that fiber works, and I actually managed to abstain from Pepsi without becoming a rooftop sniper. (I always wondered about that.) 
And anyone can do anything for 10 days, right?

Photo: Julie serves beans and kale (a.k.a. beans & greens). Recipe can be requested via her websites: www.facebook.com/Root.of.Life and

http://betterinthebuff.blogspot.com/
Copyright 2012 – No statements here should be taken as professional advice on nutrition or survival when getting locked in a store. BTW.

A Time For Neighbors

The little house in the photo strikes me as looking isolated. Since that is the lesson here, I chose not to crop the image. 

Ray lived across the street from me, in this little house, for over 10 years. At 91, he actually was in his house for much longer; I was the “new” neighbor and part of the reason for his observation, the street has changed, which he said almost in a whisper, with a touch of sadness.
The story starts with the end: Ray moving away. And then, the story backs up to two weeks ago. It was one of the rare nights I cooked, making a much greater quantity of stuffed shells than I knew Al and I would eat. It was a deliberate act. As I said, it’s rare that I cook and this batch of pasta would cover at least two meals.
Then I looked out my window and across the street to Ray’s house. As always, the light from his sitting room glowed through the front window. At least once each evening, I would look over for the light and the dark dot of his head, which I could see when he sat in his chair. This is how I “checked on” Ray. This night, I could not see the dark dot.
I cajoled myself into taking a dish of shells over to Ray (thinking to myself, c’mon Susan, suck it up). The day before, I brought home a cake that I would cut a slice from to add to the meal. Balancing the containers of food, I crossed the street, and stepped up onto his porch. Looking through the door window, I still could not see Ray. (Because he had bad legs, I would open the door a bit – if I saw him - and call to him as I let myself in. That was the system.) This night, not wanting to startle him, and considering that he might be in the bathroom, which might not be a speedy prospect, I returned home.
The next day, I tried delivering the food again. Still no Ray that I could see. This time, though, I stepped inside and walked through the house until I found him sitting in his kitchen. “I don’t sit in that chair anymore,” he said, referring to his usual TV chair that allowed me to perform my nightly Peeping Tom check. “I sit in this chair now,” he explained, pointing to a chair about two feet from the TV. “I can see from there.”
Not only did Ray have bad legs, he had bad eyes and bad hearing. When I first knew Ray, at 80 he already was long-retired but could be seen most nice days on his porch reading a western romance novel, books he finished at an impressive rate. He’d spot me or Al out front and would wobble over to visit. Conversation always required some shouting, but Ray got around, and visited, and read. These days, he hadn’t been able to enjoy even that level of activity. In fact, not long before, a whole year passed that I hadn’t seen him at all.
Joining him at his small table, I set down the food and told him what it was I brought. “I can’t eat chocolate,” he said in response to the dessert. I told him, that’s okay, he could flip it over and eat just the yellow cake off of the offending frosting. As we chatted, I realized he thought I was his visiting audiologist and had to give him a couple of nudges as to the fact it was me, Sue, from across the street, you know, Sue and Al. He could see my facial features in only the crudest form, and couldn’t hear my voice well enough to recognize it. Plus, truthfully, he just didn’t see me that often.

And that is the point: the isolated little house with the isolated little man, living across the street from the woman who isolated herself from someone because he required some effort to communicate with. Frankly, with my attempts to make my voice loud enough and deep enough, it was work.

That night, Ray told me he was moving. In two weeks. Having mentioned before the wisdom of getting out of his house, I hoped that this was another sketchy plan. But, this time, his plans seemed more concrete. I said goodnight, and left feeling pangs of loss. 

A few days later, a familiar white SUV was in Ray’s driveway. Tom was Ray’s devoted nephew who made the hour-plus trip every week to check in on his uncle, taking him to appointments, shopping, and to dinner. Tom was loading parts of a bed into his vehicle and verified that they were moving Ray to an apartment. It would be close to Tom and his family. He invited me to go in and say hello. Tom’s wife and son were inside with Ray. Closets and belongings were being sorted through. Ray, depleted, was leaning against a wall “supervising”. As always, he took the time to point out one of the many family photographs on the wall. (This time, it was one of him and his son after a hunting trip.) Diane and Jeremy were obviously kind and solicitous of their uncle. It was clear that the time had come for Ray to go.
Finally the day came; I was startled at the sight of several vehicles parked across the street. This was it, I knew. Thinking of some gesture to make, I grabbed the one baking mix I had out of the cupboard. Taking a plate of banana bread over, I promised I’d be back later to say goodbye. Al and I went over together later that evening and, on that last night, after over 10 years, listened to Ray tell his stories. The next day, Ray was gone.
This is all I know about Ray:
Ray Field was a gunner on a naval destroyer during WWII. He was one of a detail that was in charge of positioning the big guns on the ship. (He was responsible for the up-and-down movement.) At one point, he had to wait on the island of New Guinea to be picked up by another ship. The delay was due to the fact the ship had to be stripped because it could not get through the Panama Canal. Ray loved to hunt. He worked for both Colt and Kotex during his career as a machinist. He had seven kids, which included some foster children. Ray was fastidious about the care of his yard. He was our de facto neighborhood watch marshal. And he favored western romance novels.

I will always grieve the lost opportunity to get to know this man. I will always feel self-recrimination for my reason: that visits with him took some extra effort. But, I’m thinking visits with me take a little effort, too. 
copyright © 2012

The Poison Pen Letter (or Justice At Last, or The Art of Getting Free Stuff)

Aunt Joyce used to write what my mother called “poison pen letters”. I guess if I weren’t a kid at the time, or if her causes were relevant to me, I could tell you what injustices her letters were about. Maybe there was a missive to the town about the “mosquito trucks” that drove through the neighborhoods adjacent to the offending Cicero swamp, spraying a noxious fog and launching everyone into a panic, slamming windows to keep out the awful sulfury odor. Maybe her campaigns included a letter to the editor regarding the rising tax on cigarettes. Or maybe there was a simple letter of complaint to a contractor. But I can’t tell you.
I can tell you this: I was secretly awed by her activism. In my eyes, Aunt Joyce was practically a bra burner. I wished I could be like her and give those I perceived as wrongdoers a piece of my mind. Years later, I would have the chance. 
Fast forward to my “employment sabbatical”. Poison Pen Letters were definitely on my to-do list. All the merchants from whom I purchased shoddy products were finally going to hear from me! And there were several, from the retailer that sold me a desk that collapsed after just 20 months, to the corporation responsible for the strings of short-lived Christmas lights to which I've added each year until I had what looked liked the largest ball of wire east of the Ozarks.
My poison pen campaign would be easy. Once I got the letter set up, all I had to do was fill in the blanks and start firing away. 
I provide my template here, for your use.

TO: Retailer

Address

City/State

Dear Sir or Madam:
I am a loyal customer of (insert name of merchant – for the sake of illustration, we’ll use Bob’s Best Service & Merchandise) and have enjoyed a long relationship with your company. It is always a pleasure (start on a positive note) to come into the store every week (definitely pad this statistic to make it sound like you’re there all the time and critical to their bottom line) and to be assisted by (insert employee name – if you aren’t yet at the age where you get chatty with the help, use “Kyle” – there’s always a Kyle). Over all, I am satisfied with the service I receive from your establishment and heartily recommend Bob’s to my friends (just once, use a big word where a simple one will do, such as “establishment” for “garage”, and one big word that is totally unneeded, as with "heartily"). I can always depend on Bob’s for (the clincher: insert gratuitous compliment, e.g. courteous service, always having products in stock, Kyle's exemplary cell phone etiquette). 

In fact, I almost hesitate to write. (Ah, but you have.)

Now that you’ve let Bob's Best know you come as a friend, you can launch into your beef. Lead in with a statement that assumes your complaint is an exception to Bob’s high standards and, naturally, they would want to know about it. (In actuality, Chet in marketing opens these letters. We’re pretending Chet cares, but Chet is thinking about where to order lunch.) 
Use humor and aplomb. You may use hyperbole, but once is probably enough. Example: “I’m sure your employee had all the best intentions of putting my oil filter back on.” One sarcastic remark might make Chet chuckle. String the sarcasms throughout the letter and Chet thinks you’re a jerk and uses your letter as a placemat for his gyro.
In your closing, apologize that this unfortunate incident ever happened. Then – and this is the most important part - state the solution you believe would be fair. This is, after all, why you’re writing the letter. It’s not the injustice – heck, in customer service, injustice is the name of the game. You’d like to get a gift card but let’s face it, you’ll be happy if Chet sends you a free pen.

Note: My campaign yielded two responses and a cheesecake pan.                      copyright © 2012

Look at the cows, girls! (or, my quest for a perfect holiday)

I’ve always wanted to have the time to pay attention to Christmas. You know, take notice of things, rather than experience the usual mad rush. Enjoy the preparations, as opposed to be annoyed by them. And, this year, I did. (Have the time, that is.)

On family Sunday rides, my mother was great at noticing things. She loved riding in the car, especially along highways that took us through small towns. She appreciated every sight, and it’s a joke in the family to repeat one of her oft-said observations, Look at the cows, girls, look at the cows! (There were variations of this cry: Look at the horses, look at the planes, etc. And, I’m sure, at Christmastime, ‘Look at the lights’ was in there, too.) Years later, my daughter even added the Spanish translation: Miran las vacas, chicas, miran las vacas!

Working, running a household, and tending to children (spouses, parents, and the rest), does make it difficult to enjoy the holiday season. So, did it make a difference that I had the opportunity, this year, to stop and smell the holly?

Well, let’s see…

Presents.  Plan: To thoughtfully select each person’s gift, and have all packages beautifully wrapped and ready to go well in advance of the occasion. Reality: Have you ever passed a car on the highway in which it looked like someone was actually wrapping something? That was me. In fact, I’m sure when you spotted me, I had just left the store where I purchased both gift-wrap and the actual gift. Yeah, this year was so much better since I had all this extra time (read sarcasm). I’m sure all my loved ones treasured the gift selections I pulled out of my bin from last year’s holiday markdowns. (How’d you like that spoon rest, Sis? Don’t you worry if it breaks – I’ve got a stack of ‘em!) And, this is the third year in a row that I looked at the last knit winter scarf left from the cartload of clearance “grabs” and passed on it because I couldn’t remember who already had gotten one.

So, yes, gift giving was just as disorganized and uninspiring as it ever was. Except one surprise victory! In one of those truly irrational shopping moments, I had purchased a set of plaster cats at a sort of fair (why? who knows. I was caught up in the frenzy of supporting the cottage industries of various African villages) that was a hit with the recipient. Just the description, plaster cats, should have shaken me out of my deranged state at the time. Plaster cats. (I am shaking my head here.)

Gift wrapping. Plan: Again, advance preparation would have been my hope. Reality: Nope. Still no bows. No cute little ornaments. Yes, there were a couple packages where I ran out of tape and used Audubon Society stickers to finish the job. And, yes, some packages did have the recipient’s name written on the end flap because I was too lazy to get up and replenish my supply of gift tags. So, yes, the job still looked like it had been done by someone who had lost their will to live.

Cards. Send them out early! Sit down and enjoy the ritual of writing a short, personal message on each one. That was my goal! Reality? Despite my “open schedule”, it was first come, first served. So, Mary, Karen, Kathy & Bob, et al, let me take this opportunity to wish you a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! And, personal messages? I think I actually started just initialing the cards like clauses on a medical waiver.

Decorations. Ah, decorating the house! This is where I was really going to outdo myself. Because, women, you know this means first cleaning the house to within an inch of your life. We can live in squalor 11 months of the year but, in December, the house must be clean enough to perform surgery on the floor. (And, if we’re going to clean the house like it’s never been cleaned before, then, by God, that garage is going to get cleaned out, too! If we are going to be miserable, so is that other adult in the house!)

Most of my “big clean” was accomplished, including cleaning out my clothes closet (because that’s so important for holiday entertaining). But, as I sit here enjoying my tree on New Year’s Day, I have to confess I managed in the end - despite all my fantasies - only to hang my trusty folk art angel on the front door, put up my minimalist tree, and arrange a display of the cards that my organized, working friends sent me.

Did I pay more attention to Christmas this year than in past years? Probably not. Sorry, I have no John-Boy Walton words to inspire anyone. I can say only that this year’s holiday was no more of a fiasco than any other year.

And, I can tell you, Look at the cows girls, look at the cows! Enjoying any part of life is all about noticing the cows.
copyright © 2012