Dumb Ones

Dear blogfans, I just wanted y'all to know that I have eaten my very last frozen "diet" meal. I was working at home on Thursday and had let lunchtime come and go. Very hungry, not much doin' in the pantry. I found a frozen "Smart Ones" Weight Watchers brand meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Shaking my head, I stuck it in the microwave and did what I was instructed to do.

It was freakin' awful. The mashed potatoes were watery, weirdly salty and seasoned with apparently a mixture of MSG and chives. The meatloaf was chewy, weirdly unsalty, and basically disgusting with a side of awfulsauce. Everyone, extend an arm in front of you, palm up. Bring the palm firmly to your forehead while emitting a forceful "Duh!"

But now I will never, ever buy or eat another Dumb Ones meal. I'm free! I'm free! And freedom tastes of reality.

In related news, I no longer buy nonfat yogurt. Organic whole milk plain yogurt is so amazingly tasty and satisfying, it's like ambrosia. Some rolled oats, some walnut pieces, a little honey, and a dollop of Nancy's finest, and breakfast is a beautiful thing. Giving up Splenda might be harder. Stay tuned.

Coming Out as Fat

I've been afraid of writing this post for some weeks now - if not months or years. I know it might seem odd to claim that I'm a closeted fat person since I have published two books describing myself as a "Slow Fat Triathlete." But this year of injuries, setbacks, and introductions to some very fun, feisty, smart, fat women has made me realize a few things.

Even in the midst of all my writing: "Live your athletic dreams in the body you have now"; "Abandon self-consciousness"; "Be slow, be proud, have fun" and all the rest, I never truly, deep down, down in my deepest heart of hearts, was able to accept that I was a fat person. I always looked at myself as a person on the way to, well, if not thinness, then at least Not Real Fatness. Somehow I was going to find a way to balance my food intake with my caloric output and get back into the land of regular-person-clothing and "normal' weight.

Even though I wouldn't shy away from wearing triathlon clothes, bike shorts, or a one-piece swimsuit in public, I did believe deep down that my fat was disgusting - just like the vast majority of Americans do. I may not have thought it was as disgusting as they did, but I didn't embrace it. Even though my blood pressure, cholesterol, and heart rate are all well within "normal ranges," I worried that my fat body was more likely to be or become unhealthy than a thinner one. I wondered if my weight contributed to my chronic fatigue syndrome, even though I had shown the first signs of that syndrome when I was much, much thinner.

I don't remember the age I was when I went on my first of many, many diets. Maybe 11 or 12. I know that I dieted on and off all through high school, just when my growing body's metabolism was most vulnerable to that craziness. I did Atkins (the first time); cabbage soup; Weight Watchers with my mom; an endless procession of 10-day and 14-day diets from magazines; and finally in high school I fasted for up to three days at a time with nothing but diet soda and water to nourish me.

As a young adult, I went for longer between diets. Some kernel of my soul protested being forced into a template body that was clearly extremely difficult for me to attain and, based on evidence to date, impossible for me to maintain. I played rugby and ultimate frisbee and basketball, I went dancing, I went to the beach. I had dates and relationships. But ultimately I would get sucked back into the trap. NutriSystems - just eat all this food in little packets, and I'll be thin! Thin! And then - you know this drill? Raise your hand if you do. You lose the weight, people get excited and tell you how great you look (and you smush down the little voice in your head that says, oh, so you think I looked crappy before, huh?), you buy new clothes, and then... you "slip." You "backslide." You stop starving yourself and obsessing over each bite. I stopped starving myself. I felt hungry all the time. I craved bacon and cheeseburgers and fries and cookies. Crave them crave them crave them.

And I thought that that was my fault. That my lack of willpower and discipline, my weakness, my insufficient self-love and self-respect were causing me to eat that way in reaction to my dieting. Because I must have hated myself and wanted myself to look bad. Somehow.

As I became older still, it became clear to me that I actually had a lot of willpower and discipline, and even that I did love and respect myself. So how could I still be fat? It turned out that I could easily gain weight while training for a half-Ironman or a marathon, and not because I was stuffing my face with pure butter after every training session. My body is made that way.

Here's what I think now:

1. Life is too short for dieting. Dieting doesn't work for 95% of the people who engage in it, and it hasn't worked for me in any of its forms.
2. My body is awesome. It does some extremely cool things. It has had its issues, too, but I'm no longer blaming my weight for them. If my thin friends can have back problems and chronic fatigue, then I can too. Some of my thin friends have had knee surgeries, stress fractures, overuse injuries, migraines, ulcers, pneumonia, annoying skin conditions, debilitating allergies, chronic internal organ pain that medical science has failed to identify or fix, fallen arches, weak ankles, and gum disease, none of which had anything to do with their weight.
3. I am no longer accepting the cultural biases that thin = health, that thin = good, or that fat = bad, sick, unhealthy, ugly, lazy, dirty, smelly, sloppy, or undisciplined. Where I see these prejudices and stereotypes, I will fight them with devastating wit or nuclear sarcasm.
4. I'm going to rebuild my activity level, strengthen my back, and regain the joy of physical activity while focusing on all the positives my body has to offer and caring for it like the finely-honed work of art that it is. I'm going to try new things - maybe even dance!
5. I'm not going to judge other people's diets, exercise patterns, or weight-loss surgeries. I don't know what works for other people, just as they don't know what works for me. I have friends who have had the surgeries and have written and spoken about their journeys in inspiring ways. I know people who have beaten the odds and become Weight Watchers success stories. I know fantastic, talented, and dedicated athletes who are fat.
6. I'm not perfect, and there is nothing wrong with me.
7. I am out.
8. I am a fat activist. That doesn't mean advocating that everyone become fat. It means that I don't think that people should judge others' intelligence/health/self-respect/discipline/productivity/right to live/beauty/athleticism/worth based on the size of their bodies.

Live long and prosper.
(Photo: "Matisse Circle" - Leonard Nimoy)

A Medical Professional. Really.

Warning: there's a big rant coming (though not, for a change, a big fat rant), and I'm in pain and cranky, so it might not be fun to read.

A couple posts ago I wrote about the incompetent staff of Miya Day Spa in south Sacramento, which should be avoided at all costs. Oh, oops, I didn't write about it here. I Yelped about it here. Anyway, they were lame and they hurt my sore back even more by dropping my legs on the table. Hurt for a day or so, got a bit better, then over the weekend, of course, it got really sore. Last night I found that turning over in bed was about a 15 step process.

Called the wonderful Dr. Chu at Elite Spinal and Sports Care, got a 4 pm appointment. But before he could even start working on me, my back seized up so bad from lying face down on the table that I couldn't move. It took a good 15 minutes of sweating and cursing (on my part), and tilting the table so I could slide backwards off it onto my knees, and then a lot of buttock-clenching, core-engaging, and deep breathing before I was on my feet again. "You really need to call Kaiser," said Dr. Chu. I nodded. "It's really quite inflamed in there," he said. I nodded.

I called Kaiser before I even left Dr. Chu's office, and a very nice advice nurse set me up with an appointment with my regular doc tomorrow morning, and a phone appt. with a phone doc this evening so we could talk about getting some useful medication into my system. I had already taken all the ibuprofen my stomach could handle.

Unfortunately, over the last 10 years, I've had this back thing flare up badly about five times. I know exactly what works. Ice at first, followed by heat/ice alternation. A combination of anti-inflammatories, muscle relaxants, and strong painkillers. When it's just tweaky, anti-inflammatories alone can help me out. If things are pretty bad, I have to add the muscle relaxant. I don't go asking for the pain pills until the pain makes me cry out involuntarily and break a sweat.

Unfortunately Dr. Frooze, or Fruze or Froos, or whatever his name was on the phone, didn't accept that I am a competent witness of my own experience. He prescribed me prednisone - good call, possibly, given that I have a finicky stomach when it comes to ibuprofen - and some muscle relaxant. I said, "Oh, and when this has happened to me before, I've been prescribed Vicodin for the pain, which seems to help stop the vicious cycle of pain and spasm." Dr. F. smiled condescendingly (I could actually hear this on the phone) and said, "Well, Tylenol will work just fine."

"I'm sorry, but Tylenol does nothing whatsoever for this pain."

"Yes, two extra-strength Tylenol will work very well."

"Doctor, I have had this condition several times and I know from experience that Tylenol will not work at all."

"Well," said Dr. Frooze, "You see, the pain in your back is your body telling you not to move in certain ways. When we prescribe painkillers, we interrupt the signal that your body is giving you. And, don't forget, don't just lie there! You have to move around to keep from stiffening up."

"I--- I... I don't think you understand the situation I am in. I am in a lot of pain."

"Well, put some ice on it for 20 minutes twice a day."

Tears came to my eyes.

"Right. I've been doing that."

"OK then," said Dr. Frooze, "Do you still want the prednisone and Relaxafil [or whatever]?" Like if I didn't get my narcotics I wouldn't want anything else that might help me. Really? Really? Dick.

"Yes, of course. My husband can go pick them up for me."

"So if these don't work for you, you can bring it up with your regular doctor."

"Sure." I was just too worn out to argue anymore. We ended the phone call.

I fumed. What a freakin' jerk! To tell me what was going to work on my pain, and how I didn't know that pain is a signal telling my body not to move in certain ways. ARGH! Grrr!!! MMMMFFFFF! And other expressions of frustrated rage.

The thing is, I just need to be a lot more assertive about what works for me, even if what works is an opioid. I just get self-conscious about it. Like they're gonna think I'm Dr. House or something. I fumed some more. I called Kaiser back and told the advice nurse about my experience. She was actually really sympathetic about it and sounded kind of mad at the doctor. But she couldn't take my complaint. She gave me a number to call.

The number, of course, put me through voicemail hell, put me on hold for 15 minutes and finally hung up on me. It's well after regular hours now so I'm just gonna hunker down with what Tim brings back until my appointment tomorrow.

And Dr. Chu and I are going to find me a trainer who works Tuesday or Thursday so I can work the heck through whatever imbalances and weaknesses are making this back thing act up so bad this year. I want to move again.

So, That's Offensive. Pass It On.

I've been reading a lot of blog posts by the funny, prolific, and smart Ragen Chastain lately, and she's really been drawing my attention to the prevalence of anti-fatty messages in the media. Not just the weight loss companies with their ever-present ads about belly fat or toning up for summer, but the "journalism" that goes around citing "studies" and "reports" and "evidence." I was on my way home from the supermarket today (with kale, onions, whole grain cereal, chicken broth, organic yogurt, cereal, and yes, Halloween candy for the kiddies and Tim and me), when NPR absolutely blew my mind with "Workplaces Feel the Impact of Obesity." Yeah we get this sort of thing all the time, but I guess I just expected better from All Things Considered. Here was the quote that made me swear out loud in the car:

"Studies estimate that nearly 10 percent of U.S. corporate health care costs are due to obesity and its complications. For a large company like Dow, that means tens of millions of dollars a year. On top of that is lost productivity, not just from doctor's appointments and sick days but also, research suggests, because obese workers are simply less efficient on the job."

Wow. OK. First off, there's "obesity and its complications." There is a small but highly qualified group of researchers, including Dr. Peter Muennig of Columbia med school, who are beginning to suggest that the much-vaunted "complications" of obesity (heart disease, diabetes, hypertension) may in fact be more complications of stress associated with the social and psychological stigma surrounding obesity for certain social groups. This is a guy who used to write about the "obesity epidemic" and wring his hands about DeathFatIsComingToGetYou, and now he writes this. In any event, it's far from proven that obesity causes these health issues.

And then there's the "research suggests" that "obese workers are simply less efficient." Are you freakin' kidding me? This is simply deplorable. Really. Here's what I wrote on NPR's website.

This is probably the most offensive and worst-informed story I have ever heard at NPR. The casual "research suggests" that "obese people are simply less efficient on the job" is just jaw-dropping. I dug up one of the studies that "suggests" this, and found the research's premises highly questionable at best. One quote: "Ricci and Chee (2005) estimate that on an annual basis, incremental costs associated with reduced productivity are $358 per obese worker." In other words, less than $1/day. As a highly educated, highly professional, and highly efficient fat worker, I am appalled that you would produce a story perpetuating the "fat people are lazy" stereotype on such flimsy evidence. What about parents' efficiency in the workplace? What about people with migraines? What about lost work productivity from the smokers who sneak out of the building every 90 minutes to feed their habit? Or those annoying Crohn's disease patients, always rushing to the restroom? I am going to devote the rest of my week (outside of my productive work time) to publicizing and denouncing this story. For shame, NPR.

Hey, at least the smokers and IBS patients might be thin. Or they might not. It doesn't matter. IT DOESN'T MATTER. Your size has nothing to do with your productivity, unless your productivity is measured by how many times you can squeeze through a 14" squre hole in the course of a day (see Pooh, not being productive) or by how many annoying reporters you can asphyxiate by sitting on them. So, as promised, I'm devoting my spare time to letting the world know that NPR's story deserves a great big bogus-slap.

You're welcome.

Functional Bodies 2: In Praise of Puttering

I am the laziest person in my immediate family. I'm not being falsely modest; it's plain unvarnished truth. I wrote about my brother's phenomenal energy in my last post. Mom? Yeah. I once bet Mom that she couldn't sit still for five minutes. She lost. Both my parents are inveterate putterers, always thinking of something that needs doing and then doing it. Mom putters both indoors and out, while Dad focuses much of his attention on their gorgeous backyard. Weeding, trimming, pruning, planting, deciding to dig up half the plants and do something else. It never ends. I am the only one in my family who has the ability to sit down in the middle of the day and watch, say, seven hours of college football. There's Dad with one of his puttering tools.

While I was getting a fantastic workout at the new theatre space last weekend, I kept thinking, hmmm, I should be doing this sort of stuff around the house too. And we're having some friends over to BBQ tomorrow afternoon, and of course the patio was all overgrown with weeds and scattered with pollen and whatnot, because my parents managed not to pass the gardening/puttering trait on to me. An opportunity to practice this whole being active around the house thing! So as soon as I got up this morning, before the heat kicked in, I rounded up the shears and the brooms and the big recycling bin for yard trimmings and got my putter on.

The only things that really grow in our backyard are the things that decide to. Our efforts at planting things have met with consistent failure. Tomatoes? Nope. Lemons? Very few. Lime? Likewise. Sunflowers? Droopy. However, we are constantly under attack by star jasmine, ivy, mint, and this insidious creeper that looks a little like a strawberry plant and just grows like stink.

Normally I would attack that shit with a vengeance, slashing and ripping and pulling until I dripped with sweat and had to pass out. But today I consciously took a leaf (as it were) out of Dad's book and decided to work deliberately, putteringly. I worked slowly, rested frequently, sipped iced tea constantly. (This is not something my Dad would do. As a Welshman, he finds iced tea to be offensive.) I took an hour or so to listen to Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me, then headed back out. By the time I got out there, the sun was high and the patio was getting pretty warm. So I kept puttering, kept resting, kept wielding the shears and pulling up the ivy and assorted weeds. I left the mint mostly alone because it's flowering now and the bees love it. We need to promote the bees, so I left the mint.

I swept, I used the hose on the patio, I swept the water off the patio. It was very hot now so I turned the hose on myself a few times. Some more resting and then a long, cool, well-earned shower with plenty of loofah and ShiKai body wash. (Not a paid endorsement, I just love it.)

About 3.5 hours of work. Arms, shoulders, legs are all tired, but with no sense of imminent injury. Enough energy left to shop, make a (simple) dinner and even, later this evening, get a batch of vanilla into the ice cream maker.

Tomorrow, another kayaking excursion, this time with my high school friend and literary agent. Minimal house tidying, definitely no yard work.

But because of puttering, I should be good to go out on the lake tomorrow.