Our Daily Bread... and Cookies... and Pies...

Food.  So many people have a love-hate relationship with our daily sustenance. 

A few, rare souls give very little emotional or mental energy to what they put in the systems because they have the metabolism of a chipmunk on a treadmill and can eat whatever they want. I admit, I don't get these folks at all. I have a complete lack of understanding or empathy for them, and maybe in my meaner moments, even dislike them a bit. But there is another category of eaters I envy—the ones who love and celebrate food and have made a peace with the role it has in their lives. I don’t profess to understand this group any more clearly than the previous, but it’s a concept that resonates with me, and I constantly strive to achieve.

I’ve never had a peace with food or my body. Ever. There have been periods throughout my life when I seem to have triumphed over the scale, but still many more when the scale raised its numerical fist with mighty numbers and triumphed over me. I fully confess, I don’t have a friendly relationship with this adversarial and esteem-crushing instrument.

This "weighty" topic (can I have a groan, please) is fresh in my mind as I both approach the holidays--a season of celebration in the form of delectable feasting--and a trip to Florida in February where I’m hoping the weather will invite the wearing of shorts, tank tops, and bathing suits by the ocean. Oh the conflicted bliss of both events!

I believe special celebrations of feasting are a God-ordained invitation. Throughout the Bible, and in most religions and regions of the world, celebrations are manifested in the form of breaking of fasts, abundant treats, family, friends and creative expression. And what screams creativity more than a plate full of gorgeous holiday cookies decorated with care, especially the kind with colorful little sprinkles or maybe a chocolate kiss in the middle…ahem, I digress. But my point is, holidays are a legitimate time to take joy in culinary treats and delight in those we love and share life with.

The problem, of course, isn’t in the day of feasting. It’s in the season of feasting—days, weeks and in the case of Thanksgiving and Christmas so close together, months of excessive and rich noshing. It’s in the non-celebratory, over-eating that I engage in year-round. It’s in having lost the distinction between joyful nourishment of my body with foods that are tasty and healthful, and eating to stuff my emotions and satiate my every taste desire. Therein lies the cycle of binge eating and dieting I get caught up in, the very one that beats up my self-esteem and makes me cringe if a camera is directed my way. Sad.

The other day I read an online article, Eat Like A Buddhist in 10 Easy Steps. The content isn't anything startling new, but it highlighted a contemplative, grateful and disciplined approach to the act of eating that struck me anew. And it reminded me of the category of people I mentioned above—the ones I wish I could truly emulate—those who have made peace with the delights of food and their body. It suggested savoring the tastes and textures of food, recognizing treats as exactly that—rare exceptions, and entering into a mindful quiet with my eating, which is, I admit, in direct contrast to my usual hasty and distracted snarfing.

Mostly, at least for me, it reminded me that eating is a communion with family and friends, a source of enjoyment in life, not a whipping post for my emotional insecurities and fears or a way to dull my inner pain. Of course, while my head grasps the concepts and my heart longs to be among those who have made their peace, actualizing it--putting it into practice in the face of ongoing temptations like pumpkin pies, gifts of baked goods and eggnog with rum--is the crux of the matter.  

I can use Florida as a sunny, warm catalyst for my motivation, but ultimately, I need to make a new emotional, mental and spiritual relationship with my daily bread (and maybe not so much emphasis on the bread). 

May our holidays be filled with the mindful and joyful celebration of family and friends and may our day of feasting be a break-- not the norm-- in our diets, a time to rejoice and be thankful for our abundance. And may the new year, full of healthy intentions, begin today. 

The Jogging Thread

If life is a tapestry with many, varied threads, jogging is the errant fiber that runs through my fabric, never quite blending in. I grew up with athletic siblings—they were both involved in track and cross country activities, fit, in-shape and earning their letter jackets. I was the somewhat fluffy younger sister who loved reading, singing, playing piano or guitar and an occasional game of Scrabble with my mom. I was not athletic.

I took up jogging in college, along with an eating disorder, and while my body slimmed down, my self-esteem plummeted. I eventually quit the eating weirdness, but jogging stuck with me. Somehow, through bearing babies, weight-gains and losses, jogging remained an activity in my workout repertoire. When I turned 40, I decided to tackle the decade with a commitment to participate in a half-marathon. You note I didn’t say compete. My goal was merely to complete the entire race without collapsing.

I learned a whole host of new terms like fartleks, intervals, lactate threshold, negative splits and other foreign sounding words. I bought expensive shoes to help my natural foot pronation, and clothing made of wicking fabric to keep sweat off my skin. I started visiting a local outdoor gear shop and talking running with the owner, an avid and, in my opinion, somewhat crazed runner. He loved talking running lingo with me. And for this brief six month period of my life, I was no longer a jogger. I was a runner.

It was amazing to me the number of people who suddenly wanted to talk about my recovery runs and split times. I always felt a bit like a fraud, like they would discover I wasn't really a part of their club. I was just a woman trying to defy my 40^th birthday. You may be thinking, sounds like you were a real runner to me. But that’s the beauty of deception and here’s how I knew I was a fake, a wannabe: Every time I talked to one of those crazed-runner-types, they’d get this far-away look in their eyes and a slight smile on their wind-chapped lips and ask me in a dreamy tone, “Don’t you just love that runner’s high? The endorphins… man, I’m addicted.” 

I’d stare at them with complete lack of comprehension, my mind racing to come up with a response. The truth is, in all my years of jogging and even racing 5ks, 10ks and the infamous half-marathon, I never felt a runner’s high. I had no concept of what it was like to feel addicted to working out.  Each and every run was an act of discipline, a goal to be achieved.  

Now I’m not saying I never derived pleasure from a run. I liked getting lost in my head, listening to my footsteps and breathing, a hypnotic syncopation keeping me company on a long outing. I liked that I could train my body to move intensely for 13 miles. But I never really liked running. I was a fraud.

Years after I completed the race (and I did complete it within my goal time and earned my t-shirt), I quit running quite so much and following the strict diet. I could almost see the disappointment in the shop owner’s face as he asked me if I still ran, probably noting the ten pounds that had since crept back on my body. “I jog,” I told him. He nodded and dismissed me. Eventually he quit asking.

I still jog a couple times a week, three slow miles. I savor the time outside with my dog, enjoying the lovely scenery. I still have to talk myself into going each and every time. But I do it because it’s good for me, good for the Dog-Dog and it’s still a great head-clearing time to think and process. 

I may not be in the company of running enthusiasts anymore, but I have a feeling I’m in the very fine and friendly company of people like me fighting the middle-aged bulge, trying to stay healthy without knee replacements. That’ll do just fine.