Smiles from the threshold of the year to come,
Whispering ‘it will be happier’…”
― Alfred Lord Tennyson
Christmas is not my thing. I make no bones about it, and offer up no apology. If I had my way, I would spend the entire month of December on a beach in the Caribbean – book in one hand, frozen concoction in the other, the grit of sand between my toes, the roar of surf in my ears. No traffic, no clutter of decorations, no batshit crazy holiday-goers with blood in their eyes.
Of course, it’s not all about me. Ever the humble conformist, I bow to social convention. I put up a tree, battle the mall, send out Christmas cards. All the while, with an eye to the horizon. The new year shining in the distance, a whispered promise drifting in on the wind.
Change is in the air.
As I write this, I am well aware that the new year has come and gone. My January was a fantastic whirlwind. But that is a blog for another day. I’m only just beginning to collect my thoughts: reflecting, evaluating, forging the plan ahead. I’m not one to make resolutions. To me, they amount to nothing more than simplistic commitments bearing unrealistic expectations. Having said that: I do look upon the new year as a period of renewal. Redemptive, in a way. A chance to build upon what works; adjust what doesn’t.
Last year was a period of transition for me. The hip injury I suffered a few years ago progressed into something too significant to ignore. I was forced to address it once and for all. It was a frustrating process – slow and tedious with more setbacks, more pain, more tears than I care to remember. It took almost a year, but I have finally put the “yoga class from hell” to bed. It’s quite liberating to be out from beneath that beast. Physically, I am in great shape – the best in five years. I’ve slimmed down and toned up. I feel fantastic.
With a look ahead to 2016 and in an effort to exploit this new found freedom, I began to explore an idea that has rolled around in my head for a while now – tennis. I wanted to play tennis again. I played when I was young, but haven’t in over twenty-five years. There are a lot of reasons for this – lack of opportunity, physical challenges, my social introversion. Joining is difficult for me. But if there is one thing I have learned over the last few years, it is that one cannot truly live within the construct of self-imposed isolation. ‘I can’t’, ‘I don’t’, ‘I won’t’ are phrases born out of fear. And fear is detrimental to our natural evolution and quest for a satisfying and fulfilling life.
Bearing that in mind, I signed up for tennis lessons last week.
…that discovering a new thing, no matter how small and insignificant, can really change my whole outlook. This week I discovered how to make comment notations is my Word documents.
You’ve been doing it for years?
Nobody likes a braggart.
This is eye-opening to me because I struggle with the need to produce perfection. I think it comes from my profession. I am a paralegal. When I write, it needs to be damn near perfect before I hand it over the my attorney for review. Otherwise, I look like a complete moron, and they wonder why it is that they are paying me good money for crap they have to rewrite. Unfortunately, this bleeds over into my personal writing. It’s a habit I have vowed to break – not at work, at home. These little notations help me tag something that needs review, ask myself questions, offer suggestions, and move on. By getting it out, even if the issue is not resolved, I am free to continue.
…that meeting my first weekly writing goal within two days of making it was a great feeling. Maybe I should up the ante. Or maybe I should just wait and see how next week goes, and the week after that.
…that the holidays are finally over. Finally. I can file them away under “done” and move on to the next thing. Though, I don’t really have much to complain about this year. I had one of the most laid-back, stress-free holidays ever. I can only think of a handful of instances when I seriously contemplated body dumping sites and weighed the likelihood of a criminal conviction over a temporary insanity plea. That might be a record for me. Usually, during the holidays, I fantasize about having a Bond car with a machine gun and rocket launchers. Maybe I am mellowing. Yeah, what are the odds of that? Maybe I just had an off-year. Maybe I should go book my December Caribbean trip now. You know, just for peace of mind.
…that aside from the fever, ringing in the New Year from the warm, cozy comfort of my bed was fabulous. I spent New Year’s Eve battling a nasty little cold and watching a Jason Bourne marathon on one of those “not in HD” channels. I should try that again next year – well, minus the fever. I might even splurge and dig out the DVDs.
…that on January 6, 1540, Anne of Cleves married England’s Henry VIII. It didn’t work out too well for them, but at least she didn’t lose her head. On January 6, 1996, I married the love of my life. So far, so good. At least I think so. He does keeps telling me I’m no picnic to live with; that I’m snarky, moody, and unreasonable. I’ve no idea what he’s talking about.
…that the Kardashians have entered the building – or more accurately – the city of Dallas. Hold on to your hats, folks. We now have ourselves a couple of genuine Hollywood “celebrities” in our midst, and they are taking the metroplex by storm. Screw substantive news, or anything else that might enlighten or educate our feeble minds. We are now to be subjected to a chronology of every breath they take, every move they make, every vow they break…
****Warning – Pet Peeve of the week****
…that with the New Year, my gym has been inundated by folks who have vowed to get in shape. That’s great. Awesome, even. I applaud anyone out there willing to get fit the old-fashioned way – by sweating. What I don’t applaud are the newbies with no manners. I realize that there are those among us who believe their time more valuable; that waiting their turn is a foreign concept. However, I will not be cowed by the intimidation tactics of others. I will be done with my reps when I’m done. Not before. Staring at me will not make me move on. Asking me how many reps I have left will only motivate me to do more, at a slower pace. I can’t wait until February. By then, they will have either learned a little gym etiquette or fallen off of the fitness wagon. I hope, or else I might need to find myself a good criminal lawyer.
…and last but not least – this week’s awww moment is brought to you by this prehensile tailed porcupine. Look at that face. Don’t you just wanna hug him?
Nutritional health is something very near and dear to my heart. As anyone who knows me can attest, I am very particular about what I deem worthy of ingestion. I can give you a ballpark estimate of the caloric content of just about anything – within reason, of course. I wasn’t always this way. I used to feast unabashedly on anything and everything that caught my fancy. Of course, one cannot overindulged for any length of time without suffering devastating consequences. It’s that whole cause and effect thing. It will bite you in the ass every time. It certainly bit me in the ass. Hard. At my heaviest, I tipped the scales at 170 lbs. That may not seem like much to some, but put that much weight on my frame and, well, let’s just agree that it wasn’t necessarily my most attractive moment. I’ve talked about my awakening before and the journey to meet my weight loss goals. It wasn’t easy. It took discipline, committment, lots of exercise, and constant calorie counting. This may sound burdensome, but after a while the counting became second nature and part of my everyday life. A true lifestyle change. My new normal.
Losing the weight, however, was just one step in the journey. The moment of truth would come in maintaining it. It is something I am still doing and will until I take my last breath. Hopefully, I’ve staved off the end by a few years with my due diligence. Or maybe it will all be in vain. There is always the possibility that I will get hit by a bus crossing the street, but the way I choose to look at it is like this: I will not have to worry about looking fat on the medical examiner’s table when he’s cutting open my chest in search of which blunt force trauma did me in. I say that alone is worth the sacrifice.
This bit of rambling nonsense brings to me to what prodded me into writing this blog entry instead of working on the next Man vs. Beast offering that my husband would rather be reading right now. I am on the campus of a community college twice a week. I come early in order to enjoy a bit of quiet time and finish up any straggling assignments I may have or work on some of my other writing endeavors. Unfortunately, all this exertion of brain power makes me hungry. Sometimes, I have the forethought to stick a couple of things in my bag to nosh on, as I run out the door in the mornings. Sometimes I don’t. Today was one of the days I didn’t. By midmorning my stomach was gnawing at my spine, and I was forced to wander over to the poor excuse for a dining establishment this campus offers.
My husband would say that my disdain for this place is my elitist personality rearing its ugly head. That I am spoiled and am expecting far too much. I would say that I pay good money (cash, paid in full at the beginning of each semester) to attend this school, the least they could do is offer me a decent place to eat with some healthy, nutritional food choices.
How bad could it be, you ask?
Well, I’ll tell you.
My first semester on campus during the lunch time hour was last fall. I naively went in search of a turkey sandwich. I like my turkey sandwich – and every other sandwich, for that matter – simple. Meat, wheat bread, a little lettuce, a tomato or two. No condiments, no added fuss. Easy peasy. I gave my order to the unpleasant lady manning the counter and was horrified by what happened next. She plopped some mystery meat down on a greasy griddle, slathered two pieces of white bread with an equally mystifying oil substance, and then promptly slapped them down on the griddle next to the meat. This was the conversation that followed:
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“You ordered a turkey sandwich. This is a turkey sandwich,” she said giving me a look I can only describe as demonic.
“No it isn’t. I just want a plain turkey sandwich.”
“You know, a sandwich. I don’t want anything grilled.”
“We don’t have that today.”
It turns out that this very nasty woman was right. There was no plain Jane turkey sandwich on wheat anywhere in that place. Every sandwich listed on the “menu” is prepared in this fashion. That’s when I took a good look around and realized that anything that could be remotely considered healthy was relegated to a tiny area next to the cash register. The pickings were slim. Yoplait yogurt – not the fat-free kind (insert eye roll here) – a pre-packaged container of a handful of grapes, a few slices of apple and a couple of crackers, those little single serving cereal things, and some unidentifiable muffins. Though muffins cannot really be considered healthy once you factor in their overall calorie and sugar content.
I left and vowed to never return.
The problem with making vows like that is that you often have to break them out of necessity or desperation. Desperation lead me back into that diner from dietary hell today. I perused the “menu” tacked just outside the door and decided that I would sacrifice some carbs and allow myself the pleasure of a bagel. I took my place in line behind a young man who ordered a hot dog. Not my first choice for breakfast fare, but you have to remember that these are young people who have yet to grow any common sense. I have faith he will learn the error in his way one day. As I stood waiting my turn, I watched the gentleman manning the counter pull a hot dog out of a refrigerated unit, slice it down the middle, opening it up butterfly style, and plop it face down on the greasy griddle. He reached into a bread bag, pulled out a bun, slathered the inside with mystery oil, and slapped it down next to the hot dog.
“Can I help you?”
I realize that this question is directed at me.
“I’d like a bagel, please.”
He gives me the look.
He turns to consult with his co-worker. After a few seconds of whispering, they both turn to me and inform me that they are out of bagels.
“An English muffin?” I saw that on the menu, too. No better or worse for my waistline. The substitution was acceptable.
They shake their heads in unison.
Are you kidding me?
“I don’t want anything then, ” I said in a voice that was probably a lot bitchier than it should have been, but really. Out of bagels AND English muffins, but the guy in front of me can get his fill of fried hot dogs?
Out of pure desperation, I settled on a cranberry muffin and a full fat yogurt. More calories than I wanted to ingestion for breakfast, but I suppose that was my penance for not leaving the house fully prepared for the day.
I cannot help but wonder why, in this day and age of increased awareness in health and wellness, that this diner, or campus for that matter, would choose to provide sub-par food that lacks any significant nutritional value. I understand that this is a public education establishment and there has been quite a lot of fiscal belt-tightening needed to keep up the level of services provided to the growing student body. I also understand that a good number of my fellow students are young people who largely have no idea that the candy bar and soda they are consuming for breakfast every morning will cause them catastrophic health problems down the road. Health problems that you and I and every other taxpayer in America will end up footing the bill for in higher insurance premiums.
Youthful ignorance is a wonderous thing.
However, these young people who throw dietary caution to the wind do not make up the whole of the student body. There are plenty of people like me. People who understand that they are what they eat, and who want a healthy alternative to a fried hot dog and greasy grilled sandwiches and fries. I’m not saying that they have to get rid of this junk food. I would certainly never want to deprive anyone of their sodium and fat fix, but why should this be the only thing available. Why can I not get a salad? A plain turkey on wheat? A fat-free yogurt cup. I’m not even asking for the healthier Greek yogurt. Yoplait is sufficient. I will even pay a premium price for these choices. As would a large number of my fellow students, I’m sure, if they were given the choice.
I understand that with healthy food choices, the mantra “If you build it, they will come”, does not always apply. There are many who are satisfied filling their bodies with junk. However, I’d like to think that with the obesity epidemic that is plaguing our country today and the health issues contributed to such, that more and more people are increasingly conscience of what they ingest and are seeking healthier alternatives. I believe this school’s dining facility is operating way behind the curve and has a lot of catching up to do.
So I’ve identified the problem. What to do about it? Simply bitching about the lack of choices will not bring about change. I think a protest is in order. A picket line? Crudely made signs spelling out our grievances? A sit in? Perhaps we can chain ourselves to the legs of the pool table that sits right outside of the little cafe.
That all sounds very reasonable to me. But then again, as I sit here in the library and scan the room, I see my fellow students drinking Big Gulps, chomping on chips, and snarfing candy bars. Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps no one in this school wants to eat a salad but me.
Perhaps my husband is right and I am indeed an elitist snob who expects for too much from society as a whole.