Resolution Revamp

Whoever decided January 1st should be the day we all dust off and try to become new and improved hasn’t visited the sunken hole in my couch that appears every winter, filled with wool blankets, microwave popcorn, and smudged dark chocolate.

Winter is a time for hibernation and rest. It’s a time to recharge, not to jump up at 5 a.m. in sub-zero temperatures and hit the park for boot camp. When it’s cold outside, our bodies naturally yearn for hot, hearty, nurturing food, not un-ripened, rock-solid fruit that’s been shipped from far-flung tropical climates.

As a personal trainer, I get a lot of phone calls in January from well-meaning people who are ready to “get to it! lose some weight!” But most of them slip away within about six weeks, and that’s being generous. They misplace their ability to find the GPS co-ordinates of the gym somewhere around the third week of the month, arriving late or not at all.

My work is most rewarding when people come to me, ready to make a significant change, and devote themselves to the long process of transformation—come what may. Breakthroughs like that come from the inside. They aren’t generally triggered by an external, predetermined event like New Year’s Day.

For most people, the resolve to change comes after many months or years of struggle with seemingly insurmountable, destructive habits. The impulse comes at the moment they can’t tolerate feeling crappy anymore, a lot crappier than they used to. It comes when they can’t bear another day squeezing into clothes that don’t fit and eating enough for two in front of the TV at night, before reprimanding themselves and curling up in bed to sleep it off.

It feels good to get moving after the holidays, to eat a little cleaner and drink a little less. It’s an ordinary, reasonable thing to do, and most people start to feel better after a week or so. With that relief, comes forgetfulness. We turn our attention back to regular life. Any big goals we set over the holidays wither and flatten like sparkling wine in a confetti-embossed, plastic champagne glass.

The air reeks with failure during January and February. The dropping of New Year’s resolutions is a cultural norm. We all do it. Late-night television hosts joke about it along with the rest of us. Just recently, I realized that I utterly failed at my objective to cook one new healthy recipe per week in 2013. I made one recipe—one out of fifty-two. Total fail. And, what’s worse, I didn’t even notice until 11 months later.

To make a real change, it’s best not to attach new behavior to the turning of the year. Begin building new habits in January if you want, but be prepared for the arrival of spring before the new routine becomes second nature. Know that your resolve will weaken. Your muscles will ache, and bones will creak as you begin to move. Your body will cry out for relief in the first days and weeks as you try to kick sugar, cheese, or cigarettes. Expect to rage against yourself, and find someone you can call or text to hold you accountable as you face the anonymous lure of sundown each night.

Make your change on December 28th or February 6th. Do it on a day when you feel like you have no choice. Do it because you’ll lose touch with the person you want to be going forward if you don’t.

Do it because it’s time, not because it’s New Year’s Eve.

(This story appears in the Jan/Feb 2014 issue of The East Nashvillian)

Why Eating Nuts Might Save Your Life... And Keep You Skinny Too

There's a whole lot of health-related, mortality and longevity-related stuff going on in my family lately. It's too much to go into now, but I will say that I feel too young for this crap. I'm sure I'll sound off about it soon, but in the meantime, I want to bring your attention to a study that came out in the New England Journal of Medicine this week about an easy - stupid-easy - way to live longer, healthier and thinner. It's a good one, and you're going to like it.

Nuts. Yep, nuts. 

Researchers looked at results from two massive studies covering 120,000 men and women over the course of 30 years, and they concluded that eating one ounce of nuts (any kind of nuts) every day, seven days a week, can lower your chance of dying within the next 30 years from heart disease, cancer, or any other cause by 20 percent. If you look at heart disease alone, it can lower your chances of dying by 29 percent. 

This is not a small finding. It's a big deal. These are crazy, incredible results, and the studies are extremely well-respected.

Not only do the nuts keep you from dying, they also keep you from gaining weight. The people in the study who ate more nuts had "lower waist circumference, less weight gain, and decreased risk of obesity."

I've been telling my clients forever that nuts are one of the best snacks they can carry with them to work or the gym. They are packed with fiber, protein, and all kinds of good juju. You've probably heard that nuts are fatty and will make you pack on the pounds. Well, here is hard scientific proof that they won't.

The only caveat is salt. Roasted or raw, whatever you do, don't buy salted nuts. It's the salt that makes you want to eat too many, thereby taking the fat and calories way up over the top. "Honey roasted" goes on that list too. Just say no to honey roasting.

So grab a handful of nuts. Everyday. It's good medicine.

All I Ever Needed From Dick

(This story appeared in the November 14, 2013 issue of The Nashville Scene)

When I was three months pregnant, my best friend Lonnie called to tell me that she was going to get married in a few months — at my ex-boyfriend Dick's house in Los Angeles.

Dick isn't just any old ex-boyfriend. He's the kind of guy who locks you in a room with your favorite European chocolate, lights a bottle of vodka on fire, and watches you burn as you labor to escape, yet simultaneously ache for more.

I couldn't really be upset about her choice of venue. Dick has a fabulous house — Lonnie wanted to get married poolside, and he has a beautiful pool — and it wouldn't cost a penny. Also, Lonnie had known Dick longer than she'd known me. In fact, she and I met through him. When Dick and I ended things, I warned him I would be claiming Lonnie in the breakup. There was not a chance in hell that I would miss her wedding.

I met Dick when I was 23, and he catapulted me into adulthood with blind force. He was older and worldlier, aloof but passionate, tall, dark, Italian, blue-eyed and foul. He taught me about fancy cheese and Spanish wine.

But for our entire two-year relationship, he refused to introduce me to his family and friends, instead keeping me stashed in his apartment for warmth. I lost myself, catering to his every whim in the vain hope that he would let me in, but there was never enough space.

Through it all, Lonnie was at the periphery, discreetly helping me cobble together a delicate but sturdy shack of courage and conviction, a structure that would shield me from total collapse when I made the inevitable — yet devastating — decision to step away from him.

It ended badly, as all flaming failures should. Many years later, here I was: older, living in a different state, married to a different man, six months pregnant and waddling into my best friend's wedding at my ex-boyfriend's house.

I wore a floor-length floral dress and 4-inch wedge heels. I walked in with my swollen belly — and boobs — held high, on the arm of my kind, generous new husband, who gloriously stood a full inch taller than my tall Italian ex.

I buttressed myself with tasks: running around, helping Lonnie into her dress, baking hors d'oeuvres, and taking care of the rings. My husband was stoic, enduring the awkwardness with cool-headed class and claiming his rightful place as the guy who got the girl. I armed myself with my one doctor-approved glass of wine and focused laser attention on the lovely bride. All was going swimmingly until just before the wedding, when I had to take a piss.

I ran inside while the guests assembled in the backyard by the pool. While I stood in the hallway, waiting for the bathroom, Dick rounded the corner, and our eyes met. He looked at me softly, and with pity, which was not exactly the response I was hoping for. Jealousy, wistfulness or even resentment would have been nice. Yet, there I was, standing in his hallway — bulbous and bloated, bound by my compressed bladder — holding a plastic cup of red wine filled to the brim, desperately pinching my knees together.

Nodding at my wine, then my belly, he said, "That's quite a pour. All you need is a mirror and a line, and you'll be all set."

Nice. How very 1996 Los Angeles of you, Dick.

Then he said, "Use the bathroom in my bedroom."

I paused, hesitant to enter his den of iniquity. But I really had to go.

"Go on," he prodded.

Slowly, carefully, so as not to spill my precious vat of wine, I squeezed past him, my belly brushing him lightly as he stood aside in the narrow hallway.

His bedroom reeked of the past, and his immense bathroom overflowed with exotic, unfamiliar cosmetics and powders belonging to his woman of the moment. After relieving myself, I ran my fingers over the small white tiles surrounding the sink. It was a world I used to crave. At 23, I wanted nothing more than to be a small speck in Dick's inner sanctum, and here I was, large — quite large — a pregnant stranger peeing in his toilet. I laughed out loud and borrowed a lip gloss from the makeup bag spilling out over the counter.

Dick's bemused smirk from our brief reunion hadn't stung like I'd thought it might. I realized how seductive disdain and delirium were in my early 20s, and how worthless they were to me now.

I returned to my seat by the pool and tucked myself under my husband's arm.

At the end of the night, with Lonnie married off, I kissed her goodbye, knowing that she would be at my side when the baby came. I thanked Dick for treating us all to such a wonderful evening and walked out the door, under the palm trees and through the wrought-iron gate.

Dick was a good time once. He was an exercise in finding my voice and learning to break free of destruction, but most importantly, he brought me my best friend, my Lonnie. She was the prize.

She was all I ever needed from Dick.

What Is Your Fitness Age?

Check out this fitness calculator. It tells you your "fitness age" based on your actual age, how much and how hard you exercise, your waist measurement, and your resting heart rate. It's rare for this kind of calculator to take physical activity into account, not just your current weight and measurements. It's posted by the Norwegian University of Science and Technology, and you know how those crazy Norwegians are... the happiest, most prosperous people on earth. 

So, I'm inclined to believe this lovely, little calculator, plus they spell it kalkulator which is really how it should be, don't you think??

P.S. It also tells you your approximate VO2max score, a measure of aerobic fitness or how efficiently you use oxygen. If you want to put that score in context, check out this chart.

This Fitness Model Wants to Know, "What's Your Excuse?" for Your Average Body

A controversy exploded online recently over a California mom of three who posted the following photo on her facebook page:

Photo of Maria Kang by Mike Byerly

People freaked out when they saw this image. They accused her of fat-shaming women, being a bad mom and a bad person. I came across the story in this article on Yahoo. She's a fitness model, a former beauty queen, and a small business owner, and she claims she posted the image to provide inspiration for other women struggling with their weight. She says she wanted to encourage people to take responsibility for their own behavior and acknowledge the degree to which they are responsible for the state of their own bodies.

Okay - I take her at her word, and I certainly would never accuse her of being a bad mom or person for making a commitment to fitness in her own life. Clearly, she has done a great job! I have no issue with her desire to inspire. She makes part of her living off of trying to do just that and playing into the winds of the fitness industry, as do I.  I agree that, thankfully, we have a great deal of power over our own lifestyle choices, but that is where our similarities end.

At the core of the statement "What's your excuse?" is the assumption that we all strive to look like her, to be extraordinarily fit. It assumes that beauty is our highest ideal, rather than health. 

Putting aside all of the reasons why many people actually can't physiologically achieve that level of fitness (health problems, genetics, access to healthy food), even if we all could, would we want to? Would I want to get up at 6 a.m., do burpees and lunges while my kid hangs out at the playground, and never-ever watch TV as she does? Not really.

I exercise to maintain physical and emotional balance, not to achieve a predetermined, ideal image of a woman's body. I take no issue with Maria's choices in her own life and with her impulse to inspire others to better health, but I do think she is lost in a glorified, fitness mindset and a way of thinking about those of us who aren't striving for that particular "look." She presupposes that we are missing something and that we would be happier or more fulfilled if we lived life like she does. She presumes that we need an "excuse."

I walked in to the gym this morning, trying to think my way through her message and the explosion of responses she has received. I looked around the room at people of all shapes and sizes - women in particular - plugging away at the elliptical machines and weight benches, and I was actually moved to tears. These people were making an effort. They were there to take care of themselves, and they were both beautiful and lumpy in their sweaty spandex. 

What's missing from Maria's off-the-cuff question, "What's your excuse?", is an acknowledgement that beauty and health come in multitudes of shapes and sizes.

My clients, and the women of Body Baggage, work extremely hard to improve their health every day. Obesity causes physiological changes in the mind and body, and it's not always as easy as "deciding" to get in shape. (See previous posts on how difficult these changes can be and how to think about overcoming them here and here.)

Most of us are putting in a good faith effort to be healthy every day. Could we do more? Definitely, yes. Do we need an "excuse" for not dedicating our energies to being beauty queens? No. Most definitely not.

Five Reasons to Give Yourself a Break at the Gym

Photo - www.fitfluential.com

As a trainer, I hear a lot of not-so-convincing excuses for skipping workouts. Most of them are just that - excuses - but below are a few that totally justify giving yourself a break. 

1. You ache. – Your body hurts. There is fatigue in your bones so deep that your eyes burn at the thought of stillness and silence. Sleep. Rest. Your risk of injury is much higher when you and your muscles are spent.

2. You lost your keys twice this morning and poured orange juice on your cereal. – If you are spinning out, frazzled beyond recognition, and making it to the gym is PART OF THE ROUTINE, DAMN IT!!! Stop. Take a walk. Take as many walks as you can. Even 10 minutes will give you space to reorganize your thoughts.

3. Spin class blows. - You hate it. All your friends love it. You’ve tried, but you still hate it. Forget spin, and move on. Find something you love, but, whatever you do, don't give up! Just because you hate one type of exercise does not mean you will hate them all. You just need to find your perfect match.

4. Your Mom or your best friend just died. – Grieve and rage and be relieved. Go home, stare at the ceiling, and then take a trip somewhere. Go to Machu Picchu. Make her favorite sugar cookies. The gym is irrelevant immediately after a significant tragedy or loss, but, in the long run, exercise can help pull you through the grief and back into balance. Get back to it when you're ready.

5. You had a baby this week. – Give it a month or two. Listen to your doctor. Move as much as she says you can. Get out for fresh air as often as you can, and bring the baby. Get through the initial months of exhaustion, shock, and amazement. Life will return to normal eventually, and when you're ready to prioritize time for physical fitness again, you will know it.

One reason not to give yourself a break: 

You don’t feel like it. - If you allow yourself to skip workouts whenever you don't feel like it (and if you're anything like me), you will skip week-after-week, until you can't remember the last time you went to the gym. Deep down, we all have a pretty good idea whether we have a legitimate reason to take it easy or if we would really rather just have a snooze.

So when you are deciding whether to turn left toward home or right toward the gym, make sure to ask yourself if your reason for heading home is good enough or if it is just another excuse - and then (9 times out of 10), take a right.

How Joan Didion Taught Me to Respect My "Lard Ass" Just the Way It Is

Photo: Brigitte Lacombe, NYmag.com

Joan Didion wrote: 
“Self-respect is a discipline, a habit of mind that can never be faked but can be developed, trained, coaxed forth.”  

I hereby raise my right hand, place my left on a first edition copy of Slouching Towards Bethlehem, and declare that this is the gospel truth.  It is possible to break the cycle of self-inflicted trash talk that leaves you beaten and bleeding and nurture a new normal that lifts you up. 

For over a decade, my “habit of mind” was as follows: “Lard ass.  Who do you think you are? Somebody special? Everybody knows you aren’t funny. Nobody wants you at that party anyway - you and your fat ass. Don’t even dream you’ll get through the night without losing your train of thought mid-sentence or inhaling a steaming pile of deep-fried cheese sticks. What a joke. Go home and make love to your couch. You’ll be better off.”

I was a master - a shining example of how to tear yourself down to nothing.  “Skinny” was the goal, and anything short of skinny meant I was a failure.  Being a failure meant I might as well resign myself to stuffing my face with the blinds pulled down every night.  At least I wouldn’t be hungry.  I had it all worked out.

Skinny was my particular objective, but it doesn’t really matter what the unmet goal is.  Everybody has his or her own personal measuring stick – talent, education, fashion – whatever it is, you are convinced you don’t have enough of it.  The deficit lodges in your skull and screams at you.  It is the thing you flog yourself with mercilessly on a daily basis, and everything else in your life suffers because of it.

The happy news is that if you should find yourself in this situation, with a “habit of mind” such as this, by default you have become very skilled at training yourself to believe your own thoughts. You just happen to be choosing destructive ones.  Whether they originated with a parent, a bully at school, an ex-lover, or in your very own mind, you are the one keeping those thoughts alive now. The situation is under your control.

If you’re crazy good at convincing yourself that you suck and you’ve been at it for years, you’re likely pretty persuasive by now.  And if you’re an expert at self-manipulation, there’s no reason you can’t be just as good at convincing yourself that you are perfectly capable of rocking the workout, the dress, the job interview, and the party - all on the same day.

There is a way to “develop, train, and coax” the mind by repeatedly, almost ritualistically, nurturing healthier thoughts and disregarding destructive ones. The first and most important step is to distinguish between the two. Then keep vigil, taking note of the moments when you feel grounded and strong - sustaining those and rejecting unfounded beliefs that reinforce suckiness where no suckiness exists. Reject them as bull-honky because that's what they are.

You would never treat your best friend this way. So why treat yourself worse than you would treat someone you love? Do what you would do for her. Refocus on the positive and the possible.

           

Boosting a positive “habit of mind” requires shaking things up a bit, doing things that make you feel good about yourself or make your heart race. Take a solo trip to Costa Rica for two weeks to learn how to surf. Bring flowers from your garden to a neighbor, or foster a homeless pup. Tell your roommate – once and for all – that it really pisses you off when she steals your parking space and your f*&#ing girl scout cookies.

           

Getting skinny would never have fixed anything for me in and of itself.  I had to change the way I approached the perceived inadequacy. I had to find something productive to do rather than fixating on what I didn't like about myself. I needed to exercise to feel stronger and eat better to clear my head. A decade of trying to get thinner led nowhere but higher on the scale. Bonus – when I finally decided to do some things that made me feel better, I lost weight because I wasn’t busy medicating low self-esteem with food.

I had to learn that skinny chicks don’t possess any more self-respect than fat chicks and that my own dignity should have nothing to do with my weight.  I know skinny-minis who smoke, cry in their cocktails, and spend hours getting ready to go out because they think they look ugly in everything.  And I know voluptuous powerhouses who complete triathlons and eat tomatoes out of their own gardens.  

Self-respect is about taking care of yourself and others, making choices that make you a little better, a little stronger, a little healthier everyday.

As a personal trainer. I hear people all the time pining away for weight loss, love, a better house, a better job – fill in the blank – as days and years pass them by.  Those are fine goals to have, but none of those external things will lead to genuine happiness.  Only self-respect will do that... being someone you can be proud of every day of your life whether or not money, true love, or mini-skirts are in your future.

Joan Didion believes that there is a method - a concrete, tangible way out - and so do I.

Your thoughts are yours. Own them. Coax the good ones forth.

The Most Ridiculous, Discouraging Weight Loss Headline of the Year:

OBESE STOMACHS TELL US DIETS ARE DOOMED TO FAIL

-Science Daily

This headline by Science Daily is shamelessly pimped out to get traffic without any regard for the millions of people who will click on it and quit reading before they reach the end of the article, believing they have found yet another reason to give up once and for all on getting healthy and losing weight. Worse, it's not even an accurate representation of the science that appears at the heart of the article. 

Come, all ye fatties, and feed on the trough of inadequacy. 

And did they have to use an image of a stomach that looks like a big, sweaty dude at a wedding reception, torn between sidling up to the dessert table or the hotel concierge? Even if people are "doomed to fail" at losing weight, it doesn't mean they have no sense of style... or clothing size for that matter. Obesity doesn't have to look like that.

If you read on, the message is certainly discouraging but doesn't exactly rise up to condemn us all to a lifetime of collapse and decay. It goes on to say that - in people who have consumed a high-fat diet for extended periods - the nerves and hormones that kick in to tell us we are full are not working properly.  The problem persists even after people have changed their diets and lost weight - maybe permanently, but maybe not. More studies are needed.

No doubt, it's depressing. The study was funded by the National Health and Medical Research Council. These people are legit - but if you read the study like Science Daily does and look at it through the end-of-times perspective they present in their headline, you'd be led to believe that if you've ever been fat and would like to live slimmer, you are DOOMED TO FAIL. Awesome.

It's a bullshit reading of the implications of the science, and whoever titled this article should be ashamed of him/herself.

The news coming out of this study is actually extremely helpful. It lets us know what we're up against. Without that information, without realizing that the messages traveling to our brains have fallen down on the job, we don't have a shot in hell of trying to combat it. If we press on, unconscious of the facts, Science Daily is right, we are doomed.

But if we lean on this knowledge, we can find a new way to define hunger and fullness - because what these scientists are really talking about is satisfaction - and there is definitely a middle ground between hunger and satisfaction.

Generally, for people with normal brains and stomachs, this precarious middle ground can be found about halfway through a meal. They are no longer starving but want to keep eating, looking for that magical sensation of satiety, fullness, and peace. Pretty much everybody blows right on past this halfway point - hyperspeed pasta party - in search of that glorious release. We are not accustomed to paying attention to this middle sensation, stopping to look for it, but if we want to lose weight, we have no choice but to get up close and personal with it.

What I take from this study is that obese and formerly-obese people should understand that the message to stop eating may not kick in for them soon enough. If your brain and stomach aren't connecting right, you can't rely on them. 

The loss of that feeling of satisfaction is something worth mourning. It is a very real loss, but it most definitely does not mean that you or your diet are "doomed to fail." It means you have an extra hurdle to jump.  And having this information gives you a whole hell of a lot more power than you had before you knew it. 

If we understand that our brains will consistently tell us to eat more than we need, maybe we have a fighting chance of doing something about it.

Try looking for that different sensation. Look for the middle ground. Look for "not being hungry" rather than being "satisfied." They are two very different things. And plan ahead so you do get eat to "satisfaction" once a week, or twice a week, or however many times you need to feel sane. Look forward to it. Choose those times and savor them, but the rest of the time - the rest of the normal, daily, boring time - eat until you are not hungry instead of eating until you're full.

And use studies like this to shape your strategy rather than beat yourself down. Before we buy into inflammatory, misleading headlines, we need to dig a little deeper and see how we can use the information to our advantage. Or just ignore the static. 

Don't let flashy, traffic-driven headlines determine whether you win or lose. And make sure to show up at the wedding looking and feeling sleek and confident, no matter what size you are.

Science Daily, your headline sucks. Next time, give us a little credit.

SLEEP, PEOPLE!

With all the dietary changes, exercise classes, new recipes and weekly menu planning that we do in pursuit of better health, we forget that the most basic thing could be keeping our weight loss goals and overall wellbeing beyond our grasp: SLEEP.  Most of us desperately need more sleep and downtime with screens turned off.

I am guilty as charged. I find myself, several times a week after midnight, staring bleary-eyed at my computer or TV, trying desperately to grab onto a few extra minutes of non-work, non-family "me time." But it's actually not "me time" because when I finally snap out of it, I realize that I have been lost for hours in the clutches of ebay or Bravo. It is distracting, stimulating and totally unproductive - the opposite of restful.

The New York Times published an article recently about the impact of sleep on weight gain. Basically, scientific studies have shown that when we are sleep deprived, we crave fatty, sugary, high-calorie food.  There's no debate about that, and, on top of those cravings, now we know that lack of sleep also disables the prefrontal cortex, the rational, decision-making part of the brain that helps us make measured, healthy decisions.  It's a one-two punch: cravings for crappy food combined with an inability to make rational decisions.  If you've started your day with too little sleep, you are valiantly fighting a losing battle.

The only way around it is to be proactive. Figure out what time you would like to be asleep and turn the screens off an hour in advance. Settle in to a good book, a trashy magazine, a cup of herbal tea, or a hot bath. Stretch, or take a gentle walk around the block. Whatever you do, don't pay bills or try to get any work done.

Like I said, I'm guilty as charged.  So this week and next, I'm going to give it a go. Screens off by 10:30. Precious sleep by 11:30. If I can do that... oh, the places I'll go.

Walkin' After Midnight

This article appears in The East Nashvillian Sept/Oct 2013 Issue, p. 29

When I traded Los Angeles for Nashville in 2007, I did it with more than a little trepidation. The guy I was shadowing was a 40-something entrenched bachelor, a drummer who had been on the road for decades. My creative heart was broken in L.A., and I was in search of a fresh start. As I dreamed of a new home with lush green trees and summer storms, I also felt my throat tighten at the thought of long, dark, winding roads with sporadic street lights. I would miss my city streets.

Over the 10 years I spent in New York and L.A., I developed a habit of walking for hours in the middle of the night. It was a form of therapy I cultivated in my twenties to deal with catastrophically bad body image and mounting anxiety. No matter how many late-night slices I ate, no matter how many cocktail waitressing gigs and temp jobs I got fired from, I could always walk. The sidewalks were my lifeline, and they were free.

When I made the move to Tennessee, for my sanity, I needed to know I would have sidewalks to pace long after everyone else pulled the blinds and crawled into bed. Steps from my front door, I longed to be able to turn left or right and start strolling.

When I landed in the heart of Lockeland Springs, I discovered I could breathe. The sidewalks went up and down hills, passed by old houses in various states of rehabilitation, and opened onto Shelby Park. At the time, Five Points was growing, but I never dreamed I would be lucky enough to live squarely in the middle of what I can only describe as one of the most welcoming neighborhoods I have ever known.

Over the years, as I walked - accompanied by my four-legged babies, Elvin and then Ringo - I put on my headphones and watched the transformation of East Nashville through the eyes of Will Hoge, Jack Silverman, and Erin McCarley. I saw storefronts come and go, and one day noticed that they came and stayed. Structures were erected in empty lots to house shops for people who create things with their hands and display them for voyeurs like me, Elvin, and Ringo.

The sidewalks have introduced me to people who care for five, six, or even seven foster dogs to keep them from being euthanized by Metro Animal Control. They rescue these bedraggled souls from the street, provide them medical care and doggie biscuits, and treat them like family until they find forever homes.

I walked nightly until I found an outdoor patio with a beautiful, tattooed waitress who brought me cabernet while I looked up at the stars, inhaling the maple trees and knockout roses framing the view.

When I had a baby not too long ago - a small human who keeps me homebound more than I might like - the sidewalks emancipated me in a whole new way. The mini-man and I have struck out for epic walks almost every day since he was born, and the neighborhood has continued to stretch and yawn wider and deeper than I ever could have imagined.

It has risen up with a Pavilion two blocks from my house that hosts weekly concerts and Sunday brunches. It has surprised me with a Hootenanny just a few blocks further flung where I can sit under a tree with my boys (two- and four-legged), drink lemonade, and watch the sun go down with music dancing in my ears.

I do a double-take at least once a week, walking by a house that was transformed seemingly overnight or a restaurant packed to overflowing where there used to be a hair salon. I have found a yoga studio, an ice cream shop, two farmers markets, and a park with a picnic table and an unrestricted view of a gleaming fire engine… every little dude’s dream come true.

When I moved here, I was looking for a place to heal, a place where it would be okay that I came from L.A. and wasn’t all that enamored with cowboy hats. I had one non-negotiable. My need for sidewalks led me to East Nashville, a place where I can start walking and never stop.

Recently, Karl Dean has taken to fixing my sidewalks, making them smooth and shiny, and he will never know the depth of my gratitude… and the gratitude of all the dog walkers, stroller pushers, and little ones learning to walk who will traverse the safety of our East Nashville sidewalks in the years to come as we watch schools, hookah shops, and sushi restaurants pop up like dandelions in the summer sun.

Out on the Ranch with Papa's Buffalo

I just got back from four days on the outskirts of Oklahoma City.  Ken, Sky, and I went to see my Nana who is nearly 90 and alone after losing Papa three years ago.  Her heart isn't doing so well, and we want to make it out to see her as often as we can.  

We stayed at the Ranch that Nana and Papa built over many decades in the "show barn" they turned into a monument to their love and travels, with trinkets from all over the world on every table, mantle, and counter top for Sky to discover.  

We rode Papa's medical chair lift up and down the stairs for entertainment. 

We hung tight with the Buffalo that were his babies and the bulls that were a large part of his livelihood.  

The stillness out there is soothing in a way I forgot, the creaking of the screen door.  We were in bed each night by 10 p.m. with no internet or tv to keep us up, and still, after 10 hours of sleep, we found ourselves sinking into the silence, drifting off mid-afternoon in the heat.  There was dust and hay.  Both of my boys were snotty upon leaving, and my eyes were fire engine red.

I did everything in my power to eat as I usually would, but my gluten-free pescetarian diet was an anomaly there.  I ordered a salad with no chicken on it which came dutifully doused in bird and a spinach salad with shrimp I imagined would be grilled that came double-dipped and deep-fried in batter.  I ended up with a bun-less veggie burger and a pile of french fries two out of four nights.  But it didn't matter at all.  

Seeing Nana's reaction to Sky's shrieks of joy in a fancy restaurant and her comical consternation at his relocating her knick knacks all around the house was enough.  I wish Papa could have been there.  He would have loved it all: the chair lift, the shrieks, the kids from the city with hay fever, and the chaos of an almost-two year old repeatedly asking to revisit the tractor. 

Sometimes food doesn't matter.  It just doesn't.

One Year of Body Baggage

It's been a year since the first meeting of Body Baggage.  Members - you know who you are - you have trudged along and triumphed.  You have kept food diaries when necessary and enjoyed guilt-free pasta and cocktails when stigma and bad conscience threatened to overtake you.  You have asked questions of each other that would never have occurred to me.  You have brought in recipes and inspirations far beyond what I could have dreamed up on my own.  You have made appointments to meet up and exercise at the ass crack of dawn to my amazement and wonderment.  You are stronger and healthier than you were a year ago, and so am I.

Thank you for your dedication and attention to each other and to your own lives.  You have given life to a project I started on shaky ground, unsure if it would matter, and you've taught me again and again how incredibly important the support of other women can be.  You have taken me through the first year of my son's life, kept me in shape, and made me stay present when I felt like disappearing into routine and exhaustion.  You ladies have my heart.  THANK YOU for showing up, for your honesty and for giving a damn.  If any of you ever need a safe place to land or someone to pick you up on the side of the road in the middle of the night, I'm it.

Keep it up.  You're on a roll - and if you ever lose faith, the rest of us will be here to remind you of how far you've come and how much further you can go.

Mad love, Sarah

A Kiss On My Naked Hip And A Mimosa By My Bed

Today...

I woke up with a kiss on my naked hip and a mimosa by my bed.
I drank my tea in silence.
I blared music with the bathroom door wide open while taking a long, hot shower.
I shaved my legs.
I had tater tots and diet coke for lunch.
I closed my eyes whenever I wanted.

And now I am writing, without time constraint or end of nap deadline.  
Bliss.

Thank you to my husband for hearing my Mother's Day Plea and to my little man for leading me around by the hand to marvel at rocks on the ground and birds in the sky during the 30 minutes I saw you today.

It's Mother's Day, Please Leave Me Alone

My article appeared in the Nashville Scene this week, my plea for freedom.  And sleep. And alcohol.
___________________

Dear Loving Partner,

Don't take me to brunch for Mother's Day. Don't buy me flowers or chocolate. You're allowed to make me breakfast in bed, but then: Kindly disappear. Leave me to linger at the edge of sleep for as long or as briefly as I want.

If you love me, take my child away and leave me in peace. Let me stare out the window and read a book in my Wonder Woman pajamas with the dog on my lap and a big black hair growing out of my top lip. More...

Rock Your Gypsy Soul

Van Morrison's "Into the Mystic" came up on shuffle today.  Oh Van, you sing so pretty.  I listened to that song nine thousand times the summer of 1989 in Cape Cod while my 12-year-old-self was busy building bonfires, drinking peach schnapps, and telling boys on the beach that I was totally 16.

Yes, now at 36, I would like to rock my gypsy soul, please, "just like way back in the days of old."  I want a renewed sense of possibility and freedom.  I want to live like I'll never be as young as I am today because... I'll never be as young as I am today.  This is my one and only chance to be here and now, where I live, with the people I love, and I would very much like to do it without guilt, anxiety, overblown drama, unwarranted procrastination, and other such ridiculousness.

Admittedly, I'm on a bit of a tear lately about living large.  I'm harping on the passage of time a tad tiddly touch.  I think I might start wearing crazy old lady clothes, big feather hats and therapeutic shoes.  And yes, you can take that as a warning.

"Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic."

How's The Weight Loss Going?

Last December 29th, just before New Year's, I wrote a blog post in which I asked "Are you happy with the way you have felt during the last six months? Are you happy with your body and state of mind?"  It's a cliche´ (though perhaps an important one) to ask such things at New Year's.  A better time to ask is in the spring, when new-ness is happening everywhere you turn and vitamin D is seeping into your skin for the first time in months.

So I ask again... this time three months later, "Are you moving in the right direction?  Are you moving at all??" In the infamous words of the Steve Miller Band, "Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping into the future." Just think of me as the nagging, ticking clock in your living room.

We are heading into Easter.  It's almost April, and I am hearing lots of buzz about Easter parties and candy and lots of groaning about the fact that the scale still hasn't moved. First, the issue was Christmas and New Year's, then it was Valentine's Day, and now it's Easter.  Next up: summer BBQ season.

There will always, always be a holiday, a business trip, or a bad break-up standing tall, ready to get in your way.  There will always be something taunting and tempting you, pulling you away from your goals for another day, another night, another week.  Always. Along with death and taxes, you can count on that.

So the question becomes, "How much time do you have?  How many more months of your life will pass by before you actually make the change you keep talking about?"

If living in the moment and enjoying your life, eating Cadbury eggs on Easter and drinking scotch all weekend are more important to you than losing ten or fifty pounds, bless you, free spirit! Go forth and enjoy!  If this is the case, please-please-please let yourself off the hook.  Drop the goal, and stop carrying around a miserable shadow of failure and guilt. There's no reason for it.

The problem arises when losing the weight actually is very important to you, but willpower is failing you.  If this is where you are and you can't seem to break out of it, I encourage you to STOP and STARE... stare at the Cadbury egg, stare at the sweet potato fries, stare at the pizza (each slice one-by-one)... stop and stare and consider what is about to happen... is it worth it?

Don't try to will yourself not to eat it, just pause long enough to make a conscious choice. Over time, you will increase your awareness of what matters to you and how much it matters.  You'll start to make choices that support your ambition, or you'll decide it's not worth it and move on.

If a large pizza is your best friend on a Saturday night, love it for that.  Stop and stare. Appreciate the fact that you have the option to pick up the phone and order a pizza.  Eat the whole thing if you want to, but eat it with love.  Even if there are tears in your eyes and you know you are eating to feel full and numb, appreciate it for that.  Just don't do it unconsciously.  Stop and stare.  Consider the goals you hold dear to your heart, and decide if each slice is worth it.

If you come upon a moment when your desire to wear a bikini or your fear of painful knee joints matter more than the next slice, have a pre-planned list of other stuff to do... take a walk, do your nails, get in the tub, buy a trashy magazine, move your body from the couch to the floor, stretch, pull your dog up on to your lap... do something to shake up the pattern.

At first, this might - and probably will - feel forced, cumbersome, and awkward, but eventually it does become more natural.  I can't promise that it will ever be second nature, but it can be a stopgap to help you get where you want to go.  And the choices do get easier as you go.

It's April.  The holidays are long gone.  If you've been stuck on a goal for months or years, give it some love.  Let it go guilt-free, or give it the attention it deserves.  Look at your body in the mirror, and see it for all of the amazingness that it is - because any living, breathing body truly is a remarkable device.  Take time to see the weight you are carrying (where it sits, how it curves), and decide what is worth it.  Cocktails? Cupcakes?

Some things will be worth it, and some will not.  Look at your food, and love it for being there - or toss it because your goal matters more.  Love the food, or let it go for a higher cause. But whatever you do, don't eat blindly, and get dressed blindly, and let the months and years melt away with the clock ticking relentlessly in your living room.

See it.  Stare.

Cheers to Lena Dunham and Her Panties

Love Lena.  And her panties.  And her willingness to let it all hang out.

L.A. Weekly raises a glass to Lena Dunham, Liz Lemon, and Girls.

"Maybe I don't care about being pretty, okay? 

'Cause it's a Wednesday night, baby, and I'm alive!"

Is Gluten Making You Depressed?

If you have struggled with depression, ADHD, or chronic fatigue, check out this article about celiac disease in Psychology Today.  Your problems could be caused by an allergy to wheat, rye, and barley, and doing something as easy as changing your diet could go a long way towards feeling better.  Of course, it could also be totally unrelated, but this is a sleeper cause of psychological issues that doctors often don’t consider.

I struggled with depression, fatigue, and muscle weakness for ten years and eventually developed raunchy skin legions on my outer thighs that finally alerted me to my own celiac disease.  I'll spare you the pictures, but this is a real thing and easily solved with a gluten free diet.  I wish some doctor along the way had considered diet as a possible cause instead of doping me up on pills.  There are a million gluten-free alternatives available and resources like Gluten Free Girl online that can help you get started.  Worth exploring if you are suffering!

The Breakthrough Depression Solution: Is Gluten Making You Depressed?

The Douchebag In Yoga Class... OM

I finally made it to yoga class today after several weeks of no babysitter.  I was happy. Boy, was I happy!  A guy came in and put his mat way closer to mine than was necessary.  Fine.  All good!  He was a very yogi-looking guy, extremely lean, hipster, and overly serious. Whatever.  I offered to move over to give him more space which put me right up against the wall.  No worries.  I'm happy!  We started class and were instructed to straighten our legs out to the side at 90 degrees about 6 inches off the ground, so he proceeded to place his two bare feet an inch above my nose.  Perhaps it's me, but isn't it common courtesy to be aware of your neighbors in yoga class and make whatever adjustments are necessary to get your "om" on while giving everyone else the inalienable right to breath without your feet in their face?

I gave him the benefit of the doubt - assumed he probably had his eyes closed and wasn't aware - and moved my mat for a second time, this time forward so I was up against both the side wall and the front mirror.  We came out of our first downward facing dog into plank, and I realized that the aforementioned gentleman had placed his PHONE at the front of his mat so that every time he came back into plank, he could CHECK HIS TEXT MESSAGES.  He was lithe enough to suspend himself easily with one arm while reading, typing, and then returning himself to down dog.

I wanted nothing more than to throw his phone and his bony ass out the window, but decided that it was my task to remain focused on my own practice and to let him have his.  I tried to tell myself that he must have a medical condition and an app that he had to update to keep his blood sugar at the correct level, or a family member in the hospital in dire condition and in need of constant monitoring... from yoga class.  But, probably, he was just so super important, so vitally necessary for the world to keep spinning that he had to stay connected.  I established that the latter was likely true when he started cracking his knuckles violently in the middle of savasana (the resting pose at the end of class).

When it was over, he bowed, said "namaste" loudest of all, and stayed meditative and holier-than-thou long past when the rest of us packed up our mats and blocks and got on with our days.  I actually managed to enjoy the class (love that teacher) and got a good workout.  I even learned a little something about how to stay calm and productive with a self-involved douchebag in my face.  His trip, not mine.  But seriously, dude. Seriously?

Real Change Requires Real Food, But I Don't Wanna!

I've come a long way from disaster to pretty-damn-good, a long way from sugar addict to mostly-healthy.  I'm hovering here in pretty good shape, but I wouldn't say I'm glowing with wellness or anything.  I won't be running a marathon any time soon, and my attempt at turning weekly CSA produce deliveries into healthy meals last summer resulted in a lot of rotting root vegetables.

I wish I could be like those snazzy whole food bloggers who make it look so easy:
20 Quick and Easy On-the-go Lunches!  Not so much.  I eat relatively healthy, but a whole hell of a lot of my lunches still come out of a box... an Amy's organic box, but a box nonetheless.

I keep squawking to my Body Baggage group about how I'd feel slammin' if I lost another 5 lbs or so, but with my current regimen, it's not happening. My body is not going to change if my diet remains the same.  I get plenty of exercise.  Those last 5 lbs are all about the food. I need to get real and decide if I'm happy here in mostly-healthy-land or if I want to take a leap into genuinely, deep-down-healthy-land.  If I'm not ready to do it, I should drop the act altogether. There's no point in feeling guilty about it.

If I do want to take that next step, I'm going to have to get better acquainted with my kitchen.  I'm going to have to get good with devoting time and energy to shopping more frequently and cooking every day.  The thought makes me twitch.  It's a lazy luxury to eat organic food that has been prepared, preserved and frozen for me, but I have zero doubt that I would feel a difference if I was eating real, fresh, whole food prepared by yours truly.

I'm not a cook by nature.  I don't have the skills to taste something and say, "Hey, that needs more oregano!"  Even if I had the time, I don't have the attention span to chop and stir for hours each day.  I just don't care that much.  I don't have the nurturing mama/cook-thing in me.  My family gets by with a whole lot of Trader Joe's basics, supplemented with fresh cooked vegetables or salads on the side.  We eat dark chocolate and drink red wine every night.  We have chips and crackers, boxed risottos, jars of sauces, and cans of beans crowded into our pantry.  Our freezer overfloweth with "healthy" pre-prepared foods.

I am finally coming to the conclusion to that I can only go so far putting these canned, jarred, boxed, bagged, and frozen foods into my body.  There is a giant row of cookbooks on my kitchen counter.  Staring at me.  Perhaps I should consider opening one.

For now, it's February.  It's too cold to get out from under my blankets, and I could swear it gets dark at noon... and yes, that is a big, fat excuse. I'm going to give myself a pass during these dark winter days. The produce section pretty much sucks right now anyway. Or that's what I'm telling myself.  The cookbooks will stay where they are for a few more months, but I'm declaring out loud in preparation for the summer...

I need to make a decision.  Am I happy with eating healthy kinda sorta?  Or do I want to actually do it right?  Not sure yet.  Will report back when the sun comes out.

P.S. To the "friend" who introduced me to the vegan, gluten-free dessert bar at The Wild Cow... PTHHHH.