Just Chew It

A huge part of any lifestyle overhaul is just getting out there and moving. But if one of those movements you're having trouble with is pulling your jeans up over your hips, sooner or later you'll have to turn your attention to the fork-lift (as in lifting your fork to your mouth). I did not turn in my resignation as the West Coast's Chapter President of the Chub Club by exercise alone, although it would have been easier if I could have. No matter how many squats, sprints, and sit-ups I mastered, the pounds didn't really start their downward spiral until I took a new approach to my diet. And you know what? It sucked. It really really really sucked. It's not fair that I have to watch what I eat when I log in seven or eight hours of exercise a week. Hell, I should be able to go through 1-12 on the McDonald's value meal menu with the amount of intervals I clock . . . but I can't. And neither can most people. Even you're shredding 500 calories a workout, you still have to create a daily caloric deficit to lose weight. Translate: "Congratulations on the 18mile bike ride . . .now put that mother^&*#ing bag of chips down."

I don't just like to eat, I love to eat. I love to have people over for a shrimp boil and beer, and I love to cook big meals for friends and families on the holidays. Food is the great common denominator in some of my favorite memories, and because of that I refuse to look at it as the enemy. Instead, food is my "frienemy" I will always have food in my life, and I will always have a great time when we're out on the town together trying new things. But sometimes my frienemy is just a little bitch that wants me to buy a pair of elastic pants.

For me, the best way to handle this relationship has been to focus on quantity. Seems silly I know, but it was quantity that got me into this mess and quantity that got me out. I made a deal with myself that I could east as many fruits and vegetables as I wanted . . . no limits. But in exchange, I would reduce the amount of simply carbohydrates and fats I consumed. I keep my plates around 30/70. 70% veggies and the other 30% lean protein and complex carbohydrates. For example, if we were having spaghetti and marinara sauce for dinner, I'd thrown in some extra veggies in the sauce and then serve mine over steamed cauliflower instead of pasta. Is it the same as a rich sauce over linguine? Hell no. But it's not half bad, and I got in about 4 more servings of veggies than the schlub eating the shells and a fraction of the calories. Another trick is doing breakfast for dinner and throwing in a whole package of spinach with an egg white scramble and whole grain toast. The variations go on and on. By focusing on fruits and vegetables as my diet's mainstay, I not only get all the essential nutrients I need to keep me going, but I can also eat a ridiculously big plate and still fit in my skinny jeans tomorrow.

I'm posting one of my favorite summer recipes below . . . Watermelon Salad. Its got tons of lycopene, antioxidants, and tummy filling water. Make yourself a big bowl and serve it with some grilled chicken or fish. You'll have a complete meal, a well fueled body, and zero guilt!

Watermelon Salad*

Seeded and Cubed Watermelon

Arugula or Some Other Peppery Lettuce

Red Onion, Sliced Thin

Maytag Blue Cheese

Toss all four together and serve cold.

* I don't know quantities because I'm Southern, and we never measure anything. But the general gist is to use a lot of watermelon for the sweetness and scale back on the cheese (you really won't need that much anyway because it's such a strong flavor).

The Glamorous Life of an Athlete

Long Run. Long Bike. Really Long Bike. Swim. I'm too tired to write but my face pretty much says it all . . .

A Friendly Public Service Announcement

Don't forget that there's a link to the right that allows you to donate (however big or small) and support my fundraising effort for the American Cancer Society. We're about $1,000 short of our goal and only two months left to go . . .

Your money goes directly to ACS and helps fund cancer research and treatment. It helps them out tremendously (it also helps my marriage out tremendously, because whatever balance I don't manage to raise is charged on Jon's credit card).

Thanks so much to all of you who have already donated (and there are a lot of you), and I look forward to writing thank you notes to the rest of you in the near future!

Ride Baby Ride

After months of training for the cycling portion of the race on stationary spin bikes, the time has come to hit the open road and invest in a bike that actually moves when you pedal. Now, if it had been entirely up to me I would have happily stayed on my spin bike, rocking out to Beyonce and never worrying that my life would be cut short by a texting teenager, but alas my coach informed me that I would be crushed by a sea of Schwinns on race day if I didn't start riding outside.

So Friday afternoon Jon and I hit a local bike shop where I was hooked up with "June Bug" (my new bike's name). June weighs in at a healthy 75 lbs and has beautiful red reflectors and long silver spokes. I gave her a test drive around the local neighborhoods and was shocked at how little riding a real bike resembled riding an impostor. First, when you're riding a real bike, you can't close your eyes, jam to "Stronger," and envision yourself ascending a steep hill in the French countryside. You actually have to keep your eyes open and look at the road. And let me tell you, looking out at a sea of Dunkin' Donuts and dry cleaners is not exactly the type of inspiration that someone will write a crappy book about. Second, there's no one next to you. Now, I don't believe in conversing while exercising, so that aspect doesn't bother me. What I do miss are the people you can gauge your own performance against and then later judge. If I can't beat somebody then what exactly is the point of playing? Finally, you don't have to worry about falling off of a stationary bike (most of the time), but with a real bike you're constantly worried that the slightest wobble will send you over the handlebars and into an intersection. Raised with a heaping does of fear and dread, I lock my arms and hold the handlebars in a death grip until I am safely at a stop. Today, after a leisurely ride around a quaint suburban neighborhood, my hands were black from holding on to June Bug so tightly, and I'm pretty sure I didn't blink for 30 minutes straight.

All these differences aside though, I am happy to have my bike and looking forward to getting to know her better. The two of us have quite the task ahead . . .

Happy Mother's Day Gwen!

My mother has been a tremendous motivator and source of strength through this last year. Perched from her seat on the sofa and peering over a People Magazine, Coach Gwen has dispensed valuable advice while still paying close attention the Home Garden Network in the background. The woman is an inspiration. Here are a few of the pearls of wisdom straight from the mouth of the lady I am lucky enough to call "Mom." I hope they are as helpful to you as they are to me . . .

"Sometimes getting out of the bed is just the hardest part of the day."

"It could be worse. You could be (insert ailment) in Iraq."

"Shazam!"

"Don't worry about it. Eat a Lean Cuisine and take a nap."

"Just don't think about it."

Treading Water

Top 5 Reasons I Don't Want to Go to Swim Practice

1. Chlorine does not taste good.

2. It forces me to wax areas that I would normally put off for a while . . .

3. We have to swim for a long time . . . a really long time.

4. My swimsuit makes my boobs look smaller than Esha's.

5. It's a two hour drive to the pool (I am not kidding).

6. I look like a sperm in my swim cap.

7. I miss Modern Family.

8. Did I say "Top 5 Reasons?" I told you, I really don't like going to swim practice.

Top 5 Reasons I Go Anyway

1. I said I would.

2. It gives me something to bitch about later.

3. I would prefer not to drift out with the tide in the Hudson.

4. It gives me something to bitch about later.

5. You guys can come up with the 5th one because I'm stuck at 4. . .

Things That Make You Go Ohm

If you had told me four years ago that I would be writing about the amazing powers of yoga, I would have choked on my red wine from laughing so hard and blown a puff of a freshly inhaled Parliament in your face. But alas, here I am singing the praises of a practice in which farting is not only expected but encouraged.

I was (and am) a tough chick. I can out-lift any gay man at the gym, and I glare contemptuously at the actresses on the treadmill working off their morning lettuce. So yoga seemed a little sissy for me. If I wanted a good stretch, I would have one of the neighborhood kids drag me down the driveway by my arms. But for a real workout, I'd stick to kettle balls and boxing gloves, thank you very much. I was an idiot.

My first yoga class was a little over three years ago with a teacher I refer to as Ursula, Goddess of Yoga. I was so sore for the week afterwards that I limited my fluid intake because squatting to go to the bathroom hurt too much. Yoga wasn't what you did after a workout. It was the workout. I began going to Ursula at least once a week, and followed her through two studios and even a very cool art gallery where the owner was kind enough to let us practice on Wednesday evenings. The physical benefits were hard to ignore (they don't call it "yoga butt" for nothing), but what kept me coming back was the sense of calm and centeredness after each class. No one in my life has ever described me as calm. In fact, you could probably fry an egg off the frenetic energy radiating from my body. But this class, and in particular this teacher, was the chamomile to my triple espresso shot.

The heat, the sweat, the flow, and the music all contributed to this exhausting afterglow of serenity. I had become an inadvertent yogi . . . well my version of a yogi. I didn't have dinners in tree houses, and I didn't register for wind chimes for my wedding, but I did become in tune with my own spirituality (which may or may not involve a superhero alter ego). I learned to push my body even when my mind said to stop, and I was addicted to sweating out my literal and figurative toxins.

When we got to New Jersey, I tried a few classes but none were my style. This one was too "gentle." That one was too "hippie dippie." The other one was too "gym like." But a couple of months ago, I found PowerFlow (http://www.powerflownj.com/index.php). It's a power vinyasa flow class in a heated room . . .you can google it to get details, but the basic concept is push up, sweat, lunge, push up, sweat, lunge, push up, gasp for air, and then stretch. You feel like you're going to die. It's amazing.

I don't think I could have gotten through this past year, with all it's ups and downs, without some sort of yoga practice. It was so essential to step back from the hard days and just breathe (and sweat and lunge). I didn't worry about competing with anybody (that might be a total lie), and I took the time out to stretch and appreciate my body after all it had done for me. That is especially true now. There are days when my hips and legs feel mangled after the constant pounding I put them through, and that's why I head to the studio even when I would rather sit on the sofa eating a bowl of mashed potatoes and watching a Law & Order SVU marathon. I go there to push myself just a little more, and then to give my aching muscles the attention they deserve.

Namaste . . . I win.