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Who would have ever thought I'd be upset about NOT being able to get to my Yoga class? Something is definitely askew!
Over two months ago now (can you believe it?), I started taking Yoga in order to deal with my borderline high blood pressure and advancing years. Also, it's something I've said I'm going to do for a long time. I bought Yoga DVDs and I was kinda, sorta, doing it every once in a little while; you know how it is. Anyway, in conjunction with the work I was kinda sorta doing with my kinda sort trainer, I committed to actually paying the monthly fee at Healthsport and getting involved in Yoga. One of the hardest things I have done was sign the little form authorizing them to take the money every month from my account. I wanted to do pay and play. No, that's not how it's done. Or maybe my trainer knew me too well and just didn't give me that option; food for thought…
So, class number one was a joke. First of all, I was wearing sweatpants so I was indeed… sweating. I don't like to sweat. I prefer to "glisten." However, the worst part about the sweating was that my palms got slippery and when you're engaged in the pose from hell (which they call "Downward Dog") and you have to rely on the palms of your hands to prevent you from sliding across the floor, the last think you need is moisture on your hands. I thought, "Oh my God! Save me! I'm never gonna make it." My arms ached. My legs hurt. My shoulders throbbed.
It might not have been so bad if I had a realistic expectation but I assumed it would be just standing around chanting while gracefully bending into relaxing life-affirming, all-mellow poses. (OK, I really didn't think that but I was hoping it would be.) Turns out I'm bending and stretching into positions that the human body finds someone counter-intuitive; or at least this 54 year old human body does.
"Put your arms here," the instructor would say, trying to guide me into a forward lunge.
"I'm trying, they don't go there."
"They will. Try this."
And with her gentle (?) assistance, I would reach further than I was designed to reach and proceed (partially due to the aforementioned sweaty palms) to be laying flat on my nose, feeling like a factory-reject Weeble, (you remember those round big-bottom heavy-weighted
toys that fell over all the time. "Weebles wobble but they don't fall
down." Although, I would fall down so I don't know why I felt like a
Weeble. Maybe it was that the pain was causing me to hallucinate.)
At session's end, I had aches in places where I didn't even know I had places. Raising my arms above my shoulders required assistance and my walk seemed to have developed a straight-legged lurching punctuated with "ouch" and "oof" every third footfall.
If this is what better health feels like, it's highly overrated. I'm so outta here…
And then, I heard the words I tell so many others when they're losing weight, "Be patient. Be kind to yourself. Take small steps. Go easy. Don't compare yourself to others." Besides, I thought, if I'm supposed to be someone who motivates others on how to make changes, it seems appropriate that I should be able to actually DO some of the changes.
Since I was on the "more mature" side of the attendees, I also consoled my aching muscles and hyper-stretched limbs by saying to myself, "The other people in the room admire you for trying to make changes at your age. They probably leave after class and say to each other, 'Did you see that old guy in there? You gotta admire a guy like that trying to do this at his age.'" That spurred me on a little. Who knows, they could have all been meeting standing around doing Warrior and extended Triangle poses and laughing at the old guy who keep toppling over, but what I don't know won't hurt me — so I assumed the former.
And also, I gotta tell you it is so much easier to tell someone else how to make a change than it is to actually do it yourself. Doing the walk is nowhere near as much fun as just blustering one's way through the talk.
Anyhow, back to the story
I know that if you schedule something, you're more inclined to do it. So, I opened my (not so trusty) Palm Treo and scheduled the Tuesday morning session from Hell for every week. Then, you know what? I decided, "Well, if I'm in for a dime, I'm in for a dozen." Corny expression; doesn't even make sense; but I added a Friday appointment. More importantly I went.
Different teacher, a little softer but still awkward. From there, I added Wednesday evenings. And now, it's become a routine.
My teacher asked me how I was feeling about the classes. I said, "I've gone from dreading them to just being worried about them." I assume that's improvement.
I am walking taller. A fellow staffer at the 2009 Weight Watchers conference (where they taught us the new Momentum plan) approached me and said I had a "great walk." She didn't know me. She didn't know I was in Yoga. But, it was great to hear because — well, because it was. I mean, who doesn't like compliments? (And I have a killer walk, I might add. You'd be jealous if you saw it. You'd say, "Wow! He might be clumsy in Yoga, but damn, what a gait!)
As things go, one class to another, one muscle to another, one pose into another. Cobra. High Lunge. Plank. Boat pose. Little by little they're shaping up. When I compare myself to the teacher (or most of the class, I feel like they're trying to bend a board. When I think about how far I've moved, I feel like ribbon. And I love the feeling of relaxation (and relief) when we finally get to Corpse pose (which is pretty much self explanatory).
So, why didn't I go?
I have a cold right now and I got all ready to go and then started a sneezing fit. My greater angels won out. I realized that I would consider it dedication. The others in my class would consider it rude. It's one thing to have a middle age guy who falls over all the time in the class; that might even be a little motivational in some unusual way. However, if he sneezing all over me, not so much.
So, I am at home writing this story; sharing with you and constantly watching the clock; feeling like I am really missing out on something; my yoga session. I would have never thought…
I am not afraid of a heart attack or stroke. Doing what I do, I take relatively good care of myself. I ride a bike. I walk a great deal. I don’t have many fatty foods and I try not to stress a lot. (That might be the hardest one to handle.)
However, Cancer, the big “C” scares the crap out of me. My mother died from the results of cancer. She had bouts of skin cancer and then finally ended up with gall bladder cancer, which the oncologist said was very aggressive and very rare. Although she was probably hiding symptoms, she went from first diagnosis to death in 18 days. Too fast. Too soon. Mom, I barely knew you.
My brother-in-law Flip, only 47 years old with no history in his family, is currently undergoing cancer treatment. Out of the blue, boom! Bam! Crash! Rectal cancer. Stage three – or two, hard to diagnose. He’s been on radiation and chemo since earlier this year. So far, things are looking good (all things relative). His surgery is scheduled for later this month. I admire him more than I can say. I send all my love to Cindy and Finn (my sister and nephew). I wish I could do more. I hate being powerless.
My wife calls me (among other things) “mole man.” I am fair skinned and covered with moles. It’s funny, I never had freckles but, boy when I aged, mole-city.
When I was 40, my doctor told me this type of “skin condition” is normal; it’s got a name. I don’t remember it, but I do remember that he said it’s “pre-cancerous,” which means can lead to cancer. Of course, if you follow the news, virtually EVERYTHING leads to cancer, from coffee to potato chips.
I’ve got a particularly annoying mole on my right hip. I had it checked out special last time I was at the doctor and he said it looked OK. However, as always, “keep an eye on it.” Because I have so many of the damn things, it’s hard to remember which is which, but this one stands out. We keep an eye on it; particularly in light of the warning signs of cancer:
1 Unusual bleeding or discharge.
2. A lump or thickening in the breast or otherwise
3. A sore that does not heal
4. Change in bowel or bladder habits.
5. Persistent hoarseness or cough.
6. Persistent indigestion or difficulty in swallowing
7. Change in a wort or mole.
Periodically, people send me links to cool things that deal with health or weight loss. For example, several months ago, I posted a widget that calculates your BMR (Basal Metabolic Rate) so you can get a feel for how many calories you use in a day. (Tip: use 500 fewer per day via lower intake or higher activity level and you'll lose a pound a week.)
So, this time, my dear friend Joyce West sent me a link to an on-line "real age calculator." If you're not familiar with what that is, follow the link. It will ask you a series of questions. Based on your answer, you can find out your "real age," and your life expectancy (as opposed to your chronological age).
For example, I am actually 53 years old (sometimes it just feels older), which according to a page where I can enter my birthday and find out how many days you've been on the planet tells me I am 19,614 days old (since I was born 9/28/1954 and today is 6/10/2008). Based on answering a series of questions with the on-line calculator (you can try different options when you answer to see the results), the calculator said that my virtual age is 43.6. The average life expectancy is 77. It projects I will live to 86.4 and it even tells me thats 12,200 days from today. Not trying to be too morbid, I put that into an excel spreadsheet, and it says I will leave this planet on November 4, 2041.
You're invited to a farewell party on November 3, 2041. Don't bring gifts. (However, I will not be watching my diet that night.)
No matter how long I do this — "this" referring to dieting; I am always surprised when it’s working. Right now, I am feeling pleasantly surprised.
Although in my "old days," I could lose two to three pounds a week with very little effort; I now find it difficult to drop a half pound with twice that effort. Of course, reality #1 is that I really cannot compare what I was in my 20s to what I am now. Also, is it just the resentment of being older that’s coloring my perceptions of how much effort I used before versus what I have to expend now? In other words, maybe I did work much harder back then but because I was newer to the process, I didn’t feel it was as much work as I do now.
Bottom line? For whatever reason, the scale is moving again. I feel like I’m coming home!
Today is my 13th anniversary. No, my wife and I have only been
married for 7 years; it was 13 years ago today that I stood in front of
my Weight Watchers meeting, after losing 70 pounds and weighing 179.
In those 4,749 days since I hit "goal weight," I have learned a few
things. (I figured I’d share them. After all, it’s my blog, I get to do
what I want, huh?) Some of the observations of being at one’s right weight after 39 years of not being at one’s right weight include:
The first time we saw how he spelled his name (with the "e" at the end), we teased him. That’s what teenage boys do. He explained that in New York (where he came from), the name "Randy" was considered a nickname. There was some law against naming your child with a nickname. So, to get around it, his parents added an "e". It mattered not; we still teased him.
He and I were the misfits as teens. I was the nerdy, smart, fat one with the tape on the bridge of my glasses. He struggled through school but didn’t seem to care what I looked like. I was teased and pushed allot. He was the victim of countless wedgies. Together, in many ways, we were the odd couple. All through junior high, we rode our bikes to the mall. When we were 14, we rode to The Broadway to pick up free tickets to see Gary Puckett and the Union Gap in concert at the Hollywood Bowl.We went there as a double date; it was the first for both of us. I took Sherry Bren. He took my cousin.
He got his driver’s license before I did. Then, we drove to movies or went out Pacific Coast Highway to the beach or drove to downtown L.A. to see concerts. We cranked up KHJ on the AM radio and life was good. I remember that he turned me on to "Happy Together" by The Turtles because he really thought the line, "Happy together, so
how is the weather…" was so strange. (Click to hear it) He was always winning stuff on radio call-in contests. He seemed to have incredible luck.
Although I don’t know if I looked at him that way back then, if he wasn’t my best best friend, he was the most loyal one I had.
There is a sign in a local senior center that says "aging is not for sissies." As always, there are two sides to every coin.
We tend to think wistfully about our earlier years. We sigh with sad remembrance about how we could stay up all night, we had loads of energy, there was a whole future lined out in front of us with nary a concern. We would live forever.
Of course, we were also incredibly self-centered, insecure, and vain.
Maturity has washed away the self-importance and the insecurity (usually) but with the loss of my weight, my vanity has — if anything — increased. It’s not a "I-have-to-have-the-latest-style" vanity. (I’m not even sure what that is.) It’s more the "is-my-stomach-flat-hair-in-place-clothing-unwrinkled" type of of vanity. In order to keep all of that together, I eat right (most of the time),
I’m more active than the average man my age (at least I like to think
so) and I monitor my health regularly. Apparently, none of that is
enough to keep the scourge of blackheads from my face!
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