Harsh, but True?

I came across an email written by a natural health-guru/doctor, and it struck me, not only with it's harsh nature, but also because I've read some blogs lately that have mentioned childhood obesity and parental responsiblity. I'm interested in your thoughts...

Angry meals on the menu


If you hate your child or grandchild enough to let him stuff his face with Happy Meals, then nothing the health police say will save your little critter.

But that won't stop them from trying. Santa Clara County in the nanny state of California has banned toys in junk-food meals that don't meet targets for fat, calories, sugar and sodium. Soon, restaurants there will face a $1,000 fine if they dare to serve up a plastic toy with their plastic food. That'll teach 'em!

But really, I can't think of a more perfect little message for the age of ObamaCare, where nutrition will be legislated and anyone who doesn't meet some D.C. bureaucrat's carefully negotiated vision of good health will be forced to pay, pay, pay. And believe me, you will pay.

Listen, I know a Happy Meal isn't much more than death in a cute little box... but I don't trust a bunch of politicians, lobbyists and bureaucrats when it comes to setting the rules for a healthy meal. You know they'll get it wrong every single time.

Besides, teaching your kid good eating habits is YOUR job, and if you don't want it -- tough. For most parents and grandparents, a Happy Meal isn't even a meal anyway -- it's a contract with a child: "If I give you fries and a cheap toy, will you shut up for half an hour?" But kids are like terrorists -- you can't negotiate with them. And if you don't have the nerve to tell your child he can't have a Happy Meal, then you're badly unprepared for everything else heading your way as your tot grows up. Remember, hell hath no fury like an overweight sack of raging teenage hormones.

Would you like fries with that?

Never coy when it comes to these toys, William Campbell Douglass II, M.D.

So does this guy have a good point, or has he fallen off his rocker?

Cantaloupe Bliss

I am not a super-fan of melon, but the cantaloupe I ate for lunch today rivals the most sweet and perfect fruits ever grown.

I threw in 21 grams of slivered almonds and chopped pecans for some crunch, protein, and healthy fat, and enjoyed my own little bowl of fruity heaven.

This made me feel a little better after going Round Two with a sports bra (if you wear a bra, read on). Round One didn't go so smoothly, so I figured I should purchase a new bra, whose elastic was manufactured sometime after 1995, in a size more appropriate for a grown woman, rather than a teen soccer player.

I went to the local outlet stores and tried on enough bras to lift and separate all of the bra-less women featured in National Geographic magazine, and walked out 45 minutes later with two bras which set me back $50. Aren't outlets supposed to make shopping a less guilty pleasure? Now that I've worn both bras to the gym, I now know, I have paid dearly for misery. The kind of misery that makes breathing difficult.

Though my butt and belly may wobble, my chest is a strong foundation upon which you could place any structure, without concern for instability.

That is, until I reach my van after class. Then, all bets are off, and I am the nutty woman whose arms are retracted under her shirt while she curses and swears until she is free of her binding undergarment.

I drive home, free at last. And carefully avoid potholes and speeding. (Because who wants to face a cop with sweaty lap-boobs?)

Pants on the Ground

Yep, it's happening to me. The ole pants are getting too baggy, and I'm between sizes, so the next size down are just a little bit too snug, and the current ones make me look like Frump Mama.

I'm apparently not the only one who's noticed this. My sweet friend, Lynn lent a pair of her pants to me while I was there for a visit. I'm not sure if this was because she was embarrassed to be seen with me, or because she was worried a stiff wind might cause me to take flight, leaving her with a tricky rescue attempt (or my kids, until my husband arrived in town to take them off her hands...).

It's not just my one pair of over-worn capri pants that are getting too big for my junk-in-the-trunk. My favorite pair of Land's End work-out capris are too. They gradually slide down as I wiggle and shake to the musak at Gold' Gym during group classes. I've found that I must wear matching (black) underwear under them, so the wigglers behind me won't realize that 10 inches of my underpants are peaking out from under my pants.

The underpants/pants phenomenon is something else, isn't it? I mean, the pants fall down, yet the underpants creep up, because there's less butt to cover. So I guess either way you look at it, I'm going to be covered. That is, until my underpants are so big, they fall on the ground too...that guy will have to pen another catchy song just for me then, won't he?

Bathing Beauty

Well, I won't go so far as to stay that, once I walked through the gate at my BFF's swimming pool, I shocked others with my physique; that men fainted, and women grumbled in jealousy, BUT, I did go to the pool. In something other than capris and a t-shirt.

That has been my usual attire; at least for the last 5 years. I have been ashamed of myself for getting as big as I have, and my poor kids (save one trip to a beach, with the same wonderful friend) haven't gone swimming with me in way too long.

I sucked it up, and sucked it in, and wore a new Land's End suit (tankini with a swim 'mini' skirt, and halter top) in a size 14 on top, 16 on bottom. It wasn't too painful...I even flopped down on a lounge chair to get some vitamin D! Then I got in the VERY chilly water to play with my girls for a little while.

This is big for me. Now, I just have to work up the nerve to get semi-naked (dans la swim suit) at my own pool back home. See, my entire church lives in the same neighborhood that I do, and something about all of those people (the ones whom I should feel most comfortable with seeing all my flaws) getting close-range viewing of my bulges and cellulite just doesn't sound so appealing. So, I'll be working on my courage :)

Now for the REALLY amazing news? I haven't binged. Not once since I left my home to visit dear BFF, seven hours and two states away. This is huge for two reasons: I habitually binge while traveling. I typically take a vacation from food-reality when I take a physical vacation. The second reason, is that BFF and I are long-time, big-time, binge-buddies. It's bad, because we should have been a good influence on each other all these years, but boy we haven't been. I could down a seriously sickening quantity of doughnuts with BFF in my company.

So, not only haven't I binged, but I've worked out twice so far, counted all my calories, downed a zillion portions of veggies, and LOST weight. At least her scale says I have :) I'm hoping mine will sync with hers...And to be real, I give this amazing accomplishment's credit to God. I know it's not me. I'm a sucker for a vacation and my BFF's company around food.

I finally feel like there's serious hope for me. And that is truly huge wonderful-ness :)

Tug O Bra

What's the rule about swim suits? If you can't get into it well while it's dry, don't even think about trying while it's wet, right? Well, this rule also apparently applies to sports bras.

Being the dedicated exerciser that I've been lately, I set my alarm early, so I could sweat a little before church. Feeling smug about my discipline, I got up, got some water, and hunted for a more snug sports bra since the one I've been wearing lately doesn't really do the trick when I'm bouncing up and down in Step class.

When I pulled it over my head (this bra has no hooks) the stretching caused it to crackle a bit. Perhaps the elastic is a little past its prime, since the little sucker was worn last when I played soccer in high school....a mere 16 years ago (and 65 pounds too, but who's counting?). Now that I think about it, the bra is a real classic; almost antique.

My chest looked bound. I could almost have passed for a man, I was so squished, and fat was pouring out along every edge of the fabric. I didn't have cleavage; I had a new butt, only in front, and a bit high. But alas, it was ON! And off I went, to jog 2 miles, all before church. I was patting myself on my bumpy back.

I survived both miles, sneering a little at my slower-than-high-school pace, and then rushed to get ready for church. I removed my shirt, socks, and pants, then went for the bra. I succeeded only in getting the bra above the "nurchies" (my youngest called them that back when she still nursed) but that is where it stayed. I tried, and tugged at the sweaty thing, but it was determined to remain in place. I can't begin to tell you how absurd I looked with an elastic band wrapped around my chest above, what gravity and childbirth has lowered substantially the last several years.

I had no one else to go to for help other than my poor husband. So, I bobbed down our stairs, manually keeping the goods in place, and asked for his assistance. It took him a few good tugs to free me, but it worked . And the bra is now retired. Know any 12 year-olds who need some extra support?

I Pay for This

I occurred to me, while my legs were splayed in a very un-lady-like position, that I pay to be tortured. I pay the local gym instructors, to demand that I put a resistance band under my step, with my feet in the handles, so that as I lay on my back, my feet are pulled in opposite directions. The torture part comes in when I'm told to squeeze my feet together until my inner thighs and abs rebel and shake uncontrollably. Others around me wonder if I'm seizing. But the instructor (who is quite pregnant, by the way) knows better. She knows she's conquered another stay-at-home mom who just wants to be fit and trim.

I find myself wanting to be present while she's giving birth, so I can "encourage" her with her own words: "Are your abs sore yet? No? Well, maybe we should do this again, until you really feel something!"

I'm usually a very sweet person. I wish laboring mothers peace and comfort. Usually. This lady, and her band of ultra-fit cronies, has my respect. But I'm short on compassion, just now.

It Ain't Pretty

I've noticed a few things over the last few weeks that I though I should jot down. That, and I'm procrastinating. I really hate cleaning our house...so blogging is my respite!

1. When I work out, I don't look too cute. I mean, there are bulges and jiggles, and sweat pouring every which way. Then I 'hover' on the floor, as directed by the evil instructor, and my shirt flops down exposing the 5 inches of belly sag that used to cover my babies before they were born. Me getting fit isn't all that pretty, but hopefully, it'll lead to a pretty me :)

2. Shouldn't they make those sanitary stickers that cover the inside of a lady's swimsuit larger for larger sized suits? I ordered a slew of Land's End bathing suits last week, hoping that one would fit and look half-way decent, and I noticed how little the sticker looked. My eyes could be getting worse as I age, but more likely, my suits have grown in that time, and thus, the sticker looks like it's there to serve as a bull's eye of sorts, "Put your bottom here!", rather than to protect the rightful owner of the suit from everyone else's, well, bottom.

3. Another swimsuit note: are they worried our butts might come popping out of the leg holes of the suits, or what? I know, at a size 14/16 I am bound to have my share of bulges, but the leg openings of each suit I tried on seemed to be small enough to cause gangrene to set in. The "swim mini" skirt covers this unfortunate deformity, but really, other swimmers will begin to notice the purple color seeping throughout my lower limbs eventually.

4. 179.4 looks better than 219.4

5. It's incredibly easy to consume an entire day's worth of calories in one short sitting.

6. All of the ladies I've met recently who are trying their hand and losing weight and getting fit, are VERY careful with their food intake. There are no free rides out there. I don't know if this makes me feel better because misery loves company, or just because I know I'm not alone.