Cheaters Never Lose

 

“I’ve already lost about twenty pounds on my new diet, and it wasn’t hard at all.” That statement is made by a good friend who does not lie. So it catches my attention. I really need to lose twenty pounds—well, okay, fifty pounds—but at least ten. Even five pounds would make me happy.

So, filled with renewed hope that finally a diet guru has invented a system I can follow, I borrow her book from the library. My friend, who never lies, tells me that on this diet, even though you’re eating all the time, the pounds keep melting off. I dive into the book, seeking out the basic rules of this magical diet. In between the nitty gritty, the author repeatedly insists that her diet is not a diet, which any dieter knows is always a lie. I find her weekly food plans and her twenty diet rules—ten do’s and ten don’ts.

Most of the do’s seem doable. Drink lots of water. Duh. Eat five times a day. Heck, I’ll eat ten times a day if it helps me lose weight. Exercise, but not too strenuously. I’m all over that—I broke up with the gym years ago. I balk at her commandment to eat first thing in the morning. It seems, according to guru lady, I’m a tub because I don’t eat when I’m not hungry. Well, I’m a trooper—I can always make myself eat if necessary.  Since one of the do’s is to follow her plan exactly for 28 days, I guess I’ll become a breakfast person for four weeks. Like she says, we can make ourselves do anything for 28 days, right? It’s the length of a February. I got this.

Then I start reading the don’ts. No sugar. Okay, that’s a no-brainer. Nowadays, no politically correct diet guru would dare allow sugar consumption. I suppose I can give up sweets for a few weeks. But then I see she also bans artificial sweeteners—except for Stevia, which absolutely does not work in coffee. Splenda does. This calls for an executive decision. They’re both sweeteners, they both start with S. Splenda wins. Crisis averted.

But not so fast. Next rule: No caffeine. What? Where’s a person supposed to find the energy for dieting without coffee? There’s no way I’m coping with sugar and caffeine withdrawal. Besides, hasn’t guru lady been reading Facebook? Every other day there’s an article touting the many life-lengthening benefits of coffee. And I just reloaded my Starbucks card. Executive decision number two: Coffee stays. Which of course requires executive decision number three: Ignore the “do” rule that says we must follow the plan exactly. By “exactly” I now mean “generally.” Tell the truth, does anyone follow a diet exactly? Really?

Then I spot the next two rules. Wait, what’s this? No wheat? No corn? What about her big claim that her diet allows grains? I definitely skimmed that section too quickly. Here I was all excited that I could still have bagels for breakfast and sandwiches for lunch and tortillas for dinner and popcorn for evening snacks. If she cuts out corn and wheat, what kind of grain is she talking about, anyway? I find the list. I recognize some items, such as quinoa (only edible if you can’t taste it). Then I see these mystery grains . . . amaranth, arrowroot, spelt, teff, triticale. First, what on earth is amaranth, and second, how am I supposed to sop up my fried egg with it? Well, a closer look at her weekly food plan answers part of that question. Four days out of the week are low-fat, so she expects us to eat egg whites only—no yolks, which are the only reason a normal person eats eggs. What kind of masochist chokes down an egg-white omelet? On unbuttered amaranth, no less!  

I skim her reasons for banning wheat and corn. Seems our guru’s main beef with them is that they’re hard to digest. Well, I’m just going to tell my body to digest them, so there!

At this point, I realize the “don’ts” list is taking quite a hit. Before I’ve even downed my first forbidden cup of coffee with my obligatory breakfast on day one, I’ve already decided to ditch at least five out of twenty of her holy commandments of magical weight loss. So I’m down to 75% compliance. Well, that’s a passing grade in most classes. I decide not to worry about it and proceed to the next rule.

Which slams me up against another wall: No dairy. Seriously? I’m not even allowed to butter my forbidden popcorn or smother my amaranth in melted cheese? I can’t add cream to my forbidden coffee? I’m supposed to deprive my post-menopausal bones of calcium for how long? Forget it. I’m doing dairy. I’m now down to fourteen acceptable rules, but fourteen rounds up to fifteen, so I’m still good.

Whew! That was close. For a moment there, I worried I might have to quit before I started.

The diet is on.  

I wake up on day one, determined to make this work. The first and second day of the diet call for protein, fruit, and grains, but no fat. Oats are one of the few grains I recognize one her list, so my first forced breakfast consists of oatmeal and berries and turkey bacon, the only kind of bacon Ms. Guru allows. I think the packaging might have been tastier, definitely thicker. The fake bacon makes me extra thankful for my executive allowances of coffee, cream, and Splenda.

As the day wears on, the no-fat rule becomes more of a challenge. I can have a meat sandwich, thanks to my decision to keep wheat. But no mayo. I try adding just a tomato and lettuce, and all I get is soggy bread. As happens on every diet, dinner time causes me the most consternation. Vegetables are required. Salad is the only palatable way to eat vegetables. But who can eat salad without dressing? And what decent dressing does not contain fat and sugar? Diet dressings taste worse than bare vegetables, so I dress the salad and tell myself at least we’re eating vegetables.    

I survive the first two days. Then, day three hits. Our guru mandates that day three and four are limited to protein and vegetables. And she trims the veggie list down to the most unappetizing variety. No grains, no fats, nothing that tastes good. It’s like Atkins without the pork rinds! We’re even supposed to eat veggies for breakfast! Though I’m sure our guru would find some reason to disapprove (she is a dietician after all), I decide a glass of Spicy V-8 will suffice.

I cheat my way through the day. A little ranch dip here, a rice cracker there, a whole egg on my forbidden toast, buttered with forbidden dairy, washed down with forbidden creamy coffee.

On day four my first thought when awaking is, “Oh ugh, the diet.” Why had I thought I could make myself do anything for 28 days? I’m already desperate for day five, when I’m allowed to eat a nut! To avoid giving up, I decide to skip my second Atkins-on-steroids day and go right to day five. Surely my body will reward me for my one whole day of extreme deprivation. I suspect I have lost a pound—maybe. Let the magic shrinking continue!

On my official day five, I start the day with breakfast—at a restaurant, with a friend. Buckwheat is on a permitted grain, so I order buckwheat pancakes. They turn out to be pretty dry, requiring me to add extra butter and syrup. I also order eggs and bacon—gotta have that protein in the morning. And the wonderful server keeps us supplied with strong coffee, which necessitates generous additions of cream. And Splenda.

By day seven, I’m pretty weary of choking down unaccompanied chunks of meat, gnawing on veggies for snacks, and futilely searching the fridge for legal treats. Then, right after my forced breakfast, my phone gets smashed in the workings of my recliner. So I need Jelly Belly therapy. And a latte. And more clothes—in size voluptuous.

  

Dirty Drawers

This year I’ve taken to cleaning rentals for a living. (Does this girl know how to have fun or what?) Sadly, I’ve been doing more scrubbing than writing—a trend which must not continue. At least all that alone time affords an opportunity to ponder issues more intriguing than dust bunnies and soiled toilets.

On my first walk-through of a vacated rental, many units appear decent enough. Before I arrive, a maintenance crew has usually mucked out and repaired the place. They may have installed new flooring, replaced broken lighting fixtures, changed out burner pans on the stove. In some cases they’ve replaced a ruined appliance. (I love finding an already-clean oven or a pristine fridge!) And they’ve often applied a fresh coat of white paint.

Ready for a new renter, right?

Not so much. Closer inspection reveals cobwebs on the ceiling, fried bugs in light fixtures, crumbs in drawers, grimy cupboards, dusty window blinds, splattered refrigerators, encrusted ovens, sticky floors—and I needn’t describe what I find in most bathrooms.

Time to glove up and dive in. Before long the place looks worse than when I arrived. Cleaning supplies are scattered about; debris from drawers, cupboards, and window tracks has been brushed to the floor; the refrigerator and stovetop are dismantled; dust-laden light globes wait to be washed.

Then I look down at the stove and feel a tiny twinge of dread. Slowly, trepidatiously, I pull out the cavernous, dusty, hairy, unwieldy metal box suspended below the oven door. Those drawers give me the creeps (okay, not quite as bad as spidery, unfinished basements, but close).

What is it about those dirty drawers? For starters, I never know what I’ll discover when I open it. Petrified orts and dust are a given. Oven cleaner drips—probable. Will I see a grungy broiler pan in dire need of steel wool and elbow grease? Will there be rusty baking pans to discard? And when I wrestle that drawer free from the stove, what will I find underneath? Rodent droppings—or even, heaven forbid, a dead mouse? (Better than a live one, I’ll give you that.) Piles of cat hair embedded in layers of bacon drippings? Moldy chunks of bygone suppers amidst lost toys, papers, and tea bags? Whatever I uncover, I will be forced to address it. 

I brush crumbs from the drawer and set it in a corner to wait its turn. I go about my business, cleaning the fridge inside and out, wiping toxic goo from the oven, scouring cupboard doors free of greasy fingerprints. I scrub the outside of the stove, even lifting the stovetop to scrape away cooked-on spills under the burners. I pull appliances out of their nesting sites, sweep and mop the area around and under, then push them back in place. 

Still, that drawer waits, taunting me from the corner. I cannot declare the kitchen clean until I have dealt with that monster. I will not allow myself to change out of my soggy rubber gloves until I have made my peace with the drawer and set it back in place.

No more stalling. I cheer myself on (“You can do this . . . just get it over with”) and dip a used rag into my bucket of not-so-fresh soapy water. No point tainting clean rags or water on the first go-round. I spray degreaser on the stuck-on filth. The drawer has sharp corners and is awkward to handle, making it difficult to maneuver without scratching the floor, ripping a glove, or scraping myself. I rinse my rag, dip in suds again, and tackle the outside. Dust and cat hair cling to my rag and me. Rust crumbles to the floor and stains my rag. In time, every surface of this clumsy drawer has tasted soap and water. I finish it off with a clean wipe ’n’ dry, and slide it back into place beneath the oven door. One more stove drawer conquered. My shoulders relax a bit.

I realize my dirty drawer dread is somewhat irrational—procrastination often is. Many chores are more disgusting, exhausting, and time-consuming. But that drawer is the thing that elicits a visceral reaction.

It gets me thinking about the dirty drawers in my real life. Conflicts I avoid (if I put off that conversation long enough it might become irrelevant, right?), piles of paperwork that needed sorting months ago, a garage in desperate need of an overhaul. They may not be the biggest hurdles, but I tend to set them aside in the corner while I occupy myself with more comfortable tasks. 

Thankfully, tactics that work on the job also work at home. Facing down one dirty drawer after another, week after week, strengthens my get-it-done muscle. Three things that help . . . 

First, in most cases, the doing does not live up to the dread. (With one notable exception—plumbing repairs always go worse than they should. Dread is appropriate.) Once I complete a task, I often look back and think, That wasn’t so bad.  

Second, deadlines push us toward success. It’s good that I can’t move on from a kitchen until I’ve cleaned that drawer. At home, it’s amazing how the threat of company inspires me to clean bathrooms and mop floors. This blog post exists because I got tired of putting it off and set this weekend as my deadline.

Third, whether a job goes smoothly or not, the payoff is worth it. Of course, at work I’m motivated by a paycheck. No way would I clean one of those rentals for free. But money’s not the only reward. At the risk of sounding boring (I know, that train already left the station), I like to stand back and admire a kitchen that’s been transformed from slimy to shiny. I like knowing the room is clean, even in places nobody might look—such as the bottom of a stove drawer. I can take pride in having done my best. Isn’t that satisfaction one of the pure pleasures of life? 

Of course, the rewards are more meaningful and longer lasting when we complete a personal to-do. For example, keeping up a regular exercise routine (another of my dirty drawers) has begun to show results in the waistline as well as blood work numbers. And once I finish cleaning that garage, instead of trying not to look whenever I go out there, I will revel in the view. Won’t that be a thrill! (I told you I know how to have fun!) 

Next topic to ponder as I clean: How does cat hair end up in so many freezers? Hmmm. On second thought . . . I don’t want to know the answer to that one.

There's No Crying in Baseball?

Many weight-loss experts give this advice for choosing an exercise routine: “Find what you love and then do it!” I assume a lighted bulb is supposed to appear above my head, ding! Aha, so that’s how it’s done. Ohhh-kay. This week I’m going to start . . . uhhhhh . . . now what was that calorie-blasting activity that sounds like fun? Hmmm. Sorry, no flashing bulbs. No dinging bells.  

Problem is, I love sitting. Sitting and reading, sitting and watching TV, sitting and having coffee with friends or talking on the phone, sitting and doing puzzles, sitting and sewing, sitting and writing, sitting and cruising the Internet. Oh, I do like to stand sometimes—long enough to bake something yummy that I can then sit down and eat. When I’m in a feisty mood, I might sit outside. How time does fly when I’m sitting.

I’m not naturally inclined toward sweat-inducing activities. But I haven’t always been such a sitter. I recall a time—long, long ago, on a playground far, far away—when I did like exercise. It was called recess. My schoolmates and I would run and teeter-totter and jump rope and swing and climb monkey bars and play tag and four-square and hopscotch. We had fun.

Then one day everything changed. Recess disappeared. In its place we got P.E.—physical education, PhysEd, gym class. Whatever we called it, it held little resemblance to recess. Next thing we knew we were donning double-knit uniforms, picking teams to find out who was the most popular, and tallying sit-ups and pull-ups and rope climbs for a President’s Fitness Test award—which, by the way, I missed only because my softball throw was a few inches shy of the arbitrary distance requirement.

Recess had been a welcome break from the books; P.E. was a cruel intrusion of dodge ball attacks, reduced GPAs, and scarring rejection. And dare we fail to mention every chubby girl’s nemesis, tumbling? Oh, the humiliating memories!

During sixth grade, my P.E. teacher heard two of my friends and me grouse about how much we hated gym class. She said, “Well, if it makes you so miserable why don’t you just go to the library instead?” Hey, nobody needed to suggest that twice! The next time we were on our way to P.E., the three of us turned right instead of left and high-tailed it to the library—our home planet! Three happier eleven-year-old girls you could not find that day.

I don’t think the teacher even missed us the first few times. We definitely did not miss her! After a wonderful week of P.E.-free bliss, the librarian presented us with math worksheets to complete during our stay in the library. I guess we were supposed to view that as punishment. But we were all good students who would happily do extra brain work any day of the week if it got us out of P.E. When that didn’t dissuade us, our teacher got one of the other sixth grade teachers to bring us into her classroom to do our extra work under her beak-nosed supervision. Still, not a problem.

Eventually, our teacher gave up trying to be clever and just told us we had to come back to gym—which of course we did. But that short reprieve is still one of my favorite memories of P.E.     

I’m pretty sure P.E. was intended to instill in children a lifelong love of sports and exercise. Sadly, I suspect some of us came away instead with a lifelong distaste for anything that smacks of gym class. A softball game breaks out at a church picnic? Count me out. I had my fill of teammates upset with me for dropping a ball. Just going to the gym can conjure feelings of defiant inferiority toward naturally thin exercise enthusiasts.

It may take the rest of my life to exorcise the P.E.-conditioned insecurities that swirl around all things athletic. I hope someday I can recapture the simple joys of recess. To once again view exercise as a refreshing respite from the stuffy, stressful classroom of life.

For now, the best advice for me should probably be “Find what you don’t hate and do it.”