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.”

Broken Thanks

A number of years ago I acquired this cute little Thanksgiving knickknack. It looked great on the hall table, next to a rustic flower arrangement or a spice-scented candle. A perfect touch of autumn décor!

One day, in an all-too-common klutzy moment, I bumped into my pretty plaque. It fell to the floor, and the top portion broke off. When I picked it up and assessed the damage, its message read like a sick joke. Give thanks for my clumsiness? Be thankful that I just broke something I enjoy? Say thank you as I clean up a mess? Give thanks as I relegate a treasure to the trash?

Actually . . . yes, kind of. I’ve always been intrigued by a brief, concise command in the Bible: “In everything give thanks” (1 Thess. 5:16). Four simple words. A nice sentiment. Impossible to do though, right? Well, maybe my broken little sign could serve as a simple object lesson.

I decided to glue the plaque back together as best I could. You can see the iffy results of my repair job. It’s not pretty. But what could be more appropriate than a broken reminder to “Give Thanks”? Every year, when I display this damaged little decoration, I’m reminded that thanksgiving has little to do with perfection or beauty.   

If we hold out for ideal situations, dreamy relationships, fattened bank accounts, healthy bodies, or good moods before we give thanks, we will likely become blinded by discontent. We won’t be able to see anything but the cracks and missing chunks of our lives. No matter how good things are, we’ll always find a “but” to dampen our gratitude.

However, when we learn to give thanks in (not necessarily for) everything, our vision improves. We become better and better at spotting the positives, the consolations, the blessings God bestows in the midst of trouble.        

This month is a great time to exercise our thanks muscles. It will help inoculate us from the virus of whining that seems to be sickening our society of late.

“The brave who focus on all things good and all things beautiful and all things true, even in the small, who give thanks for it and discover joy even in the here and now, they are the change agents who bring fullest Light to all the world” (Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts).

Happy Broken Thanksgiving!

Losing it on "Loser"

The time has come for me to spout off about my love-hate relationship with the TV show Biggest Loser. Over and over I decide not to watch any more because I hate the trainers’ domineering behavior, the contestants’ subservience, and the misinformation the show disseminates (see the list I link at the end of this post), but then I cave and tune in again, in order to follow the contestants as they shrink and get healthier (which can be inspiring at times).  

I could talk about this week’s episode (10/25) and how the ridiculous weight-loss expectations set up contestants for “failure” (and reinforced the message that losing two or three or five pounds in one week—or even gaining a few back—is failing!) but it was last week’s episode of BL (10/18) that got me thinking about writing this blog.

That episode opens with one contestant, Sunny, winning a trip home to see her family for a week. Naturally, she’s ecstatic at the opportunity to spend time with loved ones she’s been missing for a month. She jumps around and squeals—as the other contestants applaud her good fortune. Sunny’s joy even overrides the “twist” included in her prize [There always is one]: Her weight loss for that week will represent her entire team, meaning that if she does not lose a higher percentage than the average weight loss of at least one other team, a member of her own team will be eliminated.

Not to worry—Sunny will live to regret her rejoicing. Her trainer, Bob (who’s in a snit because Sunny’s prize also dictates he must accompany her to Texas to train her one-on-one), takes her to task in front of everyone: “Hey, Sunny,” he says, “This is going to be work. This is not going to be fun! You’re not going to have any f****** fun. . . . If I have anything to do with it, [you’re] not going to see anybody but me the whole time.” [Message to viewer: Working out is not, should not, cannot be fun, and weight loss success happens only in misery and isolation.] Bob glares at Sunny’s stunned expression. “You think I’m kidding?” [Actually, yes—we all know you’re exaggerating for obnoxious dramatic effect.]

So Sunny squares her shoulders, looks Bob dead in the eye, and says, “How dare you try to make me feel guilty for looking forward to seeing my family! I’m happy I won this prize, and I’m going to enjoy it—in spite of the fact that I have to let you come along.”

Oops. My mistake. For a minute there I imagined I was watching someone respond normally in a real-life situation. But this is not real life; this is reality TV. And all I can figure out is these contestants must sign a “will not talk back or stand up for myself” clause in order to compete for the $250,000 prize.

How does Sunny react to Bob’s tongue lashing? To her credit, she at least expresses some dismay at Bob’s threat to ruin her hometown visit. Other than that, though, all we see is her kowtowing to Bob’s scolding, apologetically uttering, “No, Bob, no fun” and “No, Bob, it’s not a vacation.” Later, she talks to the camera, promising to prove herself to Bob. [Because she’d better please that overbearing trainer—or else!]

I’ll admit, at this point, I got so disgusted that I quit watching. But that disturbing dynamic niggled at me so much I decided to write about it, and I went back later and viewed the episode in its entirety.

This episode also treats us to some workout scenes with Bob and Sunny in Texas. Bob seems to take pleasure in taunting a sweaty, exhausted, nauseated Sunny for celebrating when she won her prize, intimating that her torture sessions/workouts are his way of punishing her for her foolish excitement.

   

Meanwhile, back at the BL ranch, we see contestant Vinnie joshing around with his teammates about his belly, which he has nicknamed Cecil. He squishes his belly button up and down as if it’s a mouth and quips, “I’m trying to get off Vinnie because I’m killing him . . . slowly.” The group laughs. [It occurs to me that amidst all the yelling, cussing out, grunting, panting, and crying, one sound we don’t often hear on BL is laughter. I enjoyed the humor break.]

But evidently funny and thin are not compatible. Vinnie’s trainer, Dolvett Quince, talks to the camera about his disdain for such hijinks. “People with cancer don’t name their tumors.” [Ya wanna bet, Mr. DQ?] “This is a thing that’s literally killing you. This is a life and death situation. . . . I think my team has been guilty of being a little too playful leading up to this point.” Later, in the gym, when a couple of his contestants giggle at a funny comment while they exercise [Note, they did not stop working], Dolvett watches in disgust, then reams them out: “What the f*** is so funny? Why are we laughing over here? . . . I am sick and tired of the giggling, the laughing, the not taking things serious!”

Of course that leads to a treadmill-side therapy session—which, as usual, consists of the trainer lecturing the contestant about some unacceptable attitude, and the contestant showing submissive contrition. Vinnie eventually—kind of—defends himself. The trainer is happy to see the “angry Vinnie” and hopes there will be “no more jokes.” [Since we all know anger is better for your health than humor. Huh?]   

To quote Bonnie, another contestant, who’s having issues with her trainer, Anna: “I have no hints on how to be a trainer, but I do have hints on how to treat people.” [You go, Bonnie!]

I don’t have hints on being a trainer, either, and obviously this drill-sergeant approach works for some people. One thing I do know: No matter how much weight I needed to lose, I would never try the BL solution—for many reasons, the top one being I might end up in trouble for assaulting a trainer. Not worth it!

I’ve often wondered how other trainers view the BL portrayal of exercise, personal training, and weight loss. This list I found on a trainer’s website, entitled Top 10 Fitness TV Falsehoods , proved interesting and insightful—you may appreciate it too.

"Help! I'm Lost . . . Again."

Last week’s news featured a story about a family who called 9-1-1 because they couldn’t figure out how to escape a corn maze. Pretty funny, huh? 

Well, okay, it was. I laughed. But then I read what happened in more detail (assuming the linked article is basically accurate), and I stopped laughing and started sympathizing. As a person who got in the wrong line when they were handing out directional genes, I relate to that feeling of being hopelessly lost. And I can understand calling for help, especially with two little ones in tow—including a three-week-old infant!

People with a sense of direction might enjoy the temporary tingle of confusion (99.9% of people, to quote the farm owner). I picture a group of friends laughing their way through the maze, commenting to each other, “Isn’t it fun to get lost?” Then, when they’ve had enough, they make a few well-chosen turns and end up on the path that leads to the parking lot—where they have no trouble locating their car.

I, on the other hand (as part of the killjoy .1%), would probably wander for hours, hitting every dead end (more than once in many cases), wishing with increasing desperation that I had used the Porta Potty before heading out, feeling more panicky as shadows lengthen, the air chills, and I encounter fewer and fewer fellow mazers. I’d be thinking, Am I going to be stuck in this *&$# corn field all night? Yeah—about as fun as food poisoning. What’s that number again? 9-1-1?

The news piece said the maze contained posted clues to help people. If these bore any resemblance to the “you are here” maps at malls, it’s no wonder they didn’t help our directionally challenged friends. When my brain tries to interpret a map, it sees east as a right turn and north as uphill (okay, maybe not quite that pathetic . . . well, maybe). Posters in the maze also directed people to text for help. I don’t know what happened with that resource. But if you’re lost, how are you supposed to explain where you are? “I see corn stalks, and sky, and corn stalks.” Really!

So once again, I’m humbled to realize how easy it is to judge and mock people, until we learn more and imagine ourselves in their shoes. If you’re like my hubby, who can follow his nose anywhere on the planet, you would find your way out and go home. If you are like me, you might just admit defeat and call for help . . . again.

"BUT NOW I WANT IT!"

Yesterday, as I shopped the clearance racks at Penneys, I heard a child crying in despair. Not an unusual occurrence in itself these days. But what caught my attention was the conversation I could pick out between the little girl's cries. Mom kept repeating in a calm voice, "You said you didn't want it, so I threw it away." To which her daughter would wail, "But now I want it. I WANT IT! PLEASE!" Mom was patient yet firm: "I'm sorry, honey. You acted like you didn't want it. Now it's too late. It's gone." More wailing.

I never heard the "it" described (I guessed lunch or a snack), but I could identify with the daughter's dismay. She desperately longed to reverse her mistake. But Mom was helping her learn a tough lesson in regret--that some decisions don't have an "undo" option. No relief, no rescue, no replacement--just the harsh reality that what's done is done.

Maybe because my son just turned 33, reminding me like a slap in the face of the speed of time, that mom-daughter interchange got me thinking about how I treat time. Every morning I wake up to another day's worth of minutes. Do I respond with appreciation and consume them carefully and conscientiously? Or do I squander them as if I don't care that they'll be tossed, unused, into the irretrievable past? At the end of my life, will I look back and wail "I WANT IT NOW" and beg for another chance, or will I be gratified that I treasured every precious moment and opportunity?

Who knew something positive could come from a kid throwing a fit in a department store? She and her mom will never know they reminded me to seize the moment, seize the opportunity, seize the day. And seize the ice cream cone before someone thinks you don't want it!