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The Goddess Speaks Genevieve A. Suzuki |
A daily search for
my inner thin personWhen I was a skinny kid, I marveled over my mom's worries about her weight. "You look great, Mom," I'd say. I would never worry about such trivial things, I swore.
And I didn't have to for a while.
Up until 25, I was of normal weight, maybe a little curvy, Beyoncé's definition of bootylicious. At least that's what I told myself. Once I reached 25, it was all downhill or, better put, uphill, as in uphill struggle.
With the threat of diabetes, obesity and cardiac arrest looming above, I decided to become a healthier human being, so I've thrown myself into the wonderful world of weight watching.
Unfortunately, I'm forgetful, so the 50-calorie cookie becomes 250-calorie cookies -- plural -- because, hey, one cookie is only 50 calories and, well, you eat one at around 10 a.m., another at noon, two more at 4 p.m. and then the last one at 9 p.m.
My mother-in-law has become a sort of Jiminy Cricket for my eating habits. One night I sat down with two large chocolate chip cookies and milk, and she gasped.
"Did you work out today?" she asked.
Uh, yup.
"Don't you feel like you're wasting your workout?" she asked again.
Uh, nope.
"Do they taste good?" she asked.
They did.
"Maybe we should freeze the rest, and then you can eat a couple a month instead," she suggested.
I'm also trying weight-control shakes. I like them. Who wouldn't like drinking chocolate milk for breakfast and lunch, and snacking on yogurt and fruit?
Well, by dinner time, I'm holding my arms out in front of me like a raptor searching for prey. And because most of what I'm "allowed" to eat is sweet, I crave salt like a zombie from a 1960s B-movie.
TO JUMP-START the exercise portion of my routine, I signed up for a gym membership.
When you go to the gym, it's wise to bring headphones. Otherwise, you may as well learn to read lips because the TVs are usually too high and too far away to read the subtitles. I also bring a magazine to pass time faster while getting through the daily requirement of 30 Godforsaken minutes.
How can you work out alone? I'm asked. It's better to have a partner, a gym buddy, I'm told.
Ah, yes, the mythical creature "the gym buddy." Right up there with unicorns, yetis and the Loch Ness Monster.
In the movies, the gym buddy works out with the main character, keeping them slim while being the sane voice of reason. So I recruited my friend Alan to be my gym buddy.
In real life my gym buddy and I can barely keep our workout times straight.
Twenty minutes into my routine, a sleepy Alan shows up. "Sorry, I overslept."
Sure, no problem.
The next day, I forget that I e-mailed Alan to tell him I'd be at the gym at 9:30. When we see each other a week later, I too apologize. "Sorry, I overslept."
Sure, no problem.
Also, in real life gym buddies watch as you struggle with dark and foreboding pre-Matrix machines such as the Gravitron 2000, which is supposed to give you Linda Hamilton arms.
What the lay person -- read "the dolt who ignores the instructions" -- doesn't know is that the less weight you use with the Gravitron 2000, the harder it is.
As I hung senselessly from the Gravitron's upper bars, Alan watched in wonder before brilliantly uttering, "Shouldn't you be pulling yourself up?"
Good news is, I've finally made a breakthrough. Between counting calories and hanging from the Gravitron, I've lost my appetite.
Genevieve A. Suzuki is a freelance writer in Honolulu.
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