Chicken Soup for the Dieter's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  So now I’m taking baby steps. I have created a mental picture of me, newspaper carrier that I am, with 150 newspapers, eachweighing a pound, strapped tomy back. Every time I lose a pound, it’s like I’mthrowing away one of those newspapers. Each time I toss a paper, my health is that much better, my back pain is that much less and I’m one step closer to the healthier, happier person I want to be.

  I try not to look at the whole picture—losing 150 pounds. I don’twant to knowhowmuch I need to lose or howmuch further I want to go. If I focus on the fact that I have only delivered ten papers out of a 150-paper route, I’m going to want to just crawl in bed and never see the light of day again. So I don’t focus on that. I take it slow. I allow myself to be proud of every moment I can sit without leaning over to crackmy aching back, proud of every ounce I’ve lost and every ounce of mobility I’ve gained. And I just take each day as it comes, one newspaper at a time.

  Michelle McLean

  Joint Effort

  Have you strength enough to take this first step? Courage enough to accomplish this small act?

  Phillipe Vernier

  In the shelter of an ATM kiosk, eight soggy strangers and I waited for the rain to stop. We were in Nashville with thousands of others for the Country Music Marathon, now on rain delay. We were grouped by speed, and I was in the back with the walkers. Lightning flashed. When the danger passed, we’d be the last to know. The rest of the Joints in Motion team waited somewhere up the street. In training, we’d faced lousy weather together, but now we were apart and facing a full marathon of 26.2 miles. I hadn’t planned on starting it with my windbreaker clinging to me and sore feet squishing inside my shoes.

  Before I started Joints in Motion training, I had lost twenty-five pounds. It wasn’t the first time. This time, though, success was critical. My doctor had me on medications for high blood pressure and cholesterol. Reducing sodium and walking for thirty minutes at work hadn’t helped. Weight loss did. My doctor took me off both medications. I wanted to keep it that way. How? I decided that fitness was the key.

  Joints in Motion was perfect for my needs. I wanted to finish a marathon, a huge goal and one that would burn a lot of calories. The program provides weekly training with a coach and workshops on proper nutrition, shoes, clothing and exercise. We even had access to a sports doctor if injured. Best of all, I had a team to keep me motivated. In exchange for meeting a fund-raising goal for the Arthritis Foundation, we’d get free registration and transportation to the marathon, hotel, a prerace pasta dinner, breakfast before and a team party after the event.

  How better to get in shape, make friends, travel to fun places and help others at the same time? Our Nashville team ranged from college students to forty-somethings like me. Most paired up with runners who trained at similar speeds. However, I was the sole walker. I walked a fifteen-minute mile, twice the speed I’d walked with my coworkers.

  Each week, the mileage grew. Cold rain fell during one run, soaking me through my poncho to the skin. Then came winter, and one memorable run at the only park where the trails weren’t covered in ice. At ten below zero, the wind sliced through us. Everyone else finished. They thawed out inside the warm cars, drinking coffee. Coach Dave came out to check on me. “I don’t think I can do anymore,” I said. He went the last two miles with me, a bagel in one hand and cocoa in the other.

  The miles increased into early spring, until the trial run for the marathon: the twenty-one miler. We followed a course along the Mississippi River through little towns. By now, the muscles in my legs and hips were well defined. I found the balance of proteins and carbohydrates that would give me enough energy for distance walking. I looked better in my clothes, thanks to having more muscle and less fat. I had the proper equipment and training to achieve the marathon. Would it be enough?

  At the pasta dinner before the race, spirits were high. We sang funny songs to honor our coaches and the volunteers. The next day, however, brought unpleasant surprises. First, the rain. Then, a forty-five-minute wait for shuttles to the race start. We’d barely make it on time. But the starting time came and went. The crowd waited for the weather alert to pass, with contenders for the Athens Olympics in front, and us walkers in back. Half an hour later, we ventured onto the road. The throng of people surged forward. The marathon had begun. I jogged to the five-mile mark and then I faded back to my comfortable pace. I didn’t want to burn out early.

  I saw my friends occasionally. At eighteen miles, a woman had her knee wrapped at a first aid station. After that, I was on my own. The crowd thinned. Pain and fatigue set in. The long, wet wait that morning and jogging had worn me down. I plodded on, unable to keep up my pace. As mile twenty-one neared, I struggled.

  The rainy morning turned into a steamy afternoon— over eighty degrees, warm for April in Tennessee. Some people succumbed to exhaustion and were transported to the finish for medical care. At mile twenty-three, sweat dried into a salty crust on my body. I drank some warm sports drink. My stomach was queasy. I nibbled a few pretzels as I hobbled along. A car slowed down alongside me. The volunteer thought I was in trouble. “Are you alright?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want a ride?”

  I shook my head, unwilling to use my energy to speak. I wouldn’t quit now. My mind was foggy; my legs jerked like a wooden puppet’s, but I kept on. Some remaining walkers quickened their pace in the last mile, but I just willed myself to keep moving. Over the slapping of feet on pavement, I heard an announcer. I staggered toward the sound. I finished in six hours, fifty-one minutes.

  I have finished two half-marathons and numerous shorter walks since then. Most are for charity. Some I do with the friends I made on the Nashville team. I’ve mentored another Joints in Motion team, training with them and helping raise funds. Now I’m the one giving out Powerade and encouragement at the twenty-one milers. I may even do another full marathon.

  To keep my cholesterol and blood pressure at healthy levels, I need to keep excess weight off. Healthy eating and walking have helped me do that. The body is like the old car we bought that had spent the past five years sitting in a driveway. The belts, brake shoes, water pump and more had to be replaced, simply because the car had been idle. Likewise, the body breaks down if fluids are pooling instead of pumping, levers are stiff from disuse and whole systems are allowed to rust. If I am always training for another event, I am keeping in my active habits. At the same time, I am making friends and helping people who I will never meet. It’s a win/win for everyone.

  Debra Weaver

  Dieter’s Block

  Success is going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.

  Winston Churchill

  I want to achieve a healthy weight, really I do. But in recent years, I have been losing the battle of the bulge. Like millions of other Americans, I have watched the numbers creep up. It’s not just my weight, but the size of my clothes. And don’t even get me started on things like cholesterol and blood pressure. Aren’t things that go up supposed to come down? Fortunately, I have discovered the cause of my weight gain: I have dieter’s block.

  Dieter’s block can be triggered by a variety of things, circumstances that the ordinary mortal, such as me, simply cannot control. Perhaps the day is too cold or too warm. Or maybe the weather is perfect and practically begs the eating of a double-fudge sundae. It could be the need for caffeine that drives me to order a large café mocha, extra-sweet, extra-hot. Every day. Twice.

  Sometimes it is that special occasion that seems to pop up right after I have made yet another vow to cut back, cut down, cut it out! It could be a favorite sister’s birthday, a friend’s promotion or a child who needs consoling after a big game. Nothing says comfort like a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup, peach pie with ice cream, or homemade chicken and dumplings. Yum.

  Of course, there is always exercise. My dieter’s block interferes with my exercising all the time. Experts always say you should not work out within an hour before eating or
two hours after eating. Do these experts have no life? The way my schedule has been lately, I have exactly seven and a half minutes a day that is safe for me to exercise. With a two-hour commute and an hour for lunch added to an eight-hour day, it always seems that other things lay claim to those precious minutes, and I tell myself, “I’ll start tomorrow.”

  Dieting has become a way of life for many people. Who can blame them? There is a diet designed to fit almost any need: low-carb, low-fat, low-calorie, the list goes on. If you are not fond of veggies, go with the high-protein, low-carb diet. If you can’t stand the thought of eating meat, do the vegan thing. Skip meals, add meals. There is truly something for everyone. The only drawback is . . . you actually have to do the diet. There’s where my dieter’s block gets in the way again.

  I am a great one for talking about a diet, or planning a diet, but actually dieting? That will take some doing. Today’s not a good day, you know, we had a company-wide meeting with refreshments. I had to participate, it’s part of my job. I can’t start on Friday; everyone knows the weekend is a terrible time to start a diet. Maybe Monday. But Mondays are so harsh. What an awful day to start a diet. Tuesday? Doesn’t someone have a birthday on Tuesday? Didn’t I promise to bring cookies?

  Terry A. Lilley

  Jiggles

  A waist is a terrible thing to mind.

  TomWilson

  Only Jell-O is supposed to jiggle.

  But any overweight person knows that a whole lot of shaking goes on before a bountiful body becomes a lean, dream, fit machine. Instead of benefiting from the physics of exercise equipment and the knowledge of personal trainers, many dieters never set foot inside a gym or health club.

  If life were fair, consistently exercising smart food choices would be the only activity needed to rid the body of the bulges that wiggle and jiggle.

  But life isn’t fair, as my whining children often hear. I had to eat those words myself when my naturally slender friend, Barb, unknowingly fed them to me.

  Until that day, I’d assumed her model figure came naturally. It had, the self-proclaimed junk food lover said while eating a dinner salad. But when she hit middle age, gravity began pulling at her butt, boobs and midsection as relentlessly as it tugged at the rest of us. And her junk food diet started adding on unwanted pounds.

  Instead of joining the chorus of whiners bemoaning the injustice of gravity and slowing metabolisms, she moved to counter nature’s effects.

  Literally.

  She began rising before the sun, getting in forty-five minutes of aerobics and weight training in the quiet comfort of home while the alarm clock let her family sleep until 5:00 AM.

  Completing this morning ritual is now as automatic as keeping her weekly manicure appointments. Fair or not, she said, it’s what she has to do to maintain the look she wants.

  Aha! I thought, swallowing more than the last of my dessert.

  With enlightened resignation, I pledged to get physical once again. This time, though, the pledge was sealed with a commitment to hang tough over the long haul. Long enough to see whether exercise coupled with my diet would work for me, too.

  Early morning walks along neighborhood streets more familiar to the wheels of my car than to the soles of my feet were the start. Then, apprehension following a close encounter with deer made me retreat to my home. I did aerobic video workouts and calisthenics using hand weights or the natural heft of my body parts.

  The euphoria of my new commitment propelled me day to day from tape to tape for a while; so did disdain for the jiggles and the girdles, now called body shapers, marketed to keep bouncing bodies in check. Feeling tight and toned was my long-term goal.

  Completing a ninety-minute aerobics tape without panting like a puppy was the short-term one. It loomed large, like an Olympian challenge far out of reach.

  But it wasn’t.

  My fitness pledge fueled a new morning ritual. Whether a leap or a crawl moved me out of bed, the video trainer put me through my paces every weekday. Before sunrise, just like Barb.

  In time, I was running out of tape long before I ran out of breath.

  And the jiggles came to an end.

  I still remember glowing in the gold medal moment of that realization.

  It was a typical morning, except that instead of wearing the spandex leotard that helped me pretend my muscles were taut, I wore a sports bra and cotton briefs. This outfit revealed the first signs of the change taking shape—the waistband was loose and the seat was baggy.

  There were other changes, too. I was stepping higher during marches in place because a big belly no longer blocked the lift of my knees. My butt didn’t bounce when I stopped moving and my flexed arms showed definition from biceps toning up.

  The jiggles were gone.

  Of course, none of it happened overnight. Diet and exercise progress in incremental bites must have fed my commitment subconsciously any time the lure of the pillow threatened to smother the lure of physical fitness.

  A full plate of changes still feeds my commitment to the lifestyle changes I’ve made, including:

  • Seeing boobs, not stomach, when looking down toward the floor. Feeling hip bones, not love handles, when my arms are by my side.

  • Having oversized T-shirts and sweatshirts glide over my hips, not bunch at my waist. Getting more days from my pantyhose because thunder thighs aren’t rubbing holes in them.

  • Realizing leggings should not feel like girdles.

  • Walking around naked at day’s end without seeing telltale underwear marks.

  • Wearing form-fitting workout gear, not loose, extra large anything, even at home alone.

  No, life isn’t fair, especially the dieter’s life. Now I know it takes the consistency of smart food choices and regular exercise to banish the bulges that bug me. It’s a combination I pledge to continue so that all that jiggles is my Jell-O.

  Edwina L. Kaikai

  The Exercise Bike

  Those who do not find time for exercise will have to find time for illness.

  Earl of Derby

  I caught a glimpse of myself in a full-length mirror at the mall last Tuesday. On Wednesday, I introduced my credit card to the nice man at the fitness outlet.

  Finding the perfect exercise bike took a bit of effort. It had to have a nice, big seat. And if I was going to be riding it everyday, I may as well buy one of the air resistance models. That way, as I ride, I can blow my hair at the same time. It would have to be black to match my stair stepper machine/coat rack and would definitely have to be equipped with a calorie counter. This way, I could see how many chocolate bars I had earned . . . I mean burned, each time I rode.

  My investment did not arrive preassembled. It was packaged in a huge, flat box and weighed approximately 700 pounds. Getting the unit into the minivan was one thing; getting it out and into the house was an adventure. I slid it out the side door and then turned to open the gate, which anyone with half a brain would have done before unloading their cargo. The latch promptly gouged me in the side, and I got my left thumb tangled in the chain link. After much struggle, I finally made my way to the front steps. Halfway up I had to stop and rest, and I prayed that none of my neighbors were watching me. I like to make people laugh, but sledding down the front steps while screaming and sitting on top of a box wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

  Once I had it inside and was able to pry through those gigantic staples, I could see why it had been packed in such a large carton. Inside I found a hundred bike parts and twice that many pieces of cardboard and Styrofoam. So the floor of my office is littered with nuts, bolts, tools, bike parts and dozens of tiny cardboard chunks. I picked up the instructions, and right then I knew I was in big trouble. There, on the paper, was a parts list a mile long and a picture of a bike with ten thousand arrows pointing here and there. Worst of all, not a word of the instructions was printed in a language I could read.

  I sat with a pair of pliers in one hand and a cookie in the other, wond
ering how I was ever going to get the stupid thing put together so I could start burning some calories. Putting the seat on was the easy part: just put two pieces together and tighten the knob. When it came to assembling the moving parts, I had a little more trouble. I had to turn the bike upside down and hold it in place with one knee while I held the pedal on with my shoulder and tightened all the coordinating nuts and bolts. It fell over three times, leaving a mark on my wall and a bruise on my leg, and by this point, I figured I had burned at least 100 calories, so I ate another cookie.

  The right pedal wasn’t any easier, but I managed it without further injury. After half an hour, I stood the bike upright, feeling quite proud of myself. Then, glancing at the diagram, I realized I’d forgotten a few steps. I was supposed to put the handlebars and rods on first, then the pedals last. So once again, the bike was turned over and I was taking it apart. Note: It was at this point that I closed the door to my office. I had just spent all my money on a new bike, and the last thing I needed was to have the kids rush in and demand that I start putting quarters in the “bad words” jar.

  I had been home with my new purchase for a total of two and a half hours. Within that time, I had assembled and reassembled it three times, screamed at the cat, scraped my knuckles, acquired numerous bruises and eaten nine peanut butter cookies. I was fatigued and sweaty and decided this was probably the best workout I’d ever had. I stood back and admired my handy work. Everything was put together perfectly; it looked great, and I could hardly wait to ride it. But I was too tired.

  The next morning when I got up, my muscles ached and I noticed the shiner that the bike had left on my leg. But I was not discouraged. I always heard that exercise was best in the mornings before eating, so I didn’t have a bite. I fixed the kids some breakfast and began my leisurely ride. I hiked my ankle-length nightgown up to my knees and climbed onto the seat. Peddling steadily, I watched the calorie counter mark my progress. The children rolled their eyes at me as they left for school, but I barely noticed. I just rode and rode, feeling very proud of myself and wondering if Richard Simmons exercised in his jammies, too.