Monday, April 29, 2013

What's Love Got To Do With It?

What must we hear, see, feel, or do before pledging a lasting commitment to health?  Is self-improvement a task we take on for ourselves or others?  I have heard recovery framed as something you do to express respect for those whose lives your own might impact.  Should you not care what happens to yourself, think of how your illness burdens family, friends, caregivers.  In an interview published Monday to USA Today's LIFE columns, comedian and talk show co-host Sherri Shepherd recalls she was "in denial" of a careless, unbalanced meal and fitness regimen, even after a doctor warned that her type 2 diabetes might lead to foot amputation.  The severity of this did not take hold until faced with comments from Shepherd's good friend Mo'Nique, a strong-willed and confident recent Oscar winner:  "We keep saying we would die for the people we love.  Are you willing to live for the people you love?"

For me, it has not been enough to strive for a better existence, as apathy and depression influence my views and dampen any imaginings I might summon of a sunnier future.  I have had a few "close calls" in the past, as most of us brush against death, whether aware or not of its company.  In more than one occasion I have been unenthused and almost blasé about survival.  This sounds ungrateful, but I cannot change the play of my instincts.  It has been challenging for me to rally spirits and charge ahead, unless something is recognizably amiss.  Yes, my body is in a rather hideous state of emaciation, but as long as I have energy enough to briskly walk about, completing gruntwork and participating in quotidian activities, I, like Sherri, rarely acknowledge a problem.  In this last week, however, my mind has been operating with palpable impairment, so much so that reading and writing prove difficult.  In fact, I shower these paragraphs with colorful words to distract from my clear limits of thought.  Cognitive abilities stall when reached for abstract answers and do not improve until (surprise, surprise) I down my first meal.  This large, late-afternoon lunch is being increasingly delayed with the demand for mounting ritual chores, most of which involve physical effort of some kind.  I can admit that with depleted consumption of carbonated beverages my leg strength has reversed from frail to moderately sound, seeing with it diminished ankle pain where there was evidence of fractured fibulas.  Then again, drinking less diet soda has brought a troublesome sluggishness to contend with in my head.  Such a development is surprising, as usually it is with drinking artificially sweetened beverages that I encounter a hazy sense of confusion -- could the reverse point to a form of withdrawal?  Exposure to aspartame and Sucralose arrives in other foods, not forgetting a two can Diet Coke allowance.  Am I merely failing to hydrate myself with other, replacement liquids?  Whatever the case, both symptoms, whether indicating cracking bones or stalled cogitation-- have frightened me and spurred minor improvements in self-care.  Aside from avoiding soft drinks I am also having in evenings certified organic popcorn, rather than microwaved bags from ConAgra, adding "nutritional" Brewer's yeast powder as condiment.  I have seen a slight increase in the protein I measure and a serving of banana has been restored.  I wish I could say I was doing this for the love of family, especially my father (who I know I disappoint).  Perhaps more than anything, it is the ignominy of being "disabled" in a close-knit community, where a reputation is built and circulated, particularly if you are an example of something queer or  amiss.  I would have to contradict The Doors, who sang:  "When you're strange/ No one remembers your name."  In rural Maine, the parents of old friends will report within their own circles; soon you are spoken of in pitied, hushed tones.  If anything, bruised pride might finally have me salvaging what is left of my identity, piling any remaining skills, accomplishments, or virtues like soiled laundry needing care.  The acrid stench of this past decade-plus has left a rotten impression, with remnants of the spunky, plucky girl I first became somewhere beneath moldy layers, requiring retrieval and repair.  Once again, I concentrate on symbols of beginnings and rebirth, haunted by the specter of something innocent and pure still caged within.  If I cannot profess love to who I am at this stop in my journey, what would I say to the child stranger at its point of origin?
The day before my second birthday.  Memory provides no evidence of ill will towards that ripe summer bounty.  Location:  Nantucket, Massachusetts

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Turning A New Leaf

Advertisement in LIFE Magazine, pg. 129, 6-17-1946
Spring is the season of renewal, but it is not enough for me to revive and explore earlier times, as so few periods from my past recall elements worth repeating.  The last decade has seen chapters of staggered growth and correction, as far as overcoming severe malnutrition and depletion; in its first years I was treated to the help of specialists who provided supervised meals in a medical settling.  Doctors were keen to rebuke my stubbornness to embrace prescribed food allotments and I admittedly dragged my feet against their agendas for normalized body mass.  I now regard such inpatient care as a necessary and fortunate opportunity, one that has has become increasingly rare as facilities limit payment options and reduce or terminate sponsored charity seating.  I myself would jump at the offer to be in an eating disorders program, but my Medicaid package has approved only one option, and it is a part-time outfit in the southern Maine that would require extensive daily travel.  The only other way to make it work would be to camp-out at a hotel near its hospital host center, but this option requires I maintain a roommate overseer lest I renege on my commitment to off-hours policy.  So, more than ever, I am tasked with applying the lessons from past treatment episodes to life as an independent and free operator.  In the past, after reaching a weight that was new to me, I would routinely refuse myself food, exercising and fasting until hunger cues called me to relent to a binge at evening's end.  Now, should my system not feel especially burdened or uncomfortable from previous meals, I try to accept that it is adjusting to a different state of being and, hopefully, a well-paced metabolism.  It is not something to fight against.  In fact, after striking a new high on the scale only just this week and proceeding to eat normally, my body proceeded to discharge such massive bowel releases that I was once again left weak and depleted, my weight returning to its previous low.  This unexpected and mildly alarming development has left me questioning whether my feeding plan is in fact sufficient, especially when left to rival and compete with the exercise I continue to insist upon.  I surrender to an afternoon nap when schedule permits, yet offset this positive habit with extended walks, pedaling on a recumbent bicycle, leg lunges, stair climbing, and other efforts to expunge energy.  Just today I dared myself to obey my always active appetite and allotted an extra portion of fruit with lunch.  Not a tremendous development, but it demonstrated my willingness to break free of powerfully entrenched protocol.  I continue to replace soft drinks with brewed tea and water, although not in complete substitution of the former, as I have been indulging a strict two can allowance of decaf Diet Coke as late-night refreshment.  (This may still read as a generous quantity, but it pales next to the eight or more glasses I was only recently receiving over the course of a day.)  All in all, as the spring phases towards maturity and the trees again furnish their boughs with expanding corsages of green, I shall imagine my constitution building a thick new ring, like wood fortifying its base, recording the present as an age of appreciable, pronounced maturation.
"People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed, and redeemed; never throw out anyone." - Audrey Hepburn (May 4, 1929 – Jan. 20, 1993)


Saturday, April 20, 2013

Weighting Game

Illustration from an ad sponsored by Parke Davis & Co., Research Lab,
 in which caution and doctor's supervision is recommended when dieting.
"To undertake a weight-reducing program without proper medical guidance
is a foolish, and often dangerous, thing to do." 
(LIFE pg. 30, 5-17-1948)
To mount a scale is like seeing a roulette wheel complete its spin, complete with the agonizing arrival of its powerful and telltale reading.  As in that game, there are two forces working in opposite directions to one another, with the ball following a path antithetical to its circular dial.  In casino parlance, to wager that the two will align amidst the lowest possible numbers is to place a zero spiel, or zero play.  When I weigh myself from the mindset of an anorexic, I rely on a similar strategy.  I invest in and define myself by a numeric value, an appraisal of my soul rendered in hard digits.  Almost every morning I brace myself for this ridiculous ritual, knowing that I will conjure guilt no matter where they settle.  For I have been tasked with adding pounds to my body even as a part of me hesitates to cooperate.  I have resolved, with confirmation from all manner of doctors, friends, employers, and the like, that a better life awaits me should I adopt a minimum of eight to ten pounds to my slight frame.  For season after season I have made repeated pronouncements that this is my intention, that complications from emaciation are my primary hindrance in pursuing a more cosmopolitan, socially active livelihood in, say, southern California.  If I can be stronger, I posit, my stamina and appearance will be duly improved, facilitating work in a competitive field.  But it is with admitted relief that I continually meet the same verdict as I slide my feet from the shallow platform and proceed to dress for the day.  As I pull the clothes over myself in many layers, adopting a vaguely puffy appearance betraying my fragility, I am somewhat dejected in knowing that my allegiances to extensive exercise routines, paired with foods neither rich nor completely sound, have once again placed me within a weight class rivaling a child.  This reading, while reassuring in its familiarity, is also disturbing when examined with clear, objective eyes; it can promote a firm desire to eat well for that day (as it confirms I warrant nourishment).  Otherwise, should the scale's tiny window give an unexpected --and therefore alarming-- tally, guilt prompts that I restrict intake, usually translating into a meager table that sees merely one meal, in late-evening.  I do not enjoy such punishment, and have come to refuse its call when I know for certain I made efforts the previous day to follow a healthy regimen.  On these occasions I can declare triumph over the sort of knee-jerk, habitual, immature responses that have seen me moored, forever inert at an impregnable wall.  This continuing standstill has already cost me my youth, and with it my body's ability to rebound effectively from debilitating rounds of disciplinary deprivation.  It has also seen me fail to make achievements in either vocational or romantic directions.  I have been able to push myself towards the gradual completion of creative projects on occasion, but only by dedicating limited hours over extended, strictly allotted periods.  As far as paying work is concerned, I have never managed to realize a legitimate full-time position that can operate in tandem with the exhausting agenda of my compulsions.  My goals and my disordered predilections  are operating in reverse of each other, much like the ball running counter to its tilted track at the croupier's station.  The question remains, when might the force of clear-minded convictions overcome the momentum of intrenched, often ruinous behaviors?  I arrived only today at the largest gain, pound-wise, since the launch of these essays two months back.  It is not nearly where I need to arrive at to satisfy my target, and I do not know yet how firm its status.  But it does show that perhaps progress is possible --and even, against most odds, worth betting on.

Thursday, April 18, 2013

Can-Do/Can-Don't

In regards to my previously stated objective of eliminating soft drinks, it has taken one week to completely exhaust my supply and I am currently operating sober.  I have spent a good bit of the afternoon debating whether I should permit a small allowance of caffeine-free Diet Coca-Cola, perhaps one to two cans daily, and was prepared to purchase a twelve-pack box at the local grocery.  As luck might have it, the market was out-of-stock and thus provided the answer I was struggling to find.  I might have brought home a two-liter bottle of my preferred brand, but that would have certainly led to its completion by the evening's end.  I also considered trying one of several flavored waters available, but these zero-calorie juice-substitutes resemble Gatorade in appearance and, despite labeling that boasts "no artificial ingredients", list Xanthan Gum and various unknowns among nutritional content.  For now, I will continue to satisfy cravings by brewing Bengal Spice Tea, as its ingredients are incontestably natural:  cinnamon, roasted chicory, roasted carob, ginger, cardamom, black pepper, cloves, and nutmeg.  Indeed, what could be more reassuring than a product shipped from Boulder, Colorado's Hain Celestial Group at 4600 Sleepytime Drive?  It feels much more wholesome and mellow than my usual glass of black bubbles with its head of angry foam, delivered to my table in wasteful, chemically-processed plastic or metal.
Reducing my dependency on diet sodas is just another uphill climb among many.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

With Apologies To The World

My myopic concerns assume a pronounced air of pettiness, a polish of indubitable conceit when placed in line with the devastating attack directed yesterday by a yet-unidentified perpetrator.  As you are likely aware, three individuals were lost to explosive devices, including 8-year-old Martin Richard, with scores of participants and revelers maimed as the Boston Marathon neared its final hours.  Attending physicians report that many victims sustained injuries to the lower half of their bodies, a devastating prognosis for the athletically inclined and anyone who prizes mobility.  My mind almost immediately recalled stories of similar atrocity at politically-neutral functions in the Middle East that surface every few weeks, wherein a marketplace, tour bus, or communal celebration is gutted by forceful, cowardly measure.  It was brought to my attention that even errant US strikes have killed scores over the past decade, including members of an Afghan wedding party.  The world is shaded in so much darkness that I suppose it was only a matter of time before our own shores were once again defiled by shades of terrorism.  And yet, we have not had long intermission since the deaths of the two-dozen children in Connecticut last Christmas, or even the storms that ravaged the east coast at Halloween.  Patriots' Day was being observed Monday here in New England --thus our holidays seem to be increasingly marred by these staggered atrocities.  My heart still drops at the memory of the eighty-seven days in which crude oil spilled into the (relatively) pristine Gulf Coast waters, as triggered by the sinking of BP's Deepwater Horizon rig three years ago this month.  This only adds to the strife, hunger, disease seen globally and the continued depletion of natural resources with the decline of Arctic preserves and annihilation of so many precious species.  Yes, I have allowed my thoughts to amble here, but only to prove I am shame-faced when discussing the self-contained battles at play on these pages.  May I learn to broaden the scope of my life's efforts and concerns in a rally to earn the forgiveness of those facing far worse.

Sunday, April 14, 2013

Spellbound

Efforts to breach long-established patterns have seen germinal progress this week, most notably in the recent dismissal of carbonated beverages from my meal routine.  Without the artificial satiety of diet soda or seltzer waters I am left much more in tune with signals from within.  Not only have I witnessed an improved awareness of hunger cues, but I am also more willing to concede to exhaustion when backward impulses might conversely solicit activity.  (As related previously, I have trained myself to engage in frequent walking errands and will summon guilt should certain levels of exercise not be achieved.  Anorexic thoughts will also goad me towards sessions on our house's stationary bicycle, which resides comfortably adjacent to a television for easy distraction during workouts.)  The torment I wrestle with in this regard is familiar to me, as I am accustomed to denying cravings and muffling irrational whims.  What is unusual with this given recovery route, of course, is my need to restrict the very act of restriction, at least when it comes to food or rest.  Now, instead of mindlessly relying on soda to quench a thirst, I must dedicate the space needed for the preparation of a more holistic brew, examples being tea, lemon water, or milk substitute.  Should I recognize weakness of constitution or fading facilities, afternoon naps should not be seen as proof of delinquency.  I have raised my appreciation of Diet Coke to near-fetish levels; now I see the unhealthy hold of its toxic recipe.  The question remains, should I permit myself the rare indulgence when, say, at a restaurant or film?  Is it safe for me to take up a drink as long as on rare occasion?  It seems to me that pop's ability to do harm is when consumed in large volume, especially when stocked in one's larder.  If removed from easy access, might I still imbibe?  If I was speaking now in a sponsored addiction program the answer would be easy.  But am I facing a chemical dependency that should be treated with the same grade of gravity and obstinate resolution as alcohol or narcotics?  My strategy at present is to proceed as long as I can without personally purchasing any more of the product; should I come across it in other opportunities, I cannot yet predict my reaction.  Whatever response I follow, I can at least attest it will be thoughtfully gauged and not made while under the spell of habitual abuse.
Season of the witch:  local witch hazel acts to remind me that I am possessed by my addictions.  Perhaps an in"can"tation or curse was released with the pull of an aluminum Coca-Cola tab?  

Thursday, April 11, 2013

Breaking Point

There's nothing new about what I choose to eat, as these goods are familiar to my system after years of relatively unvaried selection.  What is new is the pain derived from their ingestion.  I rely on foods that are "lean" and "low-cal", which almost always translates as "nutrient deficient" and/or "chemically-altered" (i.e. products marketed towards women dieters).  My pantry has expanded dramatically in the last half-decade, especially when, as recently as 2007-2008, I lasted for a full year on the same single daily meal.  In my head I have convinced myself these provisions are wholesome and natural, and some of my favorites might indeed be just that:  winter squash, romaine lettuce, baked salmon, skinless breasts of chicken or turkey, egg whites with onion, boiled artichoke, raw or gently prepped carrots, yams/sweet potatoes, mushrooms (cooked, not spicy), eggplant, a steamed medley of broccoli/pea pods/water chestnuts, Puffed Kashi cereal, air-popped popcorn (with Nutritional Yeast powder as topping), the juice of pressed almonds, organic apples (Fuji, Braeburn, Granny Smith, or Red Delicious), bananas, lemon juice, herbal teas, and, on rare occasion, Greek yoghurt.  Others are a bit of a question mark and include Egg Beaters, Boca Burgers, homemade Irish Soda Bread (discussed in previous essays as an "empty-calorie" white flour loaf), Bragg's Liquid Aminos (a variation on soy sauce), microwavable SmartPop from Orville Redenbacher's (a division of GMO-friendly ConAgra), plant-derived Orgain nutritional shakes, Soy Slender sugar-free soy milk, Oat Fit flavored instant oatmeal, Lactaid cottage cheese, Dannon Light and Fit yoghurt,  Ensure or Boost (for weight gain or maintenance), yellow mustard, sugar-free pickles, iceberg lettuce, fruity seltzer waters, Pinkberry frozen dessert (now officially made with live cultures), sea or table salt.  Then, there are the obvious offenders:  I Can't Believe It's Not Butter spray (a Unilever product and the only component of my diet with a contraction in its title), Pam nonstick cooking oils, Jello no-sugar pudding mixes (I purchase the pistachio and butterscotch varieties for use with almond milk), Nature Valley "100% Natural" granola bars (containing high fructose corn syrup, thus seldom preferred), and the worst, most frequent contender of them all, diet soda.  Of the latter, I primarily purchase caffeine-free Diet Coke and Fresca, but on occasion will indulge in a single bottle of Diet IBC Rootbeer.  All three --with emphasis on the last two-- have had the marked effect of leaving me "stupified" (as I call it), or in a dopey mental haze.  This recognizable and frightening symptom is what persuaded me to quit these beverages "cold turkey" in the summer of my freshman year of college.  I successfully stayed off said noxious libations until April of 2004, relying instead on fruit-infused flat waters from healthfood stores, Bengal Spice tea (Celestial Seasonings), seltzers of generic brand, and Folgers instant decaf coffee singles.  When I relapsed, it was deep and absolute; I have been on a non-stop pop bender these nine intervening years.  In the last twelve months alone I likely averaged an obscene thre-liter-per-day habit.  No joke.

For as long as I can remember I have possessed a remarkably robust thirst.  As a child I would satisfy these cravings with cranberry juice and a citrus concoction called Five-Alive, while my mother would pack berry Juicy Juice boxes amid brown bag lunches.  I would also stir chocolatey Ovaltine into tall tumblers of skim milk, believing it to be especially nutritious (as opposed to  Nestle syrups).  But any consumption of such libations ceased when I hit age twelve or thirteen.  The only "liquid calories" I have been in the habit to take are my low-calorie soy or almond milks or, as prescribed by nutritionists, vitamin-packed shakes.  I do indeed fancy carrot juice with ginger and have recently been exposed to the staggeringly, surprisingly delicious concoction of coconut-kale smoothies.  However, I am not positioned in a set-up that would have me pressing or blending these on a regular basis, nor can I guarantee I would readily submit to any cravings.  I try to always have a refrigerator stocked with cold Evian,  even though I carry concerns for the environmental impact of bottled waters.  The milky notes detectable in this brand help cajole me away from the always-tempting refreshment of chilled colas.  However, this is never a long-term distraction, as I service and silence my hunger at meals with the swelling rush of sweet bubbles in a decanted Diet Coke.

I have heard for years that soft drinks are a health threat, but I always dismissed this as related to varieties containing corn syrup, caffeine, and high sodium levels.  I even convinced myself that the caramel coloring was naturally derived.  But what defense is there for the remaining ingredients, including aspartame, phosphoric acid, or potassium benzoate?  It's probably a good rule of thumb to never consume what you cannot pronounce or, if pressed, define (given that you are speaking in your native language).  Any effortless internet search will yield pages upon pages of research pointing to carbonation as a process yielding porous bones, particularly in women drinkers.  I have been aware of the reduced mass and density of my own skeleton for the last decade, when I was first warned of developing osteopenia.  Now, after a series of rolling injuries (starting with a dislodged hip in November), I can cite proof in my own body that my addiction to diet colas is poisoning me.  For, between February and early April, I have seen both my ankles give way to what appear to be cracked fibulas.  I have been hobbled to such an extent that I was at one point outfitted with a walking cast on my left leg, which incidentally placed enough stress on my right side to have it also see a fracture develop.  I attributed these breaks to my steadfast practice of walking anywhere and everywhere, assuming that I had somehow placed an unbearable strain onto my heels.  While this might be true, there is little doubt now in my mind that the chemically-laced drinks I rely on have had a depleting effect on the precious few vitamins I manage to take in, thus jeopardizing the strength of my osteological system.  I know I have been anemic in the past, which is more of a circulatory concern but one also related to malnourishment.  The notion that I would be similarly deficient elsewhere in my body is only par for the course.

Pain is how we alert ourselves that something is amiss within.  I do not actively swallow aspirin or related medicines lest I dull the message relayed.  Now that I have recognized the distress call radiating from my lower limbs, I am committing to the proven remedy of blunt sobriety, or the complete removal of carbonated beverages from my lifestyle.  I have already carried six 2-liter bottles, three on each arm in canvas slings, from my pantry to the local grocer's market, exchanging them for produce totaling $12.81.  I am going to finish-off the last of my microwave popcorn while I still have a few cans of Diet Coke, as they pair well.  Once both supplies are exhausted, I plan to only eat air-popped kernels (seasoned with cheesy Nutritional Yeast powder with salt, butter spray, and/or Bragg's) and to base my consumption of liquids on water mixtures (such as from lemon juice, mint leaves, or tea).  It can certainly be said that my enthusiasm for soda pop has radically diminished in the last forty-eight hours, as all I can taste within a frothy glass  is illness and fear.  I do not want to lose my legs to brittle stalks, nor see my teeth bow to corroded, stained enamel.  As of here and now, my once keen regard for commercial tonics has ...fizzled.
When one's bones are cracking, everyday arrangements at the market take on new meaning.
Ironically, these brands were observed while waiting in line to return my bottles of Diet Coca-Cola.
Recall the KitKat marketing slogan:  "Gimme A Break"; the Crunch packages depict fracturing.

Sunday, April 7, 2013

The Sisyphean, Treacherous Chore of Finding Numbers in Our Food

Calorie counting, of all dieting tricks and habits, is one of the most frustrating and potentially harmful.  I earnestly caution against this immobilizing, hypnotizing practice ---particularly should you suspect yourself capable of madness.  Calories, as we know, are units of energy, and offer themselves to us in all forms of nutrition.  Whether your daily intake is generous or restrictive, any measure of food can be defined by their presence.  Personally, I prefer to think of what I eat based on a recommended number of servings, as established over the years by prescribed guidelines, and based on basic categories including proteins, carbohydrates, dairy, vegetables, etc.  I hold a rough concept of my calorie count, but also know myself well enough to avoid anything more specific (lest I become obsessed).  I would hate to survey any and every package for nutrition content, a practice I have fallen victim to in previous approaches to shopping and meal preparation.  That is one reason I sometimes opt for items at the grocery store that are not yet prepared, and hence not labeled for content.  For example, I am wild for baked winter squash, not only because it is delicious and vitamin-rich, but also for the fact that it is difficult to surmise what caloric density its starchy flesh might provide.  The same goes for, say, a hunk of freshly-baked Irish Soda Bread or popcorn heated without use of a microwave, sprinkled with Brewer's (Nutritional) Yeast (two treats I have been known to enjoy as "indulgences").  Internet access removes nearly every obstacle to recovering caloric data; I have even heard of sites that help track and chart your level of consumption.  These I purposefully avoid.  It is all too easy to become paralyzed by the fear of crossing past a permitted total; despite nutritional counseling, I continue to eye generous, fat-laden meals as a life threat.  I am aware that there are oils essential to radiant, strong skin nails, and hair, not to mention a healthy heart and brain.  Even with scads of education on the subject, I cannot imagine a time when I will not instinctively recoil at a slab of butter on my plate.  (A piece of salmon or spoonful of almond butter, on the other hand, I can now  report to rating favorably.)  I pity anyone entrenched in a sort of calorie "Matrix", in which foods are identified and defined by numeric value and not, say, instinct or need.  The Weight Watchers program should be commended for assigning points to meals and snacks that transcend characterizations of "good" or "bad", as such a strategy offers a full spectrum of choices (and helps discourage the sort of judgmental thinking wherein, say, indulgences might be strictly verboten).  Still, the system's very name helps pronounce the inherent dilemma within rating what is, simply put, our essential daily sustenance.  For as long as we "watch" our cuisine, it is hard to believe we will ever be truly free of diet-based thinking.  Yes, we should not aspire to a blind and frivolous relationship with our selected fare, but a person should also hope to eat without trepidation and/or pangs of remorse, anger, self-flagellation. 

As further insight into my own stultifying food fears, I offer a few rather extreme examples of regularly-consumed daily incidentals that I have approached at one time or another with hesitation, namely because they escape caloric definition.  What is the chance of "contamination" from everyday toiletries or our own bodily fluids?   Mind you, I have even pondered what my own blood might be worth in terms of nutritional figures, as I can often be found nursing a lip sore and consequently tasting said salty plasma, recycling it back into my system.  (Is there a nutritional value to urine?  Semen?)  I have also considered the oils within lipstick for their fat content and, similarly, calories in fruit-infused chapsticks.  I would never be one to engage in the kinky bedroom novelties of edible underwear or flavored lubricants, not for being a prude but, rather, for my wariness towards germs and extraneous noshing.  Other items that have had me questioning their content:  toothpaste, mouthwash, cough drops and syrup, vitamins and medications, artisanal salts, pet kibble.  Lastly, while one can potentially find the nutritional worth of, say, church-served communion wafers and wine, how does one account for the dill seeds in a pickle jar or very black, very raw coffee and teas?  Gums, mints, and garnishes such as lemon wedges or parsley sprigs are possible to measure, true, but who is going to find the caloric expense of that envelope I just licked?  Such is the sad, laughable state of a mind held hostage by the mouth.
Slim and Trim mid-century guide (sold on Etsy.com, 12-16-2012).
Info from online retailer:  Front is an iconic slim woman in retro swimsuit.
Includes sample low-calorie menus along with individual foods and calories.
Back advertises that pamphlet is compliments of Fisher Baking Company, declaring:
 "ROMAN MEAL BREAD HELPS YOU STICK TO YOUR REDUCING DIET".

Recommended weight based on height, age, and sex are lastly provided. 



Saturday, April 6, 2013

Of Reticence and Squills

It is not, I realize, a question of either/or, but I grapple with the notion of continuing this journal should it usurp my efforts towards painting and other projects.  I have not had enough of a handle on my OCD routines to allocate any hours towards the blog for several days, reserving my afternoons for volunteer work within my grandmother's yarn warehouse (a legitimate business she alone owns and operates).  Perhaps I will simply have to make it known that I am not necessarily abandoning these pages, but, rather, sharing new thoughts when most compelled.  As compensation, I offer an image captured this morning:  the season's first tiny scilla stalks, blue and quietly quivering on a neighboring lawn.


Monday, April 1, 2013

Campy Yet Credible: Responsible Eating with Dr. Jensen, '50s Food Sage

"You took years getting into [sick] shape:
  it will take you months to get back to robust health."
-- Bernard Jensen D.C., N.D. (page 48)

Greetings readers!  To salute the one-month anniversary of this blog, and to participate in the sly whimsy traditional to this first day of April, I have uploaded a handful of pages from Vital Foods For Total Health by Bernard Jensen, mid-century nutritionist, guru, crusader, and all-around authority on improving one's well-being through holistic approaches.  These excerpts are taken from the 9th printing, published in 1956.  (The original was six years prior.)  I was actually surprised that much of the advice fits with today's understanding of healthful eating, considering the rash of fad diets and vacillating claims we have witnessed since that initial printing some six decades back.  For instance, to lose weight, Jensen recommends a strategy that Atkins made part of the common vernacular back in the early part of the new century:  cut-out carbs.  I particularly appreciate his advice for putting on pounds, which is to stay physically active and contented.  "Exercising in the open air is a necessity in gaining weight," he claimed.  "All trouble, cares and worries must be forgotten.  Picture yourself as the fat, jovial, 'happy-go-lucky' fellow that you would like to be."  The book is abounding with quaint, while wise, recommendations.  His prescription for anemia, for instance, is "quiet deep breathing, proper diet, mountain air, pleasant companions, and release from all emotional strain" (page 152).  I can only postulate how Jensen would react to today's spread of genetically-modified crops; it would likely mirror the horror expressed on sites such as Healing Naturally by Bee, where sugar is a "poison", microwaving "kills" vitamins, and the Agribusiness is responsible for the expanding epidemic of nutrient-devoid, chemically-laced and processed options.  I personally agree with and believe in what is said by both sources, even if I do not strictly adhere to their warnings.  Given the global pervasiveness of cancers, obesity, malnutrition, eating disorders, dementia, and disturbing developmental handicaps, it wouldn't hurt for us all to take into consideration Dr. Jensen's unembellished, time-tested words of counsel.  His tome, by the way, was dedicated "to the American Housewife", and was intended as a practical resource for easy application.  Absolutely anyone, he insisted, has "the power to build and maintain a healthy family."  So why not share his robust declarations and optimistic measurements?  I'm not kidding here -- your body will thank you for the favor.