Going for a Run

(Based on Coover’s "Going for a Beer")

 She finds herself ellipting at the neighborhood gym dreaming of running on the treadmill at about the same time she’s proud that first mile is halfway done. In fact, she’s finished it. Perhaps she’ll have a second one, she thinks as she runs another two miles and plans for a fourth. There is a poster on the wall not far from her for a 5k that is not cheap but cheap enough and probably fun to run, which indeed it is. Did she finish that whole chocolate bar? Pretty likely. What really matters is, did she recover fast enough? Did she even ache?  Was the race shirt worth it?  This she is wondering on her way home from that next 5k, through the snowy roads of her worn down village, which was full of races, the sort won by youngsters, though she made a date, as she recalls, to go to another one, where she gets another shirt. She has a hankering for this. Whereupon she’s at a race again, a 10k this time, taking off from the pack. She excitedly passes strollers, walkers, joggers, stuffing her new T-shirts into a dresser heaped with them.  She can’t remember when she last ellipted, and she’s no longer sure, as she trots through the night streets, where her sanity is, if she ever had any, already fading from memory. Maybe she should run a second 12k, where she gets another T-shirt, and this time stays for chocolate and a steaming coffee at the big tent on the course commiserating with other runners before she starts that half marathon.  Where another dream starts hassling her and she ends up in her bed, covered in race shirts, as she leaves the house in the early morning hours, uncertain what road is calling her. Or what part of year.  She decides that it’s time to call off the plan – it’s driving her knee crazy – but then the resolve shows up and the trainer laughs at the pounding he’s given her. He didn’t realize, he says, how much she could take.  The trainer’s present is a promise of two strong legs at the gym where she runs, and a stable core to support her hopes. She has big dreams now and decides after the fourteen-miler to check whether she still has the bureau space she first had when she started this mess. She doesn’t.  It’s embarrassing and the atmosphere is somewhat fantastical she thinks as she sees a poster for that 30k. Is she signing up or heading back home? She’s not sure, but on arrival she collects her new shirt and runs when the gun goes off. One of her knees is crying so she starts to limp and stuffs a bag with ice and opens the computer to look for solutions and discovers another message, from her trainer, which says that he’ll meet her at the starting line because he’s going to bring a stop watch and he better not find her slacking off because if he does he’s going to get out the boxing gloves. She believes him so soon she’s out on the streets again, wondering if she ever put that ice on her knee and if her shoulder muscles could ache any harder and her lungs expand while her knuckles bleed. So she bandages them and hits the mitts again for thirty seconds, forty seconds, three hours forty minutes and that first twenty-miler is in the books.  She passes the old neighborhood gym and is tempted but decides she ‘s had enough cross training for one lifetime and is about to trot on when her good sense stops her and her head tells her to climb on the elliptical and pedal until her legs are mush and she believes she’s ready so she’s out on the streets again, wondering if that Advil is going to kick in or if she remembered to take it as she finishes the twenty-two miler and eats another chocolate and gulps gallons of water because before she knows it she’ll be in her corral. She’s right. After a ton more elliptical hours,  and five boxing sessions some painfully remembered, she’s at the start and wonders if she’s ready but the gun’s gone off and it’s time to move.  So she shrugs and moves forward slow then fast then slow until the finish line where she cries and breathless, accepts the medal which is hanging above her bed as she limps to the gym in her new race shirt where she finds herself ellipting, though she’s dreaming of running, at about the same time that her next marathon is done. If she was ever there in the first place because she’s out there again, hankering and hoping because well. . . you know. . . marathons. 

Shoveling with Dad

We joked about the lack of snow for most of January, one way to keep our spirits up.  

At least we’re not out there shoveling in this cold, we’d say.  Could always be worse. 

Sometimes we’d raise our coffee mugs and toast: Survived another week! Almost spring! 

We were looking for any small thing to keep us buoyant.  We noted that the days were getting longer, the sun stronger.  Soon, we told ourselves, we’ll be complaining of the heat. 

But most times, he’d have none of that.  He’d stand at the front window, click his tongue, and shake his head at the rectangles of lawn, frosted and stiff. 

It’s pretty, the way it sparkles, don’t you think? We’d try to keep our voices even. Strain to hide the pleading.  Sneak looks at the set of his mouth, the lines of his brow. It’s all about the power of positive thinking, we’d tell ourselves.   

Remember ’78? How we were stuck inside for weeks? Thought we’d never see green again? Then skied until April vacation? Wrapped our jackets around waists?  

We chuckled. Lost ourselves in memories of calf muscles trembling through white glue and mud, ski tips shuddering on ice like glass, and us flying over rocks, dirt, bales of hay, breathless, laughing over who’d be first in line for that next rope tow trip up.   

We can’t stop ourselves and know it’s too much even as we say it: You’ll be out walking again in no time. 

Yeah, he says. Right. Then that laugh, a knife, punishment for forgetting for seconds his biweekly appointments with the chiropractor, cardiologist, lung guy.  Half his days are spent on medical visits or picking up prescriptions, have we forgotten that? 

Finally, a few weeks later, the snow came. 

You’re there shoveling the walk, and he’s calling from the glass back door, asking how it’s going. You remind him if he comes out to be careful because all he needs is that one fall and life will never be the same again. 

Yes. I know, he says.  There’s no reprimand, no sarcasm, no anger in his tone.   

Minutes later he’s on the top step, wool ski hat shoved down to his ears. He announces he wants to supervise as you dig out his car.  Each step he takes on the frozen stairs, covered with a Sahara Desert’s worth of sand, lasts an hour, it seems. You’ve got him in your peripheral vision. You’re hip-deep now, working the shovel around the exhaust pipe.  

He walks your way. Good job kid, he says.  You laugh, keep it light. Think about reminding him -- shrug it away though -- how back then, he'd be on your tail to hurry up so the two of you could get some runs in before the rest of the world showed up, and the slopes got too packed.  

The car chirps. He opens the driver’s door and climbs in. Seconds later, the engine growls, then he’s out again.

He’s snowbrush-armed, and clearing a path, a foot of powder from the driver’s side hood. He cleans a small circle on the windshield, a porthole, just enough for him to see only what’s directly in his way. Then he shuffles toward the trunk, where you still labor to free that one back wheel, which is locked in a bank of ice.  

He inspects your work. Says you’ve done plenty for now though you protest that the car might stick. He waves away your words and tells you to watch how the pros do it. 

He climbs back into the front seat and presses the gas, three, four, six times.  The car rocks now. The back wheels spin. When they catch, he pulls into the road then parks against a snow bank to the side. 

You move to the next car, and start freeing that, watching him all the while from the corner of your eye. You like how the tip of his ski hat bobs with each move of his arm. 

He’s still in the road, cleaning the roof, the trunk, the hood, every window until the car is shiny new, then chatting with a neighbor, then another neighbor, then telling you to get a move on because he’s almost ready to drive that next car out.  

Back in the rope tow days, before we graduated to T-bars then chairlifts.

10 Things I've Learned from Saturday Night Live

1. Eat your breakfast, and you too could become an Olympian.

The video:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nrythD3kkoA


2. When in doubt, get a second opinion. But not from Theodoric of York.

The video: 
http://www.hulu.com/watch/3529


3. There may be intelligent life on other planets, and it's probably smarter than us.  

 The video:
 http://www.hulu.com/watch/14763



4. Always always always use caution when opening the door to strangers.

The video:
http://www.spike.com/video-clips/gytf2i/land-shark


5. Bees make the world a better place.   

The video:  
http://www.hulu.com/watch/1476


 6. When you've got a fever, the only cure is more cowbell.

The video: 
http://www.hulu.com/watch/536145

7. There are all kinds of douchebags. 

A bit of the video:
 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K_b3oPslctA

8. Sometimes being called an ignorant slut is actually a compliment.

The video:
http://www.videobash.com/video_show/jane-you-ignorant-____-1744391


9. I'm not Chevy Chase, and neither am I. 

10. Nothing wrong with being a nerd.        

The video:
https://screen.yahoo.com/nerd-prom-000000691.html

Put down that brownie! Stress, fat, and understanding

   

The info I’m sharing here is culled from an article by Jillian Michaels and Katja Van Herle, MD, MSPH. I’m sharing the information from “Get to know the key hormones and the roles they play,”* for a couple of reasons. First, writing is an effective way for me to absorb and retain information.

  

Second, the article is pretty dense. Rewriting a section in my own words is a good brain work out. A fit person makes sure to fuel her body AND her mind.

Third, I know so many good folks dealing with incredible amounts of stress who are looking for ways to stay healthy.  Maybe you’re not likely to read a scholarly article written by a fit and firm exercise nut with millions of bucks and scads of state-of-the-art training equipment at her disposal. But maybe you’ll read this by yours truly, a doughier, middle class (barely), brownie –loving, back of the pack marathoner dealing with her own stress and weight issues. 

Proof I won't be vying for Jillian's job any time soon: This was last night's dinner.

Here’s a bit of the science behind our fight-or-flight hormones and the impact they have on our weight.   

How does stress make us fat?

1. We have three fight-or-flight hormones: norepinephrine, epinephrine, cortisol.

2. Epinephrine = adrenaline.

3. Cortisol helps our bodies store fat.

4. When we are stressed:

                A. Norepinephrine tells our systems to stop producing insulin. Why? So we have fast-acting blood glucose ready to rescue us.

                B. Epinephrine/ adrenaline relaxes muscles in our stomach and intestines, and decreases blood flow to these organs. Why? Your body is directing energy toward saving your life versus digesting your food.

Both these A and B responses can cause high blood sugar and give you tummy problems.

                C. Cortisol kicks in when the stressor passes. Cortisol signals your body to stop making norepinephrine and adrenaline, directs your body to resume normal digestion, and tells your body what fat, protein, or carbohydrates to burn, depending on the challenge your body is facing.

5. Epinephrine rushes suppress your appetite.

6. Cortisol can linger in your body long after the stress passes, and will increase your cravings for foods that are high in fats and carbs.   

7. If stress lingers, cortisol lingers.

8. If cortisol lingers, your body has trouble losing weight, but has no problem gaining weight. Why? Your body starts thinking in terms of starvation, and starts hoarding fat in order to cope.  

9. As cortisol stays, it redistributes fat from “healthier areas, like your buttocks and hips,” – peripheral fat, to areas around your central organs – visceral fat.

10. Your number of fat cells doesn’t “generally” change, but their size can.  

11. What makes fat cells grow: “continued stress, high cortisol, unhealthy lifestyle and diet.”

12. Why is visceral fat wicked bad? It can increase inflammation in the body, and is associated with insulin resistance. (Lots of other reasons too. For example, belly fat is associated with the heart attack body prototype, but this article doesn’t address this or other reasons.)

13. Excess cortisol and excess belly fat create more cortisol which creates more belly fat and so on.

What foods can keep cortisol in check?

There are many ways to manage stress (exercise, meditation, strengthening positive social networks, for example).  But I’m not writing about those things today because this blog post is a summary of the Michaels and Van Herle article, which focuses on what to eat/avoid in order to keep the stress hormone cortisol from taking over your insides. Here are some of their suggestions.

1. Avoid processed foods, especially those containing refined sugars and processed grains. High insulin levels can trigger increased cortisol production. 

2. Load up on high fiber foods: fruits, veggies, beans.

3. Take in protein every two to three hours to avoid “excess insulin output.”

4. Avoid potassium loading/ supplements unless advised to do so by your doctor. Excess potassium can increase cortisol levels.

5. Limit caffeine. Caffeine increases cortisol.

6. Look for foods containing phosphatidylserine, which might interact with cortisol to “help buffer the response to stress.” Suggestions: whole grains, green leafy veggies, brown rice, chicken, beef, pork, and some fish, including mackerel, herring, eel, tuna.

7. Look for foods high in vitamin C, like citrus fruits, green peppers, tomatoes, broccoli, turnips, leafy greens, white potatoes, cantaloupe. Vitamin C might “blunt” cortisol release.

8. Eat foods containing tryptophan, which can lower cortisol. In addition to turkey, tryptophan is found in: whey protein, egg whites, spinach, crustaceans.

Finally, regular me now, don’t be afraid to search out your own info. The above listing of good foods is by no means complete. The info that I’m sharing here is not the end all and be all on how to manage your stress and your diet. I’m not an expert. I’m just a sometimes laid back/ often stressed out teacher/ writer/ runner/ daughter/ mom/ finding my way, enjoying my journey, one hill at a time.  Hope you enjoy yours too.      

* I am not a licensed nutrition expert or a scientist or a doctor. All info in this post, in quotes and otherwise, is taken from the CEU Corner, “The Nature of Metabolism,” by Jillian Michaels, Aerobics and Fitness Association of America.

Here's a teacher gift

My pre-holiday email inbox was glutted with ads from every retail website I’d visited this year, maybe even this lifetime.  I got announcements about lighting sales at Pottery Barn, braided rug deals at L.L. Bean, top ten book lists from Amazon, cat toy specials, horoscope readings, pest removal deals, on and on and on. 

Most got deleted immediately but I couldn’t help reading a few, especially the ones that came with ridiculous stories, heart-tugging or just plain stupid, like how Jo Schmo bought this expensive  elephant legged/ cow-headed/ giraffe-necked end table for Blake Blah and how the table then saved their lives during a tsunami, earthquake, power outage, hangnail crisis, whatever. 

But I never read the emails about what to get your kid’s teacher. First, because my kids are grown. I haven’t bought gifts for my daughters' teachers for going on fifteen years now.  Second, I read one of those lists once, years ago, and it was about as pertinent to my life as an inner city school teacher as owning a Rolls Royce. 

A gift card to Starbucks? A Yankee Candle? A Crabtree and Evelyn gift set? Seriously? My kids don’t have that kind of money and if they did, I wouldn’t want them waste it on me anyhow. I don’t need or want anything from my students, except for this: that they become who they truly want to become, and maybe make the world a better place in the process. That’s a tough order and not something that comes wrapped up with ribbons.    

Many of my students don’t have crayons or books. Some don’t even have pencils at home. Many of my students are homeless. That is, they live in shelters or their families have moved in with other families. They bring their school crayons home when they need to work on projects because they don't have those kinds of things at home. They remind me that we need to pass out paper for homework, because when they don’t do their homework because they didn’t have the paper to write their essays or do their math, they’re not making excuses. That’s their reality.

Here’s a fact. Inner city school teachers rarely get gifts. Here’s another fact. I don’t want my students to give me gifts. I feel bad opening presents from the few that can afford to give something, because I see the reactions of the kids who can’t. They pretend to be suddenly busy reading or talking with their friends, or they ask what I got and their smiles are big and forced. It hurts them. It hurts me.

When my students ask me what they should buy me for Christmas, and they always do, I am straight with them: Spend your money on yourselves or on your family. If you want to give me anything, make me something. Draw me a picture of yourself, or make me a card. 

They say, “Really?” 

I say, “Really.”

But they’re sixth graders and self-conscious and tend to associate gifts with spending money not drawing pictures, so I’m not exactly overwhelmed with homemade stuff on the holidays. And that’s just fine too. I tell them the best gift they can give me is coming to school every day. Depending on the class and on my mood, I might roll my eyes a little or a lot.  They’ll groan and laugh and roll their eyes back at me too.

This year I got three gifts. Two were pretty standard and obviously parent-purchased: a box of chocolates, a scarf. The kids didn’t even know what they’d given me and stood by, more curious than me, as I opened their gifts.  

Then there was the third gift, brought in by a kid who wears the same pair of sneakers to school every day, who owns maybe four different T-shirts, who proudly showed me the two quarters he brought in on bake sale day because to have that much money at one time was a huge deal for him, who assured me just before we left for vacation that his best friend who just switched to another school is okay because he phones him every night to check on him. 

I found D’s gift on my desk that last morning before the holiday. It was in a small red gift bag with green wreaths, no identifying card or label.

I held it up. “Hmm. Look what I found.”

D had been hunched down in his seat, pretending to read. Now, he popped up, all excited, and made it to my desk in less than a second I swear. He said it was from him and insisted I open it right away. He hopped from one foot to another while I did.

I pulled out a small Christmas tin, and D informed me that there was a special surprise inside. There was. He explained as I showed the class. He spoke quickly and loudly so the entire class could hear. His cheeks were flushed.

  

“You know those bags of Christmas cookies you get at the grocery store? My mom bought those and we put some in here for you. We did it for a lot of people. We got those cans at the dollar store. They didn’t even cost a dollar. Isn’t that a great idea? You guys should all do it too.” Yup, he was teaching the class, gift-buying on a budget 101. 

Some of the kids said, yeah, it was a great idea. I assured him that it was too. Then he said the other present was even better. 

I fished around in the bag then pulled out a little candle, apple-scented.

D announced to the class that he picked it out especially for me. He got a real deal. It only cost fifty cents. “Can you believe it? Only fifty cents!”

I agreed that wow, it was a great deal. “You are such a smart shopper!” I said.

I told D I loved apples and complimented him on his thoughtfulness. I removed the lid. D and I took turns sniffing the candle.

“See? It smells just like apple,” D said.

“Wow, it DOES smell just like apple,” I said. 

A couple of kids came up to the desk. They wanted to smell it too. They said things like, “Wow! That smells really nice.”

You should have seen the smile on D’s face, the sparkle in his eyes, as he watched his classmates react to his presents. Now that was a gift.  

Here are the other gifts D gave me.