Posted 2/26/10 8:17 AM PST

Dance

This morning, I put Ingrid Michaelson in my iPod and spent a full minute -- maybe even 2 -- dancing naked in the mirror.

I know. You think it is a) bizarre that I would do this and b) even more bizarre that I would admit it to a bunch of strangers on the Internet. But I did it, and I'm okay admitting it and I'll tell you why: yesterday I learned that my old friend Karen (also known as Kalena) has stopped her cancer treatments and gone on to hospice care.

Karen is 42.

Her daughter, Zaiden, is 5.

I blogged about Karen 2 and a half years ago when she was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer and given 6 months to live.   I asked you all to send your money and your prayers and many of you did (thank you.)  Karen has shown an extraordinary fighting spirit.  More that that, she has shown an extraordinary willingness to try, every day, to have an accepting spirit, a rising-above spirit, a healing spirit. This has not been easy. Karen went to the doctor when she first felt the lump. When she was probably still Stage 1. She was dismissed; misdiagnosed.  Then she went to a specialist and she was misdiagnosed again. By the time she was properly diagnosed, her cancer was so advanced that for the last two and half years she's been struggling to walk, struggling to breathe, struggling to lift her beautiful daughter. And still, she's fought, she's prayed, she's written, she's played, she's danced.

Normally, when I look in the mirror, my eyes go like a laser beam to the stretch marks, to  the cellulite, to the 38 year old, less-than-perky breasts, to the new lines that deepen daily across my forehead;  to the "flaws." But this morning, when I walked past the mirror, the light was coming in in such a way that all I saw was beauty. I paused. I put on music. "Keep Breathing." I danced. 

The stretchmarks mark the 9 months I got to carry Coco in my belly, the 9 months I was lucky enough to get to grow this beautiful creature from scratch. The celullite reflects delicious meals I shared with friends and long hours spent sitting and writing at a job I love. The sagging breasts reflect the years of blissful, bond-full breastfeeding. The new lines reflect days spent laughing and crying and living (and a very healthy fear of Botox.)

I still have weight I want to lose and crap I have to do and grief I have to feel and there are moments when I feel defeated by all it. Absurd.  Defeated by an extra ten pounds? By a fight with a friend? By a difficult divorce? Defeated? While my breasts are lump-free and my child is here with me, laughing and growing?  Absurd.

Today, for this moment, I have perspective. Just one of many gifts that knowing Karen has given me. 

I hope you will stop today and kiss your kids and give thanks for your health and theirs. I hope you will put on some music and look in the mirror and see the beauty. I hope that for just one minute, you'll dance.  

Posted 8/03/09 8:03 AM PST

IDENTITY CRISIS

(Or, who the f*!k do I think I am???)

I am on an airplane on my way to New York. Splayed out before me on my fold out table is as follows: A baggie full of celery, a baggie full of sliced cucumbers, a container of greek yogurt, a banana, a peach, a baggie of almonds, a baggie of hard boiled eggs, a baggie of grapes and a Tupperware of tuna mixed with olive oil instead of mayonnaise.

Seriously.

I do not know WHO I think I am right now. Apparently, I think I’m Az, whose near-obsessive food packing has often provided occasion for mockery. (Generally, the mockery is coming from me as I stuff my face with airplane Oreos. ) So…what exactly is happening here? How is it possible that there is no scone on my little fold out table? No M&M’s? Travel days have historically been some of my favorite because a) I give myself permission to read trashy magazines on airplanes and b) airplane calories don’t count. I don’t know why I think they don’t count. I guess it’s like – we’re not actually on earth, so maybe science doesn’t apply? Anyway, that’s been my theory in the past. Yet here I sit, with a potpourri of ingredients from which to make small, healthy balanced meals. And add to that this shocking fact: the flight attendant just came by and I did NOT order a ginger ale nor did I accept the salty, sweet, greasy, delicious airline peanuts. I swear I’m having a total identity crisis. Because the WEIRDEST part about all of this, is that I’m not resenting that I’m not eating a scone. And I wasn’t even TEMPTED to order the ginger ale. And so I have to ask again, WHO THE F*@! AM I????

My theory on what’s happening here has two parts.

Part one is, I have been working out with an insane trainer who has been KICKING MY ASS. For the record, I want to state that I got to the “After” pictures in my book all by myself – with no trainer; just by playing the game. But a month before the book came out, I was feeling a little panicky and a little too busy and a little unmotivated and my pretty assistant Star goes, “I met this trainer the other night who seems cool. Maybe you should work out with her?” Now, I’m pretty sure Star actually likes me, because I’m a nice boss and I pay her well and I buy her presents sometimes and also I refer to her as my eldest daughter and give her advice on boys and stuff. So I’m pretty sure she meant well and was not actually trying to kill me… But Tiffany Baker (www.tiffanybaker143.com), said trainer, IS trying to kill me. She shows up at my house at 6 in the morning and makes me workout so hard that I start to cry or want to vomit or both. When I slow down, she yells at me. When my knees buckle, she loudly disapproves. When I start to cry? She makes me keep going. When I collapse in the middle of a sixty count of some horrible exercise? SHE MAKES ME START OVER. She is seriously a crazy bitch (who’s actually a great person which is neither here nor there when she’s going all crazy bitch on me.) So I think maybe it’s these workouts with Tiffany that have led to my strange airplane behavior. Because I feel kinda like, why am I gonna spend all that money and put myself through hell for an hour every morning, and then just undo it all with a cinnamon maple scone?

So that’s part one. And part two is this…

Az and I have a Game On right now. And we bet an iPhone again; the new one with like, insane speed and magical video and all sorts of awesome awesomeness. If you’ve read our book, you may recall that I already bought that bastard one iPhone. And I am BOUND AND DETERMINED not to have to do it again. To that end, I have not lost one point this week. Okay, fine, I screwed up my habit points one day but THAT’S IT. It’s been a PERFECT WEEK otherwise. And I happen to know that Az has NOT had a perfectly perfect week. And so, there is NO FREAKING WAY that I am throwing this game over just because I have to be on an airplane all day. Or because I’m going to be in ManhattanNew York for my 20 year high school reunion which would normally prompt me to do a certain amount of anxiety eating. Or for any freakin’ reason AT ALL. And it’s not even so much that I want to WIN, y’know? I can afford to buy myself an iPhone if I really want an iPhone. It’s that I DO NOT WANT TO LOSE. Seriously, I am going to be SO PISSED if he beats me again. So I’m playing all out. And as a result, I’m at my lowest weight in many years. I’m at a lower weight than when I got married. I’m actually tempted to take down my wedding dress and put it on except it costs so damn much to have them pack it up so the moths don’t get to it.

So that’s part two. And here’s another crazy thing…

I’m about to admit that I was wrong about something. This, too, is giving me something of an identity crisis. Not the admitting I was wrong, I’m generally pretty good at admitting when I’ve been wrong. The identity crisis comes from the fact that the thing I’m wrong about, I’ve been wrong about for a long time. And the thing I’m wrong about is also a thing I wrote in my book for everyone to read – which makes being wrong that much worse, y’know? It’s one thing when you’re wrong in like, a fight with your husband. It’s another thing to be wrong in print, in tens of thousands of copies in bookstores all over the country. Hurts.

But here it is anyway, the thing I was wrong about: In the book, I say that I have a curvy belly that I inherited from both of my parents and that there is no weight at which I do not have it. I actually put that last part in italics like, there is no weight at which I do not have it, because that’s how sure I was that I was right. Crap. I was wrong in italics. Cause here’s the thing: I am currently 23 pounds heavier than I was my junior year of college when I got sick and lost a ton of weight and got as skinny as I should get. And at that weight, I still had a curvy, round belly. And now, 23 pounds heavier, I have WAY less of a curvy, round belly. Why? Because that psycho, Tiffany, makes me do about a half an hour of ab/core exercises every day. And as it turns out, the belly curviness is way less about weight and genetics than it is about muscle tone, strength and fitness. I am genuinely shocked by this. Cause I’ve done plenty of crunches in my life. Plenty! But never like this. I’ve generally stopped when it starts to really hurt. Tiffany tells me that when it starts to hurt, that’s where the work STARTS. (Kind of a metaphor for all of life if you think about it.) This annoys me because a) I don’t like physical pain but b) I do like having a flatter belly. It’s a dilemma.

But the thing is, I’ve been doing the whole health/weight/body thing my own way for a long time with not a lot of results. And now I’m doing things Az’s way and Tiffany’s way, and I’m seeing a total transformation of everything I thought I knew about my body. I’m not sure how long I’m going to keep it up. I might decide I like my way better, I really, really might. I might decide eventually that a soft belly is preferable to 20 minutes of ab pain every day. But for right now, for today, which is the only day that ever matters, I am liking the changes, I am liking the challenges, and I’m even liking the fact that I was so freaking wrong for so long and that I’m willing to admit it. In print.

To be clear, tomorrow, I might eat scones. And if I do, I’ll enjoy the hell out of them. But for now, I’m enjoying the hell out of my grapes and hardboiled eggs. I mean it. It’s shocking, but I really am.

In our book, psychotherapist Heide Banks posits this theory: To do something 99% is torture. But when you commit to doing it 100 percent, it becomes easy. So on that theory, and from my own experiences these past few weeks, I offer you this…

If you are struggling with your game, PLAY HARDER. Play all out. Play like playing is the best idea you’ve ever had. Play to freaking WIN. I mean it. I dare you to get a perfect score this week.

If you are struggling with your body, consider the possibility that your body is in the shape it’s in not because of genetics, not because you are a victim of anything or anyone, but simply because of your priorities – every decision you make every day. And then consider either changing your mind about your body and deciding to love it just the way it is, or changing the decisions you’re making every day that have led your body to this place. Do one or other, because the in between place is full of shame and remorse and lots of other unpleasant emotions that we can all live happily without. So do this today. Just for today. If you don’t like it, tomorrow you can go back to doing it your way. Okay? That’s the deal and I’m good with that. Cause I’m still not all pushy like Az…even if I am packing food like him.

Posted 6/30/09 / 7:33PM PST

This is not a diet book. I hate diets. Everyone I know hates diets. They’re stupid and hard and not fun and worse than that, they rarely work. My theory on why they don’t work I can only pull from my own experience -- which is that they suck and are stupid and not fun. But more than that, if you have any rebellious spirit in you whatsoever, you’re gonna rebel against the deprivation of a diet. And whether you rebel at the beginning, the middle or the end of the diet, the results will be the same -- you’ll eat like crazy and refuse to move your butt an inch off the couch for weeks.

You’ll undo any good you may have done, and, if you’re like me, you’ll end up fatter, flabbier, unhappier and with lower self esteem than you had when you started. Maybe you’re not like me, maybe you’re like my co-author, Az, and you thrive on restraint and restriction and deprivation. And if so, yay you and we can still be friends (I only hate Az and resent his discipline, like, fourteen percent of the time.)

My point is, this book is not going to offer you any fads, any extremes, any swanky new science that says if you eat only protein, or only citrus, or only peanut butter, or only watermelon (all diets I’ve tried at some point by the way) you will drop seven sizes in two days. (If that’s what you’re looking for, we can’t help you. Good luck, God Bless, we’ll miss you.)

This book isn’t even so much about encouraging weight loss as it is about encouraging health and an attitude that will allow you to accomplish healthy weight loss if that’s your goal, or toning up if that’s your goal, or getting up off your couch for the first time in three years if that’s your goal.

Truly, I think you’re great just the way you are. But if you’re not feeling so great, I think Game On! will help.