Meditation: Take-Two

Last Sunday, having selected my meditation room, I decided to finally give it whirl.

With meditation CDs in hand, I walked up to the attic, my faithful dog Snickers at my heels. Knowing Snickers would whimper outside the closed door, I let her in the attic and locked the door behind us. I sat down in my meditation zone, my back against a denim beanbag chair, a portable CD player on the floor in front of me.

Okay, I thought, here we go.

The CD started and I immediately let out a laugh. My meditation leader, Dr. Marty Rossman, sounded like Ben Stein. How on earth was I supposed to meditate with Ben Stein leading me? All I could think of was his line in the movie Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,    “Beuller? Beuller? Bueller?”

No One Told Me This Was a Detox Program

I’m having an existential crisis.

This program has upended my notions of who I think I am and forcing me to reevaluate how I live my life.

The unimaginable has happened. I’m losing my taste for wine.

Having rationalized my red wine consumption as a permissible, even healthy, detour from the plan, I started drinking it again, on occasion. But now I notice my body rejects more than one glass of that sweet nectar. Instead of tantalizing my tongue, it tastes bitter at the first sip of the second pouring. Is it the essence of guilt I smell in the bouquet that prevents me from overindulging? Or the knowledge of alcohol’s affect on my body? Or perhaps, I’m simply drinking really bad wine?

Fish Burritos with Black Bean Salsa and Cole Slaw

I thought I’d pass along another of my favorite healthy recipes. My kids love this too. Except for my 7-year-old, Janelle. But she doesn’t count as a real eater because if it’s not bread, pasta, cereal, sugar, yogurt or eggs, she’s probably not going to eat it. She often sits at the dinner table and just stares at it, slumping, her face in her hands and whines, “There’s nothing here that I like.”

Uh huh, too bad. I have no sympathy for her. I’m not running a restaurant and I know she doesn’t mind some healthier choices, she just doesn’t prefer them. Well, no kidding. I’d prefer to eat ice cream, cookie dough, coffee and wine every day too, but that’s not what my body needs. (Say it with me people:  Food is not entertainment. Food is energy. Amen.)

It’s Just 8 Songs

There’s a reason I never did interval training before. I don’t like running or sweating. The only thing that appeals to me about the cardio workout is its short duration—only thirty minutes.  So I go to the gym, and I run, staring at the clock as it counts down until the torture stops. Thirty minutes to go, twenty-nine, twenty-eight...

I’ve realized this obsession with the clock does not, in fact, make the time go faster. I’m convinced it actually triggers some kind of Lost phenomenon. There’s a large flash of light, I’m transported to an alternate timeline, and the clock displays—thirty minutes to go. Arrrrgggg.

To Meditate or Not to Meditate…Okay Fine, I’ll Meditate

I’m supposed to be meditating twice daily. Oops. I still haven’t done it, once.

And I know the problem, actually I have two problems. The first and most formidable, is this: I kind of think it’s a bunch of hooey.

I know there’s tons of research to support meditation as a powerful form of stress relief. I know it’s an ancient practice dating back thousands of years. I know, I KNOW! But it just doesn’t seem like the kind of thing I would do.

My vision of people that meditate run the spectrum from stoned hippies to the Dalai Lama. And while my soul screams “child of the sixties,” I’m really not. I came of age in the 1980s, when consumerism and excess were as big as my hair.

Get Into the Groove

The title of this blog takes me back to my college days, dancing in clubs with Madonna’s song Get Into the Groove blasting through the air. I owe her a huge debt of gratitude. Her music kept me from gaining the Freshman-15. Well, her and my best friend and dance partner, Ben. We danced atop the enormous speakers at the Limelight club, various tables and bars around the city, and sometimes even on the floor. (Can you hear my heavy nostalgic sigh?)

In Search of Comfort Food

My friend’s dog died the other day. Like her, I am one of those people that elevates the status of their pet beyond mere animal. My dog, like hers, is my baby. I don’t just love Snickers, my brown-eyed, brown-haired, just plain ole brown mutt, I adore her. I’d give her a kidney if she needed it. So when I heard my friend’s news, I was devastated, because I immediately projected her loss into my life.