Packing for Wellness

Three weeks on the road requires some discipline in packing. Since this isn’t our first long road trip, we have it down to a science. Which is another way of saying, Michael made a list. He’s a list-maker. And thank God because without it we’d be ten miles down the road and realize we forgot Janelle’s blanket, or Grant’s ipod, or my computer.
With his three-column spreadsheet detailing all the activities we needed to accomplish before leaving, Michael ordered us around like Napoleon commanding his troops.

“Grant, collect all the trash around the house and throw it in the dumpster.”

“Amanda, finish washing the dishes, dry them and put them away.”

“Janelle, go flush all the toilets.”

And then finally, he called out, “Where’s your mother?”

Road Trip!

The Wellness Project is going on the road.

Michael and I are taking the kids on a three-week road trip to visit friends in Texas. Yup, that’s right. Three weeks in a minivan with my husband and children.

Actually, it’s no big deal for us. A couple of years ago we took the kids on a cross-country trip for ten weeks. And then we did it again the following summer. We’ve logged 25,000 miles touring America’s amazing landscape.

Lobster fishing in Maine, a Broadway show in New York City, hiking through the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, and Yosemite; these are just a few of our spectacular adventures.

Over the course of those two summers, my children tracked how many states they’ve slept in—they’re at forty-three. Not surprisingly, Alabama, Mississippi, Oklahoma, and Arkansas are among the missing seven. There’s a reason for that. When you think about visiting America’s premier attractions, no one goes, “Hey, let’s go to Selma, Alabama,” or “I hear Jackson, Mississippi is fantastic.”

Justifying My Alcohol Consumption. It’s Not Going Well.

Since I’m always trying to justify my red wine consumption as a healthy choice, I was disappointed to read an article on Livestrong.com about the adverse affects of alcohol and weight loss.

The full article is here, if you’d like to read it and join me in my depression.

I knew about the lowering of inhibitions leading to poor food choices, the empty calories, zero nutritional value, blah blah blah. What I didn’t know was the following:

 “… when your body is attempting to metabolize alcohol and food that have been consumed together, it will use the energy from the alcohol first and store the food as fat. Because the body perceives alcohol as a poison and because it cannot store the energy from alcohol, its first priority is to eliminate it, while digesting and processing the food becomes secondary. That means your meal gets stored and synthesized as fat while the alcohol gets burned off.”

CRAP! Not only am I ingesting empty calories from alcohol, but the food I’m eating goes right to my fat stores, a/k/a my thighs.

My Nemesis Is In The House

Homemade, raw chocolate chip cookie dough. It’s my Kryptonite.

If I was a death row inmate, I’d have cookie dough made with Hershey’s semi-sweet chocolate chips and Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee as my last meal. Buzzing on caffeine and sugar, I’d skip into the death chamber, memories of my Jamaican honeymoon and sitting at my mother’s kitchen table, licking the beaters from her latest batch of cookies swirling in my head. I’d die happy.

Before I began my eight-weeks to wellness program, I typically had a Ziploc bag full of cookie dough in the freezer. I’d grab a little morsel now and again to reward myself for going to yoga class, or volunteering at my children’s school, or, for making the long, arduous trek from the second floor all the way to the freezer. However small the accomplishment, a cookie dough ball was a just reward.

Given my weakness for the sugary ball of goodness, I haven’t made any since I began this quest. I didn’t want the temptation.

Last night, my daughter Amanda had a few friends over and she made cookies. There’s cookie dough in my freezer right now, beckoning me like a Siren.

If I cheat am I wrecking all my progress? What’s a girl to do?

I Just Can't Do It

Meditate. The word calls to me every day on my iCal application. Sparkling in its purple highlighted cell, I look at it, acknowledge it, and ignore it.

Instead, I tackle hair appointments, doctor visits, the gym, the grocery store, even the library’s summer reading program gets a higher priority. I accomplish everything on the iCal schedule, except meditate.

I should do it, I know I should.

Several years ago I sought the help of a therapist for various issues, and he, after only a few sessions said, “I think you would really benefit from meditation.”

He was apparently so convinced I needed it that he made me a meditation tape. As I exited his office, he handed me a cassette tape. “Listen to it, I think you’ll really like it.”

Thanking him, I left and stared at the black plastic rectangle with the word “meditation” hand-written across it. I couldn’t help but think, Who makes a cassette tape anymore? I mean, is that technology even around? How old is this guy?

My Sunday Ritual. No, It’s Not Church

It was a chilly Tuesday evening in May. The skies had been threatening rain all day and it looked like the weatherman’s predictions were finally going to arrive. I stood in the parking lot of Short Pump Middle School, clutching the sides of my jacket a bit tighter against my body.

Janelle’s soccer coach approached me and said, “Looks like rain. I’ll let the girls run around for about 15 minutes and then we’ll call it a night.”

I quickly agreed and ran to the warmth of my car. Great, I thought, I raced over here for nothing. Evening soccer practice always annoyed me. Not only due to mother nature’s unpredictability, but also because it interfered with a tradition of mine—family dinner.

When it comes to dinnertime, I’m a bit like June Cleaver. I like to have dinner as a family every night. I enjoy the togetherness as we gather around the table. I relish the conversations about my children’s day. It’s more than sustenance to me. It’s connecting to the people I love most in this world. And soccer practice was totally screwing with that.

Are You Supposed to Cry in Cycling Class?

Once, about three years ago my sister talked me in to taking a cycling class at her gym. Twenty minutes in, sweat dripping off me, and gasping for air, I found myself performing the Lamaze breathing technique to calm myself. Without a thought to the impression I was giving my fellow cyclists, I got up and walked out. I couldn’t take it.

Now it’s my friend Suzanne that’s trying to coax me in to a class. “You’ll love it,” she insisted. “It’s a great workout and half of our neighbors are in there. It’s like happy hour.”

Still stinging from my initial experience, I evaded her overtures. “Um, yeah, I don’t know. I’ll think about it,” I hedged.

But she kept pushing and since I have trouble saying “no” to peer pressure, I caved.

Joining Suzanne in the back of the class, I asked the instructor for help in setting up my bike. Thankfully she was no “John the Jerk” and cheerfully welcomed me and showed me how to adjust the bike. (See John, that’s how it’s done. It’s called KINDNESS.)