Last October, one of my closest friends made the decision to stop working at the front desk of a fitness center and start working at the front counter of Icing on the Cake, the world’s most wonderful bakery. Needless to say, she faces a range of challenges on a daily basis that most of us only have to deal with on grocery store trips and at birthday parties. After spending some time catching up on her couch yesterday, she confessed that she’d put on a considerable amount of weight since starting at her new job. When I had stopped by the bakery for a few, um, supplies last week, she actually referenced the store’s banana cake as her first true love.
“What about Dave (her boyfriend)?” I asked.
“Oh. No. He understands banana cake comes first.”
Even with the acknowledgement of her sweet little problem and the motivation to change, my friend has been struggling to change the habits that landed her in her stretchy pants.
“Saying no to all the sweets was easy the first three days, but days four and five were horrible, “ she complained.
It was immediately obvious to me that my friend’s approach was problematic. Any weight management strategy that proves so intense you can reference days of the attempt by number is not going to be sustainable. And so I let her in on one of my favorite tips: “just a bite.”
It’s very scientific, really, and the instructions are super complicated, so let me explain. Regardless of the food you’re craving or the reason you’re craving it, you allow yourself “just a bite.” The downside of this strategy? A lot of wasted food. I’ve been known to endorse a Miranda-esque defense against weak willpower and squirt dish soap, old beer or other unpleasantries on top of the remainder of the leftover bites of my indulgences. However, by allowing yourself to crave and then enjoy foods that make you happy, you succeed you create a healthy, moderate relationship with all foods. Taking a bite of a cupcake 3 times each workday instead of eating three full cupcakes each workday still offers you a sweet something to look forward to without doing enough damage to pop the buttons on your uniform.
As with baked goods, small victories in exercise can add up. The traditional approach to exercise can be so intimidating. The idea that we have to devote hours each day to fitness in order to stay healthy and fit is not only obnoxiously depressing, it’s wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The mother of one of my younger clients asked me the other day, “How many hours do you work out each day?” It has been a long time since I’ve tried so hard not to laugh.
Yes, I will occasionally dedicate a full, solid hour of hard work (i.e. lifting, sweating, jumping, catching, etc.) to my fitness goals. Yes, I have been known to plan the occasional hilly run just to challenge my legs and prep me for my next event. But the afternoon I spent playing with the Frisbee in the pool with my sister last weekend? That counts. The climbing date I’ve been trying to make with my old roommate? That will count, too. It is the choice to lead an active lifestyle that is the most effective move toward health, not the forced and miserable 3 hour workout at the gym and definitely not the week-long manic cupcake deprivation. Moderation in all things is the answer.
My nutrition professor at UC Santa Barbara had a great line: “Everything in moderation, including moderation.” So some days, we’ll eat the whole cheesecake. Some days, we’ll run marathons. And that’s okay, too.
But for most days, take “just a bite” of exercise and enjoy a bit of your favorite bakery item guilt free. Because what’s the point of life without banana cake?
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Cowgirl thighs and learning to let go
Question: What sixty second workout will make your thighs burn, your core ache and your fingers bruised for days afterward?
Answer: Riding a mechanical bull!! (duh)
Somehow, around 11:00pm last night, I found myself standing in line holding a five dollar bill and a contract releasing the Saddle Rack of Fremont, California from all liability concerning the ridiculous acts I was about to perform. In front of me is Nick, the boyfriend of one of my clients (who has become a dear friend), eagerly detailing the finer points of his bull-riding strategy and plans for total bovine domination. Behind me are two scantily clad girls who look like keeping their eyes all the way open is challenge enough at this point in the night—I sort of wish they’d go before me, because I think they’ll probably make me look good in following.
After watching Nick’s respectable run, I take a deep breath and hand my money, my release and my dignity to the man in the control booth. “Listen,” I tell him. “I’m a personal trainer and I don’t have disability insurance, so if I get hurt, I’m not going to be able to pay my rent.”
He laughs. “Just keep your legs forward and let all the movement happen right here,” he says, gesturing to his pelvis. Hmm. I’ve got hips and I can shake it with the best of ‘em. I should be able to handle this.
No one told me how hard it would be to get on the bull, especially after doing a self-servingly large dose of triceps dips the day before. I manage to pull a beached whale meets Spiderman kind of move, though, and get myself righted on the bull without too much trouble.
I was surprised, honestly, at how determined I felt during my “ride.” I swear I clenched my inner thighs tighter than Xenia in Goldeneye. (Xenia is one of my favorite Bond villains, for obvious reasons. Check her out here). I gripped the handle on the back of that bull with gusto normally reserved for the passenger side door of my car when my boyfriend is driving. I was really and truly motivated. I was also a little tipsy and way too competitive for my own good, but who’s keeping track?
Believe it or not, I got bored on that bull. I think the man in the control booth underestimated me—I could have handled quite a bit more buck than he was dishing out. When I finally started to slip of toward the side of the bull, I had a short conference with myself.
“Rachel,” I said, “you can be the girl who wouldn’t give up and ride the side of this bull for a while. Your shirt may fall off and you may not feel your legs for a couple of days, but you will have the glory of being Little Miss Can’t Let Go. Otherwise, you can roll off onto those nice soft mats and go finish your beer with your friends.”
I think it’s pretty obvious what I decided to do. Even I know when to throw the towel in (most of the time).
My legs are killing me today. My inner thighs have the kind of fatigue that means things are going to get worse before they get better, and my lower back and abs have the tingly reminder that activity occurred there recently. Both of my pointer fingers are bruised where my Death grip met the handle of the mechanical bull. There's no denying it: on a Saturday night, out with my friends and three drinks in, I managed to get in a workout, and it was fantastically fun. How awesome is that?
I’m posting a video of my cowgirl experience—it is of unfortunately hairy quality, and in chunks, as it was taken with a digital camera. I have to say, I feel pretty good about my attempt. My core is a little floppy, my legs don’t stay forward and my form can definitely use some work, but I’m smiling through pretty much the whole thing and I think that’s kind of cool. And next time? Totally doing the “air lasso” with one arm.
Round #1--Ding!
Round #2! (Watch for the graceful dismount...)
That's a wrap. Yee-haw!
Answer: Riding a mechanical bull!! (duh)
Somehow, around 11:00pm last night, I found myself standing in line holding a five dollar bill and a contract releasing the Saddle Rack of Fremont, California from all liability concerning the ridiculous acts I was about to perform. In front of me is Nick, the boyfriend of one of my clients (who has become a dear friend), eagerly detailing the finer points of his bull-riding strategy and plans for total bovine domination. Behind me are two scantily clad girls who look like keeping their eyes all the way open is challenge enough at this point in the night—I sort of wish they’d go before me, because I think they’ll probably make me look good in following.
After watching Nick’s respectable run, I take a deep breath and hand my money, my release and my dignity to the man in the control booth. “Listen,” I tell him. “I’m a personal trainer and I don’t have disability insurance, so if I get hurt, I’m not going to be able to pay my rent.”
He laughs. “Just keep your legs forward and let all the movement happen right here,” he says, gesturing to his pelvis. Hmm. I’ve got hips and I can shake it with the best of ‘em. I should be able to handle this.
No one told me how hard it would be to get on the bull, especially after doing a self-servingly large dose of triceps dips the day before. I manage to pull a beached whale meets Spiderman kind of move, though, and get myself righted on the bull without too much trouble.
I was surprised, honestly, at how determined I felt during my “ride.” I swear I clenched my inner thighs tighter than Xenia in Goldeneye. (Xenia is one of my favorite Bond villains, for obvious reasons. Check her out here). I gripped the handle on the back of that bull with gusto normally reserved for the passenger side door of my car when my boyfriend is driving. I was really and truly motivated. I was also a little tipsy and way too competitive for my own good, but who’s keeping track?
Believe it or not, I got bored on that bull. I think the man in the control booth underestimated me—I could have handled quite a bit more buck than he was dishing out. When I finally started to slip of toward the side of the bull, I had a short conference with myself.
“Rachel,” I said, “you can be the girl who wouldn’t give up and ride the side of this bull for a while. Your shirt may fall off and you may not feel your legs for a couple of days, but you will have the glory of being Little Miss Can’t Let Go. Otherwise, you can roll off onto those nice soft mats and go finish your beer with your friends.”
I think it’s pretty obvious what I decided to do. Even I know when to throw the towel in (most of the time).
My legs are killing me today. My inner thighs have the kind of fatigue that means things are going to get worse before they get better, and my lower back and abs have the tingly reminder that activity occurred there recently. Both of my pointer fingers are bruised where my Death grip met the handle of the mechanical bull. There's no denying it: on a Saturday night, out with my friends and three drinks in, I managed to get in a workout, and it was fantastically fun. How awesome is that?
I’m posting a video of my cowgirl experience—it is of unfortunately hairy quality, and in chunks, as it was taken with a digital camera. I have to say, I feel pretty good about my attempt. My core is a little floppy, my legs don’t stay forward and my form can definitely use some work, but I’m smiling through pretty much the whole thing and I think that’s kind of cool. And next time? Totally doing the “air lasso” with one arm.
Round #1--Ding!
Round #2! (Watch for the graceful dismount...)
That's a wrap. Yee-haw!
Thursday, June 19, 2008
What do you mean itsy bitsy? That thing is HUGE!
I’ve been killing a lot of spiders lately. I’m not sure if it’s just that my house is kind of old and near a woodsy area or if it’s the 100 degree days we’ve been having, but either way, I’ve noticed a lot of 8-legged roommates in my home the last couple of days—and they aren’t paying rent.
I’m not sure when I developed my disdain for insects. It almost seems like it was instinctive—a rite of passage if you will—for a young American girl in suburbia. It’s easiest for me to blame it on my older sister, though, so I will—I’m pretty sure watching her scream at the presence of anything with an exoskeleton taught me at an early age that bugs, spiders and the rest of them were “gross.” I know I went through a period where I was scared to even get within squishing distance of a spider, let alone do the deed. In my house though, it was Mom not Dad, who did the dirty defense work against the creepy crawlers who found their way inside and good lord she was merciless! Those little guys didn’t stand a chance—she’d bust them with her bare hands if there wasn’t a Kleenex handy. When I went away to college and beyond, there was always a brave roommate who would step up to plate to take care of the inconvenience, or at very least, make it a team effort.
It wasn’t until I finally ditched the endless train of roommates for a solo living situation a few months ago that I was faced with the reality that if I didn’t take matters in to my own hands (or feet, as stomping often proves very effective) I was going to have a cast of housemates I hadn’t bargained for. When I found my first intruder about a month after I moved in, I froze. He was huge and black most certainly a deadly threat. Worse yet, he was sitting on the wall behind the side of the refrigerator, making the patented “throw shoe and run” move impossible. So… I “Tilex-ed” him. And he was done. Real fast. That spray bottle does wonders for my shower tiles and must be toxic as hell because that guy was done in 2.5.
With the passing months I’ve become more comfortable living by myself, and in turn, more comfortable taking care of the pests I find inside my home. Now when I see a spider, I roll my eyes—say a quick “I’m sorry” to the little guy’s wife and kids, wherever they may be, and with the *thwack* of a flip flop it’s over.
Learning to make healthy choices is a lot like killing spiders. It’s not something you particularly like doing but it needs to be done unless you want to deal with the consequence, be it high blood pressure, inability to enjoy day to day life or a gigantic spider bite on your butt (yes, it happened). However, as we repeatedly force ourselves to take care of the issue at hand in the most appropriate manner, we practice the act. With practice comes habit and eventually our habitual actions and decisions are so ingrained we no longer have to actively choose to make them.
We will all have slip ups. Even when we think our salad ordering, weight lifting and yoga posing habits are permanent, there will be moments where we seem to “undo” all our practicing and revert back to old ways. We will eat the hostess cupcake, skip the workout for the third day in a row or “forget” to stretch after a run. What’s important is that we allow ourselves this humanness and move forward.
Two nights ago there was a particularly large spider sitting boldy in the middle of my living room floor. I was so ticked off at his audacity that I put a cup over him. He is sitting there, as I write this, in the same spot on my living room floor trapped in his glassy little prison. I don’t know if I’m waiting for some magical roommate to come home and take it outside or for my Mom (who always thought it was pretty wimpy to be scared of bugs) to show up rolling her eyes and carrying a wad of executioner’s tissues. Maybe when we make bad decisions about our health we’re subconsciously hoping someone will come and whip us in to shape, tell us what to do. I know Mom isn’t going to drive 15 minutes to kill a spider for me, so chances are, no fairly godmother of weight loss is going to flutter into your kitchen and remove the spoonful of cookie dough from your hands.
We are our own best resource. Trainers and nutritionists--even doctors--can only do so much. The vast majority of your decisions are left in your hands. Making good decisions and killing spiders—they both take courage, planning and most importantly, practice. As we solidify our healthy habits independently, we become more self-sufficient and confident and confidence is the most wonderful measure of success.
I’m not sure when I developed my disdain for insects. It almost seems like it was instinctive—a rite of passage if you will—for a young American girl in suburbia. It’s easiest for me to blame it on my older sister, though, so I will—I’m pretty sure watching her scream at the presence of anything with an exoskeleton taught me at an early age that bugs, spiders and the rest of them were “gross.” I know I went through a period where I was scared to even get within squishing distance of a spider, let alone do the deed. In my house though, it was Mom not Dad, who did the dirty defense work against the creepy crawlers who found their way inside and good lord she was merciless! Those little guys didn’t stand a chance—she’d bust them with her bare hands if there wasn’t a Kleenex handy. When I went away to college and beyond, there was always a brave roommate who would step up to plate to take care of the inconvenience, or at very least, make it a team effort.
It wasn’t until I finally ditched the endless train of roommates for a solo living situation a few months ago that I was faced with the reality that if I didn’t take matters in to my own hands (or feet, as stomping often proves very effective) I was going to have a cast of housemates I hadn’t bargained for. When I found my first intruder about a month after I moved in, I froze. He was huge and black most certainly a deadly threat. Worse yet, he was sitting on the wall behind the side of the refrigerator, making the patented “throw shoe and run” move impossible. So… I “Tilex-ed” him. And he was done. Real fast. That spray bottle does wonders for my shower tiles and must be toxic as hell because that guy was done in 2.5.
With the passing months I’ve become more comfortable living by myself, and in turn, more comfortable taking care of the pests I find inside my home. Now when I see a spider, I roll my eyes—say a quick “I’m sorry” to the little guy’s wife and kids, wherever they may be, and with the *thwack* of a flip flop it’s over.
Learning to make healthy choices is a lot like killing spiders. It’s not something you particularly like doing but it needs to be done unless you want to deal with the consequence, be it high blood pressure, inability to enjoy day to day life or a gigantic spider bite on your butt (yes, it happened). However, as we repeatedly force ourselves to take care of the issue at hand in the most appropriate manner, we practice the act. With practice comes habit and eventually our habitual actions and decisions are so ingrained we no longer have to actively choose to make them.
We will all have slip ups. Even when we think our salad ordering, weight lifting and yoga posing habits are permanent, there will be moments where we seem to “undo” all our practicing and revert back to old ways. We will eat the hostess cupcake, skip the workout for the third day in a row or “forget” to stretch after a run. What’s important is that we allow ourselves this humanness and move forward.
Two nights ago there was a particularly large spider sitting boldy in the middle of my living room floor. I was so ticked off at his audacity that I put a cup over him. He is sitting there, as I write this, in the same spot on my living room floor trapped in his glassy little prison. I don’t know if I’m waiting for some magical roommate to come home and take it outside or for my Mom (who always thought it was pretty wimpy to be scared of bugs) to show up rolling her eyes and carrying a wad of executioner’s tissues. Maybe when we make bad decisions about our health we’re subconsciously hoping someone will come and whip us in to shape, tell us what to do. I know Mom isn’t going to drive 15 minutes to kill a spider for me, so chances are, no fairly godmother of weight loss is going to flutter into your kitchen and remove the spoonful of cookie dough from your hands.
We are our own best resource. Trainers and nutritionists--even doctors--can only do so much. The vast majority of your decisions are left in your hands. Making good decisions and killing spiders—they both take courage, planning and most importantly, practice. As we solidify our healthy habits independently, we become more self-sufficient and confident and confidence is the most wonderful measure of success.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Wax on, wax off
I had an interesting experience today. I was at my favorite day spa getting my eyebrows done (what--you think these babies wax themselves? Greatness takes effort.) by my favorite esthetician who happens to be the friendliest most bubbly person I have ever met (shout out to Sara C. and the rest of the Nilou Day Spa staff—woot!), when she made a comment that really struck me.
“You know, you and I essentially do really similar things. Our jobs are about making people feel good about them selves,” she says as she rips a wax strip away from my face.
I am proud to say I resisted the temptation to point out that both of our jobs also involve people paying us to inflict all manner of pains on various parts of their bodies. Instead, I left her a nice tip and walked back to my car considering the insights she had offered.
Day spas, nail and hair salons, massage parlors: we immediately connect these types of businesses with pleasure. We go into them wanting attention and walk out looking (but more importantly, feeling) better than when we walked in. This, too, should be the order of events for a workout with a personal trainer.
The notion that personal trainers are little more than glorified slave drivers bent on torturing their charges into a perfectly sculpted six pack with limbs is especially troubling to me because all too often it’s true. Watch any of the wide variety of reality shows centered around weight loss or fitness and you’ll see the stereotypical, hard bodied trainers doing stale, traditional exercises and screaming their faces off at their miserable clients. As far as we have come in the industry, there is still an unfortunate lingering of the “no pain, no gain” mentality. What is important to realize, is that not all personal trainers have this mentality anymore.
Think of the attitude of a trainer towards his or her clients as falling on a spectrum with ends labeled “torture” and “indulgence.” A good trainer will not only achieve a balance of the two (therefore falling in the middle of the spectrum), but will also maintain a strong enough relationship with his clients that he can move between the two extremes according to his client’s needs on any particular day. In short, a trainer should be able to adjust his approach to a workout at a moment’s notice in order to ensure his client leaves feeling absolutely the best he or she possibly can.
I wish there was a way for my esthetician to do this, but I don’t’ think there’s any feasible way to “indulge” a Jewish girl with a unibrow. Hey, torture or not, my eyebrows look amazing and I'm feeling pretty good. (Thanks Sara!)
“You know, you and I essentially do really similar things. Our jobs are about making people feel good about them selves,” she says as she rips a wax strip away from my face.
I am proud to say I resisted the temptation to point out that both of our jobs also involve people paying us to inflict all manner of pains on various parts of their bodies. Instead, I left her a nice tip and walked back to my car considering the insights she had offered.
Day spas, nail and hair salons, massage parlors: we immediately connect these types of businesses with pleasure. We go into them wanting attention and walk out looking (but more importantly, feeling) better than when we walked in. This, too, should be the order of events for a workout with a personal trainer.
The notion that personal trainers are little more than glorified slave drivers bent on torturing their charges into a perfectly sculpted six pack with limbs is especially troubling to me because all too often it’s true. Watch any of the wide variety of reality shows centered around weight loss or fitness and you’ll see the stereotypical, hard bodied trainers doing stale, traditional exercises and screaming their faces off at their miserable clients. As far as we have come in the industry, there is still an unfortunate lingering of the “no pain, no gain” mentality. What is important to realize, is that not all personal trainers have this mentality anymore.
Think of the attitude of a trainer towards his or her clients as falling on a spectrum with ends labeled “torture” and “indulgence.” A good trainer will not only achieve a balance of the two (therefore falling in the middle of the spectrum), but will also maintain a strong enough relationship with his clients that he can move between the two extremes according to his client’s needs on any particular day. In short, a trainer should be able to adjust his approach to a workout at a moment’s notice in order to ensure his client leaves feeling absolutely the best he or she possibly can.
I wish there was a way for my esthetician to do this, but I don’t’ think there’s any feasible way to “indulge” a Jewish girl with a unibrow. Hey, torture or not, my eyebrows look amazing and I'm feeling pretty good. (Thanks Sara!)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)