Lost All My Baby Fat ...

... it has been over 22 years. And I finally did it. Yep. Shed those unwanted pounds that accumulated when I gave birth to my 9 pound 10 ounce bouncing baby boy.

Wahoo! It took more than two decades, but I have arrived back at my fighting weight.

And surprisingly I feel great. Am not a major biatch. In fact not one at all. Haven't wanted to chew off my leg or arm. Amazing.

Again ... loudly and proudly WAHOO!

So wanted to slide into my sixties with elegance and grace and slender. My old self. Physically and mentally. Shed the excess ... be free. Really free to move forward.

And I have done it. Lost the last five pounds. Doubled. Just to dare myself to be myself again. Lighten the load.

All would be well 'ceptin' my Mama ... in her most honest phase ... did mention that I look fabulous but might need to do something with my neck. So you know what? For the first time ever I am not going to pay her any heed. Sorry Mom! Love you dearly. But this girl's gotta do what this girl's gotta do!

Cheers to shopping in my belt drawer ... and all that jazz!

Organic!

Somehow I backed into organic food.

Me!

Imbiber of eight TaBs a day. User of dozens of those pink Sweet 'n Low packets on everything from grapefruit to oatmeal to vinaigrette to hot drinks and cold ones, too.

Oooh, I love fake sugar. In fact I adore sugar. Am a processed food lover extraordinaire.

Apparently.

Ersatz low fat or better yet non-fat cheeses, sour creams, half and half. Kind of defies the laws of nature.

So how did I back into this reader of labels and purchaser of foods sans chemicals?

Well, the simple truth. A diet recommended by my good friend Gayla.

I have been wanting to detox. Nope. Not from martinis ... I drink them rarely. Not from Newport Lights ... I stopped puffing my two packs a day almost thirty years ago ... not from a lusty Cab or a sexy, smoky Malbec. No overindulgence there. I never sip alone. So that leaves me sober as a granite stone.

Then what? you are asking.

So if you really care to know. Drumroll ...

Chocolate chip cookies. Baking almost every night to be able to eat the batter (I know, I know salmonella lurks between the blades of the beaters). Brownies. Blueberry crumble. Banana bread. I swear I only buy fruit to see what I can bake it in with a streusel topping. Oh yes and candy. Most kinds. But M&Ms ... peanut ones ... by the bagful are my fave. Or coconut patties handdipped in dark bittersweet chocolate. The ones from Florida in the rectangular box. And, yep, that ubiquitous saccharin sweetener that I sprinkle on or stir in everything.

You'd think I wouldn't be able to fit through a door. But I manage. Although there have been times when I bump into the refridgerator bacause my sonar is off and I underestimated my hip girth. I am the lightest I have been in over two decades.

Ah, but I digress.

So now I find myself marching up the aisle at the supermarket looking for almond butter, forsaking Skippy's reduced sugar highly processed creamy that has forever been a staple in my larder forever. Or, looking for virgin pressed coconut oil. Arteries be damned. Stevia in green packets replace the Pepto Bismal pink ones that litter the bottom of every purse from every season.

I read labels. Pass by all things white. Rice, bread, flour sugar, potatoes, pasta. Gheesh. Forego anything that ends in -ite ... or -ose ... or is difficult to pronounce and makes me feel as if Mrs. Wimp, our 11th grade chem teacher, is spraying her words re marble chips and Hcl as petry dishes bubble steamy.

What's a girl to do? Gotta slide into my seventh (OMG) decade in style. Svelte. Healthy. Glowing skin. And speaking of skin ... in black skinny jeans and ballerina flats.

Cheers to getting through the holidays with nary a sugar plum fairy hovering over my sweet chestnut mane whispering naughty things in my ears. Ever the temptress.

Namaste

My mind unfolds completely. My inaugural walk through the village with Bailey since my badly sprained ligaments benched me last month. No longer on hiatus. Total immersion. I float refreshed. Lost in the movement of placing one foot in front of the other. The familiar rhythm. My pace quickens. Adding an extra mile. Just because.

It has been forever. If forever is measured in days. Thirty-one days. And sometimes it is. Know you know what I mean.

It feels good. Being in the zone. And by zone I am not referring to the twilight one where I have been residing uneasily since my return in March from Oz 's Emerald City on the other coast. Yep. There they go. The lions, tigers and bears. Oh my. Noxious gasses ooze from the tips of my well-worn New Balance sneakers. I feel lighter, more graceful already.

But hey what gives? Is my right knee emitting a few sharp reminder pangs? Nope. Ignore it. Don't succumb. Motor through it. Persevere. They'll vanish. Step it up a notch. I'll pop two tiny blue Aleves when I get home. Not gonna let this curtail a thing. Not when I am getting back in the groove.

Zap. Oh no. Gone is the fluid dynamics of a few moments ago. Phooey. I am perplexed. And I hate confusion. Hate it. Need to come up with an alternative. Must regain mental focus. C'mon think, Alice. Think. Gotta incorporate a way to get out of my head. Let the calm wash over me. Gheesh. Here goes that strategic mind of mine. Crowding out the quietude. Scrolling through the options. What would I do? What could I do? What should I do? Damn.

I know. I know. Woulda. Coulda. Shoulda. I don't even realize I am make the sign of a cross with Baileys leash and my right hand waving frantically to ward off the evils of remorse. I am mumbling out loud now. Just under my breath. But noticeable. Bailey looks at me thinking I am saying treat. I am saying shit. Two teen age boys pass their heads spin around quickly afraid to stare at the crazy loon with the dog. The Wicked Witch of the East muttering x-rated expletives. They pedal as fast as their skinny legs will allow. Don't look back. Don't look back.

Who the hell cares what they think? I need to figure this out. Now. Begone demons lurking at the surface threatening my dreams. Dissipate you terrors wreaking havoc with my confidence. Take this. Whoosh them away, gnarly broom. Send them out into the ether world swirling. The boys are rounding the corner. Not turning their heads. I brandish a two foot stick like Zorro. Hobbling back to my house at a snail's pace.

I must find the release valve. Work out the kinks crippling my ability to move forward ... literally and figuratively. Reclaim my inner calm. Guide and re-center this journey of mine into the next chapter. Get back in touch with my long-put-away-on-the-top-shelf-of-the-closet serenity.

I halt and look up. There above Salon 96 where darling Cheryl keeps my tresses looking oh so chic is the answer. The Nataraja School of Yoga. I have passed this a bazillion times. But here it is shining effervescently. Nataraja. The cosmic dancer who performs his divine dance to destroy a weary universe and make preparations for the Hindi god Brahma to start the process of creation. God knows I am weary from the negativity of the last few weeks.

My pulse relaxes. This is it. Gentle yoga classes are offered Mondays. I can start next week.

Namaste.

Stubborn Pioneer Woman

In my transition to becoming an adult I became not only self reliant but fiercely independent.

For those of you who know me well (and there are a few of you who do) ... or have endeavored to catch up through these highly honest musings (check out the blog from January 8th for a quick catch-up Bluegrass, City Lights, Cowgirl Boots ... and all that jazz) ... understand the whys and wherefores. How this came to be.

I am reminded all too frequently by my darling friends and neighbors that even when I am sick as a dog with beads of fever glistening my entire body and chills running up and down my spine ... or as in the past few weeks of this damaged right knee (which by the way feels oh so much better today so I think the sun shining into my home really has a magical, medicinal quality to it) prevents me from navigating gracefully, or at all, through the winding layout of my 160 year old home ... I do not reach out for assistance. Nope. Not even a "hey, when you go to Garden Street Market can you pick me up a ________ ?" [Fill in the blank with anything from a quart of skim milk to a small bag of peanut M&Ms to Charmin.] I can do it. And, do. Or be without.

But today I am stymied. Baffled. Been on the screened porch trying to maneuver. UNCLE. I simply cannot carry anything that weighs more than a few ounces or is fragile while hobbling from door frame to table to chest of drawers. I need my hands for balance. Not ballast. I need to ask someone for help. The indignity!

So imagine Deb's surprise this afternoon when I emailed AND phoned her at work to inquire as to whether she or her sweet husband would mind dragging my very heavy, overstuffed recycling bin to the curb in the still pouring rain and while you are here grab the 45 pound of Bailey food from the back of the car and bring it into the closet. They jumped at the chance.

Amazing. I could get used to this ... hmmmm, what's it referred to? Being pampered!

Cheers to luxuriating on the sofa, cold glass of iced tea with a spring of mint in hand!

Canes, Walkers, Crutches ... Oh My

Toto, I've got a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.

Not even close. I was so used to skipping along rock strewn paths. Dancing in my big girl shoes at milongas. Or two-steppin' and line dancin' in my tan suede cowgirl boots across floors covered with saw dust and peanut shells. Not this week. Or next. Or apparently for the next 3 to 6 weeks. Fingers crossed it won't be longer.

Throbbing knee twisted to and fro, up and down, in and out. Nope. No break. No torn cartilage. Not even the arthritis I was expecting. Just severely sprained ligaments. Injuries sustained on the dance floor at fuchsia light show, disco popping Club Izzy. Delayed reaction. And I was having so much fun. Twirling effortlessly to a Latin beat. Then a bit of soul. Followed by some vintage rock and roll. All fueled by a few too many gin martinis. It brought me to my knees. Literally.

No x-rays required. Just the same ol' same ol' that I have been doing for the past ten days. Ice. Advil. Naproxen. And ... to beat the of-the-moment band that rocked the house ... drum roll ... crutches. Noooooooooo. Then a cane. Noooooooooooo. I am not gonna take it anymore. I've got to get outta this place. If it's the last thing I ever do. I don't want to grow up.

When did I navigate with fellow sojourners along the yellow brick road through abundant poppy fields into the strange new world? Was it just this morning? I am still dizzy from my travels. So this is what it is like rounding the bend. Nearing the proverbial six oh. I swear. I am not going to take it laying down. Nor any other way. Just click my ruby slippers. Turn back the hands of time.

Bring on the magic potion from the font of youth. This girl needs some cheer!

Analgesics

I need some. Now. Painkillers extraordinaire.

My knee. My aching, can't-support-any-weight-on-it, very painful knee is screaming at me. In loud decibels. And just in time for jaunty walks through my little town near the sea awakening with spring. This stinks.

An Advil junkie for over a week, I need a fix. Something stronger. Aleve? Naprosin? Will a few days of mega-usage strip the lining of my stomach and cause bleeding ulcers ... or worse a heart attack or stroke?

This girl is in utter discomfort ... and in more ways than one. Need a soothing hand. The Original Blue-Emu deep penetrating cream recommended over the phone by my cousin the orthopedic surgeon in Louisville we always call when a fall, or a twist in the wrong direction is not touching my frayed, white hot nerve endings.

There is more wrong with the previous paragraph than meets the eye. Blue-Emu oil? Deep penetrating to soothe arthritis? First this is scary. Who knew that emus have blue necks? Why blue? Hell, I don't even know if I'd recognize an emu if I saw one up close and personal. And from where do they hail? And their oil? How is that obtained? Is it extracted from their skinny neck tissue with large hypodermic needles. Or ... I shudder thinking about that one. Odor free. What does that mean? Has it no aroma? Do they neutralize the scent? For what it's worth, the expensive 4 pounce jar I purchased last week for more money than I care to let you in on at Walmart no less ... hasn't touched any pain. Not one iota. Deep or otherwise.

Perhaps a swill of 100 proof Southern Comfort might just do the trick. Where is that bottle? I bought it in the heady 70s when sex and drug and rock and roll were the rage. Oh, there it is. At the bottom of the narrow wooden steps. On the white plastic shelf that doubles as a wine cellar. The puddles from last week's stormy weather lapping at the base. That ol' bottle is gathering dust. But hey. Is it worth scooting down the steps on my derrière? It did dull Janis's pain. Why not eliminate mine? Allow me to stroll in my anodyne village a few blocks away. Albeit not in a straight line. No. Not worth the trip into my basement.

Guess I have to wait until my appointment on Monday. No choice but to pop a few more aspirins, climb under the covers and await Jum Sum, the ancient Chinese god of sleep, to lure me into his dream-filled, painless world.

If only. Cheers!

Rounding the 1st bend

Nothing jump-starts a diet like a stomach virus hurling me to the first 5 pound benchmark. Limp as a noodle. Green tinged. Tired as a puppy dog. Resembling Max, the dimpled scarecrow, on my mother's back porch splotched with mildew. Finally, dear readers, I am on my way. Two-thirds from the goal line.

This is not earth shattering. Nano-significance. Infinitesimal. The teeniest of blips in a global perspective. The world outside my front door. The multi-zillion dollar diet biz lures me with its infomercials hawking tummy trimmers, yoga boot camp videos, low fat, low sugar, low carb. Sensory overload. I yo-yo all over the place, hemming and hawing before it 'clicks' and a diet is born. Weight Watchers calls it a lifestyle. But nowhere, and I mean nowhere, is ingesting 19 points (roughly 1000 calories) and imbibing up to ten 8-ounce glasses of water a day, a lifestyle I can get my not quite toned upper arms around. Nope. Not by a long shot. Raised in the land of cheesy grits, country ham and biscuits smothered in honey and butter there will be relapses a plenty. TaB and carrots just ain't gonna do it.

Last night it flew into gear. We -- me on the floor of the upstairs bathroom in my disheveled grey cashmere robe and white nightgown shivering with fever ashen white facing the potty ... and ... President Obama on the floor of the house chambers decked in red, white and blue his skin glowing honey emboldened before stone-faced justices, silent military brass and a contentious Congress -- regurgitated a bit of the excesses from the prior year. Shaky beginnings. Unkept promises. Renewed accountability.

Live in the moment. Lay the foundation for the future. Throw hermit ways of deep, cold, icy January into reverse. Slip into jeans less tight. Get out there. Interact with world. Fill up the calendar. Find the light inside and share it unabashedly. Stop being so serious and live a little. Lighten up. Literally.

“But we can’t stop here.” “Let’s get it done” “Let’s seize this moment.” Mr. Obama cheered nearing the end of his ninety minutes laying out what we as a nation must do in 2010. The chamber erupted in applause. Standing ovation. Republicans tried to be glued to their leather seats, but the pull of the rhetoric proved too strong and they rose to its cadences. At least at that moment, on a bitter January day in our country's imposing capitol, they didn’t have a chance. Neither do I. Carpe diem!

Cheers! To the next five melting away. And the next. It won't be tomorrow.