Macaroni and Cheese and So On

About two weeks ago I had a gynecological appointment. I won't get into the details of it; it involved what is usually involved in an annual--a fair amount of wincing during necessary medical procedure(s) and an uplifting conversation surrounding aging and its effects on one's reproductive system.

Anyway.

At said appointment they took my "vitals".  I usually do well in the vital department, which is to say my vitals raise no red flags. In fact, usually they inspire a few mutterings of "excellent" and "super" from the mouth of the nurse in charge of taking them.  My blood pressure is super, my pulse is good, I can make the little plastic do-hickey in the small plastic pipe they ask you to blow into go up high enough to not cause alarm.

And my weight is fine.

Except I, like every other woman I know, have issues when it comes to weight.  So although my vitals are quite good, my psychological state is not quite so good when it comes to the issue of poundage.
I talk a good game. I'm just fine as long as the correct number appears on the scale. When the number is acceptable I can actually be quite blithe about it all. What's to worry about? I look fine, you look fine, we all look fine! Thank GOD weight is just not an issue for me anymore. I love my body!

And I do love my body. I just don't like it quite so much when the number on the scale does not say the correct number, which in short means, that yes, I am full of it and I actually have just as much of an issue with my body as you do. (That is if you have an issue, which you likely do. Just saying.)

I deal with this issue by simply not getting on the scale in the off season, and actually during most of the in-season as well. Voila!  Problem solved. I am a big proponent of the idea that what you don't know can't hurt you. But if for some reason I MUST get onto the scale in the off season, I certainly do not do so unless I have just come back from a double session of yoga in a super hot studio.  That is not neurosis; that is simply common sense.

But the doctor, dear GOD, the doctor... She puts you on that scale in your clothing (and I was wearing jeans for God's sake!) and then blithely announces the number to you, as if you can't see it, staring you right in your fat face. And so I see the number, and I am told the number, and suddenly I start having palpitations right there in the office. I begin to breathe in short, sharp breaths and I wonder whether I should perhaps ask for a paper bag to blow into so I don't start hyperventilating.  That's an exaggeration, of course. But barely.

Anyway, since I saw this number on the scale--which, I will add, is a fine number, a perfectly good number, a number which probably would have had me running in gleeful circles and cartwheeling and doing a snarky little victory dance had I seen it staring back at me when a porky college freshman--that number has me in a tailspin. Of course it does.  And I know it's "just a number" and I know my body looks fabulous for 40 (ahem +) and I know that I am healthy, and I know that I shouldn't complain, and I know you are going to say in your comments something like, OMG, don't you have better things to think about than the 5 pounds you must lose to make you look too skinny anyway? Or worse still, You have a GREAT body! etc and so on and I know I know I KNOW! And I also know that is entirely beside the point. And you know it too. Admit it. You do know that. You know it because you likely suffer from the same craziness, and if you don't you either did not grow up in this countryor you're a liar and I'm calling you on it. right. now.
Dear God.

I need to tell you that although I have copious books on nutrition, sports nutrition, eating paleo, eating gluten-free, eating like a saint, eating for a green planet etc; even though I am extremely well-read on the topic and advise my athletes accordingly (or try to), it still has not affected my actual eating that much. For example, Jordan decided to make macaroni and cheese tonight after I threatened to make a vegetable stir-fry, and so naturally I allowed her to and then ate several extremely generous portions of it along with a small bowl of green peas.

Even when I try very hard to be perfectly perfect I seem to fail. For example, while trying to fix myself a healthy snack the other day I decided on carrots and hummus--seemingly benign--seemingly a good choice, right?

I had four enormous carrots. I'm not kidding--these carrots were like mutant carrots--thick and about a foot long. And with these four monster carrots I ate the entire container of hummus, which I realized, upon completing it, contained 500 calories. An 8 inch carrot has about 30 calories, so multiply that times 8--and I had 240 calories worth of CARROTS, which combined with the caloric intake of the hummus amounted to roughly 750 calories. For carrots. and hummus. 750 calories. I could have had a Whopper for God's sake! Except of course I couldn't have; that's not the same... but you get what I am saying. I am a woman capable of consuming 750 calories of carrots and hummus for a snack.

In the past I have lost weight only by running. When the weight doesn't come off I simply run more. and then more. You can see how I came to running marathons, and then to completing Ironman. I'm in awe of people who can keep their weight without running a billion miles a week. It's simply astounding. It is a discipline I admire and have never attained.

_______________________

In other news. Jordan, super-daughter, and I got out for a cross race this morning. It was our first race that was not a total mud-fest, and I must say that courses without mud are almost more difficult than with mud. This is because there are no breaks. You simply must hammer the entire time, and there is no excuse, really, for slowing up at all. Of course those proficient at riding in mud would argue that mud doesn't not present a "break"of any kind--but I am not proficient in mud, and so for me, it does. At points in the race I was breathing so hard my throat felt that burn-- you know that burn? , and certainly my quads were screaming. This felt fabulous to me--and also horrible.

I'm not sure how I placed because we left before the results were posted, but I think I may have actually beaten more women than usual! It's possible, anyway. Jordan beat two young boys, so she was quite thrilled. We celebrated by going to Dunkin' Donuts. And so my post comes full circle. I'm afraid I'm in need of a few thousand running miles....