No one has asked me about the premise of
my blog name lately — that if you’re over 25 you’re middle-aged. I’m not sure
when most people consider “middle-aged” to begin, but I’m guessing not until
the late 40s or early 50s. Go ahead, you dreamers. Your optimistic attitude
toward age won’t keep your body (or your mind, but let’s not go there) from
falling apart. Me, I’d rather face aging with realism and push myself to stay
at the high point of the bell curve for what my body and mind can reasonably be
expected to handle at my age.
Speaking of which, I’m quite proud of
myself for hitting my middle-aged weight goal this month. I use an ap called “Lose
It” that lets you estimate your BMI, set your goal, choose what rate you would
like to lose weight by (sadly, “instantly” is not an option) and then it determines
a daily calorie budget to help you achieve that weight. You then log your food
and exercise daily, with bar charts and pie charts and line graphs showing your
progress (this is the most math I’ve done, or rather observed, since Econ 101
in college) and if you stick with the actions required to meet these
mathematical equations, you will lose the weight. So two Fridays ago, when I
finally entered my weight knowing that I had reached my goal, I was kind of
excited to see what the ap would do. I pictured some kind of animated scene
similar to when you get a strike at a bowling alley, like a picture of a scale
blowing up or shrinking or bowing down to me. And sure enough, a window popped
up with a message that read:
“Congratulations! You have lost .6 pounds in 37 months and 26 days!”
“Congratulations! You have lost .6 pounds in 37 months and 26 days!”
I laughed out loud. Because that is the
most pathetic (but true) message I have ever received. I couldn’t even remember
when I had started using the ap, but apparently it was Feb. 4, 2014, when Rye
was almost a year old and I was getting frustrated with losing weight on my
own, just trying to lose the last little bit for my 31-year-old self’s “ideal
weight.” That number was determined by a fitness guy on a cruise ship who had
me stand on one of those scales that sends electricity through your body and
determines your percentages of muscle, fat and water and then determines the exact
size and weight you should hope (or work, or as he was pushing, take fat-burning
seaweed capsules) to be. Apparently I had been pretty close to that number when
I started the ap, but not wanting to wait for the gradual change of half a
pound a week progress that the ap recommends, I had gone for the pound a week
rate, which led to a calorie budget of less than 1,300 calories per day that
was nearly impossible to meet, neither daily nor as an average over the week. (At
some point I had decided that I was no longer 31 and so I gave myself
permission to up my goal weight by 3 pounds, which also led to this very low bar
of weight loss achievement.) Also in those 37 months and 26 days, I had two
more pregnancies. My line graph has 2 mountains and some minor hills (though I
didn’t track myself during the pregnancies, just when they were over). But
post-Christmas this year, I decided it was time to get serious and just finish
those last pesky 3 pounds. I changed the weight loss rate to half a pound per
week, and accomplished the final weight loss in just 3 weeks instead of 6 weeks
anyway. Sigh. The lessons learned: weight loss is incredibly hard when you’re
middle-aged, and take the ap’s advice and do it the slow and easy way.
Weight loss is not my only story about
middle-agedness this week. During the same week that I achieved my weight loss goal,
several days earlier, I was at the gym, getting my cardio in, and decided to
really push myself on the treadmill. I normally do walking and running
intervals because I LOATHE running, but I don’t have time to walk enough
calories off, so I gotta make up time somewhere and hence do some running. This
day I decided to up my speed on the running portion by .7 miles per hour. And I
could do it! This is the upside of weight loss—physical activity kind of just
gets easier on its own. I was so proud of myself, that I even did an extra 10
minutes of running. When I got off the treadmill I felt a little more tired,
but no more sore or out of breath. I went home, showered, and forgot about it.
The next morning, I was still fine. My
legs are muscly Miller legs, and they weren’t hurting. I went about my day,
which for that day, included taking Rye to preschool and then going to book
club at a friend’s house. Toward the end of book club, I started feeling a
little off in my stomach, but I thought maybe I had had too much caffeine.
(Knox stopped nursing and I’m back on the juice, baby!). I picked Rye up from
school and went home, and started to wonder if maybe I was getting the stomach
bug that pretty much every friends’ family had already been taken out by but we
had escaped. When I laid down on the floor with the kids, I felt better, but as
soon as I got up, you know, doing stuff, I could feel it again. Every time I
went to the bathroom, I wondered if this was the time that I was going to lose
my shit, as they say, but it never happened. At dinner time I texted Josh that
he better leave work on time because I thought I was coming down with the
stomach bug and might need immediate back up, any minute now. He came home, but
I had already gotten the kids in bed and was just lying on the couch pathetically,
though with all internal contents still in place.
The next morning, the feeling was still
there. In fact, 30 hours after it began, it was still there, and I’m pretty
sure that’s not how the stomach bug works. You usually only feel it coming on about
30 seconds before you make it to the toilet. Every time I lied down to rest, I
felt better, but up and doing things, I felt weak. So I called my mom to
describe my symptoms and see what she thought it could be. She told me that
last winter, while painting her bathroom, she had done a lot of unfamiliar body
motions, using muscles she doesn’t normally use, which led to her pulling a
muscle in her stomach. It was so bad that when she described it to her doctor,
he wondered if she had somehow broken a rib. She recommended I try a heating
pad on it and see if that made a difference.
Which, of course, it did. I felt like an
idiot. While my legs, and shockingly, my lungs, could handle 30 minutes of
interval running at a 5.2 pace (don’t judge me), my stomach muscles could not.
Knowing that there was nothing internally wrong with my stomach, I also started
taking ibuprofen and was back to full mobility in a day or two.
And my final, and most shameful episode of
middle-agery: my alcohol tolerance. Knox was sleeping a good six hours through
the night from quite early on, so I was soon enjoying the occasional Jack and
Coke (Zero) which is my signature drink these days. Last Friday, after seeing
about a million gin references in Amazon Prime’s “Z: The Beginning of
Everything” about Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald, I decided to have some gin and
tonic (except with Sprite Zero). After all, Knox was done nursing and had been
sleeping 11-hour nights for about 5 out of 7 nights per week. I had one and a
half drinks, pouring the same amount of gin as I sometimes do with whiskey, but
with about three-quarters of it consumed, I realized gin is not equivalent to
whiskey. No problem, I thought, I’ll sleep it off.
Except Knox didn’t sleep through the
night. Around 2:30 a.m., he started bawling, and after Josh tried consoling him
for about 20 minutes, realized the source of trouble was a breached diaper,
getting his pajamas, snuggle suit and even sheets wet. Josh turned on the light
and changed his diaper, clothes and sheets. Meanwhile Knox continued to wail,
and I got up to see what the commotion was. One look in Knox’s eyes and I knew
he wasn’t going back to sleep. So at 3:15 a.m., I took him downstairs to give
him a mini bottle and let him play. He drank the bottle, but then whined on his
play mat, while climbing on me, while I tried to get him to sleep with me on
the couch, every way except for me holding him. After 45 minutes I decided he
must be tired enough to go to sleep, so I took him back upstairs, held him
while swaying to his crib music box for a few minutes, and put him down and got
in my bed. So I got about two more hours of sleep before Rye was up, waking
Knox up, hearing Josh get up with both of them, hearing Rye run all over the
downstairs and shaking the house, so that at 7:30 I gave up and got up. No
headache, no dry-mouth, no queasy stomach, just that dizzy feeling. I tried
drinking water and going about my day, but it didn’t work. When we got to my
parents’ house at 10:30 after an hour drive, I puked. For the first time from
alcohol in over a decade. From 1 ½ drinks. Post puking, I was over the
queasiness and even the dizziness and had only the tiredness to contend with,
but it was enough that it ruined my day. When Josh and I got back home, I
napped for an hour, then we still went to bed at 9:30.
I’m old.
And if you’re 36, you are too.