I think this might be my new thing: do something every day that scares you. The other day I drove to New York City and stayed in a hotel in a sketchy neighborhood, so I'm on a roll. Today I went to an AquaFit class at my new gym. This was scary because a) you have to wear a bathing suit b) the pool is situated with one wall of windows adjacent to the parking lot and the other wall of windows in the gym itself and c) you have to wear a bathing suit. The other tricky thing for me is that I'm pretty much blind without my glasses. Think Mr. Magoo at the gym trying to find the pool. When I was in middle school I took swimming lessons at the YMCA. Getting from the pool to to the girls' dressing room was my own personal Russial roulette: I had a 50/50 chance if I was going to feel my way to the boy's dressing room or the girl's. If I didn't hear screams when I opened the door, I knew I had made it to the girls side. (I just wanted to shout into the blur of the boy's side, It's okay! I can't see a thing!). This was also an issue at the beach. When I emerged from the sea, I would stand awkwardly at the shore line waiting for a family member to shout out my name, at which point I would follow the sound of their voice. I landed on many a blanket near to, but not on, my family's blanket, but after a while fellow beach goers got used to me and, after handing me a snack or cup of juice, would lead me back to my people. So the ol' glasses/pool/ocean dynamic has never been a comfortable one for me.
But - given the current state of unfitness and limitations due to injury/surgery, exercising in the water seems like a good idea. The first step was getting into my bathing suit, which fit fine before my rapid and dramatic weight gain. In what could have been fodder for a Myth Busters episode, I managed to wedge it on. At the gym, fully bespectacled, I entered the women's dressing room and saw some same aged, same lumpy-physiqued ladies. I asked them, Are you going to AquaFit? It's my first time. Now women being women, they love to help. They allowed me to follow them to the pool and showed me where the noodles were.
I opted for glasses on, noting that the men's dressing room was adjacent to the women's; same set up as the YMCA of my youth. I think the occupants of the men's changing room would be a bit less forgiving; also I would like to run for office someday, so I wanted to eliminate that possibility altogether. So fully sighted, I headed toward the pool.
The first thing I noticed was, All the other girls had on swim shoes! I didn't have on swim shoes; I had bare feet!!!!!! That was nearly enough to drive me out of the pool area. Instead, I pretended that I didn't notice I was the only one without swim shoes, and headed into the water. Some of the other gals had these snazzy webbed gloves but I didn't feel badly about that. I threaded my way through the pool dotted with spandex, until I landed at a spot that didn't seem to someone's regular spot (they never say anything; they just glare) and prepared for class.
Once the music started, I forgot about bare feet, parking lot gawkers and losing my glasses. I got caught up in keeping up as we performed jumping jacks and scissor kicks below the water line. It felt good to be moving once again, and the absence of judging mirrored walls that line most workout studios allowed me to concentrate on what I could do now, instead of what I used to look like. It was a success. I got a hot tip from my new best friends that water shoes were available for cheap at the local big box store, and that each class was a little different so you could vary your workout. And, confidently strolling past the men's changing room into the safety of the women's changing room, I realized I had conquered my fear. Scary thing for today - check.
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
Friday, January 10, 2014
Party Dress Prep
In preparation for my husband's annual work party tomorrow night, I went in search of a dress in a....ahem....slightly larger size than those hanging in my closet. This was not just the result of eating my own weight in Christmas cookies and homemade Chex Mix daily over the last few weeks, this was a perfect storm of sitting on the couch since November 2nd (growing back two broken bones in my wrist), along with the aforementioned cookies and Chex Mix. Add in pain, comfort food and disrupted sleep and before you can say Cast Off, you're up a size or two. It's not the end of the world: the path to health is not always a straight one, and this is just a little curve I encountered - one which added to MY curves.
I found a dress, but it needed some "internal support" in the form of a little item which sounds like "spanked." For those of you unfamiliar with this item, you are probably thin and should stop reading this and go eat something. As the rest of us know, this particular undergarment was invented by the same person who invented menstrual cramps, mammograms and natural childbirth; someone who felt that women "had not yet exceeded their pain tolerance level." Reluctantly, I selected from among the styles: Uncomfortable, Excruciating, Unbearable and Beauty Knows No Pain.
These garments do the trick: they smooth bulges and bumps into a under layer, using the same method used to produce diamonds, which allows you to wear a dress that is a size too small. Your stomach is so hard you are tempted to taunt everyone like your uber fit Uncle Leo used to: Go ahead. Punch my stomach. I dare you. Future models will allow you to breath, eat, laugh more than a small chuckle or go to the bathroom, but these features are not currently available.
They are difficult to get on. In the same way it's difficult to say, wrestle an angry crocodile or get a real person on a customer support line. Armed with this knowledge, I decided I'd better practice ahead of time. I read all the instructions on the tag: I stretched, hydrated, cleared all breakables within an 8 foot radius, closed but did not lock the door in case of ceased blood flow. I warned family members that no matter sounds emanated from my room, under no circumstances were they to come in.
The idea is to stuff the offending lumps and bumps into the contraption. This is difficult to do with both hands but nearly impossible with one. For the uninitiated, picture stuffing a sleeping bag into a small sack. Now picture stuffing a full size sleeping bag into Stuart Little's backpack, and you get the idea. There's a critical point at which you must hoist the nylon fabric over the widest part of your anatomy and it's a fight to the finish - the fabric threatens to retreat in a roll at the top of your legs, unsure of it's ability to expand, while your buttocks and/or tummy resist being encased, fearing death by smothering. You will be tempted to call out for help - don't! This will defeat the goal of looking sassy once the ordeal is over: the vision of blubber vs spandex will be seared in the mind of your assistant and no amount of therapy can erase the image. No, it's a lonely job but you must soldier on solo.
But I had a handicap. Could this be done with one hand? I wasn't sure. I've had challenging times in Occupational Therapy, some which brought tears to my eyes, but those seemed like trivialities compared to this. There was no retreating: the only way to go was up, and the distance from abdomen to above my waist seemed unattainable. I cheered myself on through clenched teeth: You....can....do.....this.....
Forty-five minutes later, dripping with sweat, I was in. I toweled off, tried on the dress and decided it was going to work. I hung the dress back up and realized something: there was no way I was going through this again anytime soon. I put on my bathrobe, put my hand in a bucket of ice, and settled in for 24 hours of shallow breathing, no food or liquid, no belly laughs. The dress must go on. And next time I'm stuck on the couch for 2 months, I'm eating nothing but celery....promise!
I found a dress, but it needed some "internal support" in the form of a little item which sounds like "spanked." For those of you unfamiliar with this item, you are probably thin and should stop reading this and go eat something. As the rest of us know, this particular undergarment was invented by the same person who invented menstrual cramps, mammograms and natural childbirth; someone who felt that women "had not yet exceeded their pain tolerance level." Reluctantly, I selected from among the styles: Uncomfortable, Excruciating, Unbearable and Beauty Knows No Pain.
These garments do the trick: they smooth bulges and bumps into a under layer, using the same method used to produce diamonds, which allows you to wear a dress that is a size too small. Your stomach is so hard you are tempted to taunt everyone like your uber fit Uncle Leo used to: Go ahead. Punch my stomach. I dare you. Future models will allow you to breath, eat, laugh more than a small chuckle or go to the bathroom, but these features are not currently available.
They are difficult to get on. In the same way it's difficult to say, wrestle an angry crocodile or get a real person on a customer support line. Armed with this knowledge, I decided I'd better practice ahead of time. I read all the instructions on the tag: I stretched, hydrated, cleared all breakables within an 8 foot radius, closed but did not lock the door in case of ceased blood flow. I warned family members that no matter sounds emanated from my room, under no circumstances were they to come in.
The idea is to stuff the offending lumps and bumps into the contraption. This is difficult to do with both hands but nearly impossible with one. For the uninitiated, picture stuffing a sleeping bag into a small sack. Now picture stuffing a full size sleeping bag into Stuart Little's backpack, and you get the idea. There's a critical point at which you must hoist the nylon fabric over the widest part of your anatomy and it's a fight to the finish - the fabric threatens to retreat in a roll at the top of your legs, unsure of it's ability to expand, while your buttocks and/or tummy resist being encased, fearing death by smothering. You will be tempted to call out for help - don't! This will defeat the goal of looking sassy once the ordeal is over: the vision of blubber vs spandex will be seared in the mind of your assistant and no amount of therapy can erase the image. No, it's a lonely job but you must soldier on solo.
But I had a handicap. Could this be done with one hand? I wasn't sure. I've had challenging times in Occupational Therapy, some which brought tears to my eyes, but those seemed like trivialities compared to this. There was no retreating: the only way to go was up, and the distance from abdomen to above my waist seemed unattainable. I cheered myself on through clenched teeth: You....can....do.....this.....
Forty-five minutes later, dripping with sweat, I was in. I toweled off, tried on the dress and decided it was going to work. I hung the dress back up and realized something: there was no way I was going through this again anytime soon. I put on my bathrobe, put my hand in a bucket of ice, and settled in for 24 hours of shallow breathing, no food or liquid, no belly laughs. The dress must go on. And next time I'm stuck on the couch for 2 months, I'm eating nothing but celery....promise!
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
The Next Big Thing
Today is my last day at my job. I tried to quit before but it didn't take. I had to be firm about it so I sent my boss a text yesterday: Working tomorrow. My last day!!! What time do you want me? Am I training the new person? Just wanted to make it clear - again.
I'm grateful for the experience, but it was never a good fit: me, alone in a tiny office for 7 hours - not a match made in heaven. And eventually the work became the deadliest of duos - a combination of boring and stressful. I won't miss the extreme temperatures or the mushrooms growing in the bathroom. I won't miss my boss coming in from his other job to sleep at his desk - about 3 feet away from mine. That was awkward.
So what's the takeaway? I am now a wizard at Excel. This may seem like a small thing, but for the technology-impaired, this is a skill I am glad to have mastered. And because I agreed to stay on while my boss was out of the country for 3 weeks this summer, I completely kicked butt while he was gone. He was unreachable, so I could get things done like I knew I could without having to check in with him at every step of the way. I don't blame him, it's his business, but by not allowing me to talk to the customers my hands were always tied and the process was mind-numbingly slow. Once I could communicate directly with the customers, I doubled the amount of business we usually would have done in the same time period. Note to other managers out there: trust your employees, they might surprise you.
The biggest takeaway is finding my peeps at the yarn store around the corner. Being the extreme extrovert of all extroverts, I was a bit stir crazy after about 3 hours on my own. After chatting up the mailman everyday, the Post Office issued a teeny restraining order and I had to let him carry on. Never one to give in so easily, I ventured out at lunchtime to make new friends. I discovered the yarn store and became a fixture, completely falling in love with the owners Barb and Karen, now my lifelong friends. The name of the store is The Red Thread, after the Chinese proverb: An invisible red thread connects all those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. The thread my stretch or tangle, but it will never break. This is always how things happen for me - some good comes out of every situation, no matter what the struggle.
So today I'll say goodbye to my little office and embrace the next adventure. I'm grateful for my friend who recommended me to the job. I'm grateful to my boss for teaching me the ropes. I'm happy for the chance to learn some new skills and wear some cute outfits (well hidden under my coat and down vest but still). And I'll still be a fixture at the yarn store, without the limitations of my lunch hour (and they can always contact the Post Office about how to get the restraining order if it becomes too much). But on my next job interview, do you think it would be awkward to ask about any mushrooms growing in the bathroom? I'm not sure everyone would understand my concern.
I'm grateful for the experience, but it was never a good fit: me, alone in a tiny office for 7 hours - not a match made in heaven. And eventually the work became the deadliest of duos - a combination of boring and stressful. I won't miss the extreme temperatures or the mushrooms growing in the bathroom. I won't miss my boss coming in from his other job to sleep at his desk - about 3 feet away from mine. That was awkward.
So what's the takeaway? I am now a wizard at Excel. This may seem like a small thing, but for the technology-impaired, this is a skill I am glad to have mastered. And because I agreed to stay on while my boss was out of the country for 3 weeks this summer, I completely kicked butt while he was gone. He was unreachable, so I could get things done like I knew I could without having to check in with him at every step of the way. I don't blame him, it's his business, but by not allowing me to talk to the customers my hands were always tied and the process was mind-numbingly slow. Once I could communicate directly with the customers, I doubled the amount of business we usually would have done in the same time period. Note to other managers out there: trust your employees, they might surprise you.
The biggest takeaway is finding my peeps at the yarn store around the corner. Being the extreme extrovert of all extroverts, I was a bit stir crazy after about 3 hours on my own. After chatting up the mailman everyday, the Post Office issued a teeny restraining order and I had to let him carry on. Never one to give in so easily, I ventured out at lunchtime to make new friends. I discovered the yarn store and became a fixture, completely falling in love with the owners Barb and Karen, now my lifelong friends. The name of the store is The Red Thread, after the Chinese proverb: An invisible red thread connects all those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. The thread my stretch or tangle, but it will never break. This is always how things happen for me - some good comes out of every situation, no matter what the struggle.
So today I'll say goodbye to my little office and embrace the next adventure. I'm grateful for my friend who recommended me to the job. I'm grateful to my boss for teaching me the ropes. I'm happy for the chance to learn some new skills and wear some cute outfits (well hidden under my coat and down vest but still). And I'll still be a fixture at the yarn store, without the limitations of my lunch hour (and they can always contact the Post Office about how to get the restraining order if it becomes too much). But on my next job interview, do you think it would be awkward to ask about any mushrooms growing in the bathroom? I'm not sure everyone would understand my concern.
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Cooking Up Some Memories
My friend and three of her adorable daughters came over yesterday to borrow things for the 4th daughter's bridal shower. We had the best time "shopping" in my caterer's stash of equipment. We gathered 30 cobalt blue plates purchased at the 100 yen store in Tokyo (no kidding, like the Dollar Store here!), 30 blue and white patterned teacups, tart pans in every size and shape, white and blue tablecloths, sugar cubes decorated with flowers, tiny teapot shaped place card holders, glass pitchers, and ornate silver serving pieces. There was much oohing and aahhing and a little squealing (that might have been me.)
When one of the girls mentioned that she was making little tarts, I dug deep into the cabinet and pulled out an oblong metal box labeled Teeny Tiny Tart Pans. When I opened the lid and displayed the contents, there was a hush. Inside were indeed "teeny tiny tart pans" - some with fluted edges, some square, some long pointy miniature boat shaped, all neatly stacked and waiting for filling. There were also wax paper liners, all purchased from the cookware section of Tokyo known as Asakusabashi. I was instantly transported back to Japan: remembering nervously clutching the English subway map, trying to match up stops; getting off the subway and wandering around, poking into each little shop, filled with every gadget and cooking utensil you could imagine, and lots more that you hadn't thought of; agonizing as to how much I could spend and what I had room to store.
I didn't make the teeny tarts that often - they are wicked time consuming and fiddly - but I love those little pans. I loved displaying the finished product filled with berries or lemon curd at a tea I did at the US Ambassador's house for the Japan America Women's League. I loved the feeling of potential and accomplishment in knowing I could crank them out if I had to. I loved the absence of fear and doubt which seems to hover over me these days - I want to brave again! I want to navigate foreign subways and respond to a request for tea for 150 with an, "Absolutely. What date?"
I don't want to cater again, however. I didn't get to be 90 pounds overweight swallowing an excess of air. Being around food 24/7 when I'm stressed or tired is not a good life plan. I'm grateful that I got to have my booming business here and in Tokyo but I don't wish I had it again.
Opening up that tin of tart pans reconnected me to a younger, braver, more confident version of myself. I'd like to find her again: Maria5.0, slimmed down and decidedly more mobile. And while I'm waiting for the Next Big Thing, I'm happy to share my tablecloths, my tart pans and my history - one recipe at a time.
When one of the girls mentioned that she was making little tarts, I dug deep into the cabinet and pulled out an oblong metal box labeled Teeny Tiny Tart Pans. When I opened the lid and displayed the contents, there was a hush. Inside were indeed "teeny tiny tart pans" - some with fluted edges, some square, some long pointy miniature boat shaped, all neatly stacked and waiting for filling. There were also wax paper liners, all purchased from the cookware section of Tokyo known as Asakusabashi. I was instantly transported back to Japan: remembering nervously clutching the English subway map, trying to match up stops; getting off the subway and wandering around, poking into each little shop, filled with every gadget and cooking utensil you could imagine, and lots more that you hadn't thought of; agonizing as to how much I could spend and what I had room to store.
I didn't make the teeny tarts that often - they are wicked time consuming and fiddly - but I love those little pans. I loved displaying the finished product filled with berries or lemon curd at a tea I did at the US Ambassador's house for the Japan America Women's League. I loved the feeling of potential and accomplishment in knowing I could crank them out if I had to. I loved the absence of fear and doubt which seems to hover over me these days - I want to brave again! I want to navigate foreign subways and respond to a request for tea for 150 with an, "Absolutely. What date?"
I don't want to cater again, however. I didn't get to be 90 pounds overweight swallowing an excess of air. Being around food 24/7 when I'm stressed or tired is not a good life plan. I'm grateful that I got to have my booming business here and in Tokyo but I don't wish I had it again.
Opening up that tin of tart pans reconnected me to a younger, braver, more confident version of myself. I'd like to find her again: Maria5.0, slimmed down and decidedly more mobile. And while I'm waiting for the Next Big Thing, I'm happy to share my tablecloths, my tart pans and my history - one recipe at a time.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
The Black Bra Theory
I've had a lot of company in the past month: brunch for college classmates, Book Club, Easter dinner and an overnight stay for a college chum and her daughter. In the old days, an announcement of "Company is coming!" would cause my family to start rocking and keening, like mourners brought in for an Irish wake. I don't really blame them - I used to get a little hyper before guests would arrive. Um, in the same way that NASA gets a little focused on the details before a lunar landing. Just a teeny bit over the top....
I come by this honestly. My mother would be so stressed before entertaining, all six children would simultaneously find activities far from home. Once, in an effort to keep the kids from using the hand towels in the guest bathroom before company came, she left a scathing post-it note on them which read, Don't even THINK of using these towels! Unfortunately, she neglected to take the post-it down before company came. We watched, puzzled, as guest came out of the bathroom looking dazed and wiping their hands on their pants. Whoopsie!
Part of the problem is that I am, I was, a caterer. So I want the food to be amazing. This has led to unrealistic expectations of what I can actually accomplish, given the restraints of gravity, time travel not being invented yet, the need for sleep. Years ago when I had 2 kids under the age of 4, I was prepping for lunch my sister in law and her new boyfriend and was lamenting to my friend that I wasn't going to have time to make my own croissants (!), to which she replied, What would a mortal do? She had a point.
Ah, the quest for perfection, my long time enemy. I'm not sure when I took on this yoke but we were tight for a long time, and everyone around me paid. Somewhere on the way to 50, I let it go. I'm thinking that my years of catering showed me that, despite hours of planning and organizing, someone is going to be wearing a black bra. Let me explain: I was catering a party in rural Virginia. When it came time to change into our catering uniforms, one of my wait staff discovered that she was wearing a black bra - not the look I was going for under our white tuxedo blouses. Since I didn't know the hostess well enough to ask to borrow one of hers, I quickly decided we'd be wearing our catering aprons that day. Hence, the Black Bra theory was born. You can plan, make lists, double check everything, but someone is wearing a black bra and you need to roll with that.
So now, while I do wish the front stoop sat a wee bit closer to the house (you don't actually have to jump the gap to the front door but it's close) or that I had recently replaced like, all the carpet in the house, I don't fuss. My focus now is on making sure my guests have a good time. They are more likely to remember the Peeps centerpiece than the perfectly organized pantry. I like the house to be clean and the food to be good and, if I have time, I like to make favors - just a little something to bring home. But I no longer wish my house were bigger or that I had a new kitchen floor (well, I actually do wish I could replace the floor...). I count my blessings and in being grateful for what I do have, I don't need to focus on what I don't.
And what I do have are amazing friends who love to come and eat my food, a nice small house which could always use some tweaking, and a family that no longer lines up for a dose of anti-anxiety meds when I tell them we are having company. It's not perfect by any means, but it's perfectly wonderful all the same. So please come visit....I love to have you - and I mean that!
Ah, the quest for perfection, my long time enemy. I'm not sure when I took on this yoke but we were tight for a long time, and everyone around me paid. Somewhere on the way to 50, I let it go. I'm thinking that my years of catering showed me that, despite hours of planning and organizing, someone is going to be wearing a black bra. Let me explain: I was catering a party in rural Virginia. When it came time to change into our catering uniforms, one of my wait staff discovered that she was wearing a black bra - not the look I was going for under our white tuxedo blouses. Since I didn't know the hostess well enough to ask to borrow one of hers, I quickly decided we'd be wearing our catering aprons that day. Hence, the Black Bra theory was born. You can plan, make lists, double check everything, but someone is wearing a black bra and you need to roll with that.
So now, while I do wish the front stoop sat a wee bit closer to the house (you don't actually have to jump the gap to the front door but it's close) or that I had recently replaced like, all the carpet in the house, I don't fuss. My focus now is on making sure my guests have a good time. They are more likely to remember the Peeps centerpiece than the perfectly organized pantry. I like the house to be clean and the food to be good and, if I have time, I like to make favors - just a little something to bring home. But I no longer wish my house were bigger or that I had a new kitchen floor (well, I actually do wish I could replace the floor...). I count my blessings and in being grateful for what I do have, I don't need to focus on what I don't.
And what I do have are amazing friends who love to come and eat my food, a nice small house which could always use some tweaking, and a family that no longer lines up for a dose of anti-anxiety meds when I tell them we are having company. It's not perfect by any means, but it's perfectly wonderful all the same. So please come visit....I love to have you - and I mean that!
Monday, April 1, 2013
De-tox Monday - a recipe
For those of you reading this in a Peeps-induced coma, fingers swelled up like sausages from the sodium in yesterday's ham, there is hope. Sure, we all went a little wild with the Easter candy. I have learned that jelly beans are a gateway drug: 10 of them are 1 point on WW, but how about 1,000? And like every well meaning drinker (I'll just have one glass of wine; I have to get up early in the morning), the next thing you know you are in the pantry trying to silently get the foil off a Cadbury egg. Oh, maybe that was just me.....
So I'm claiming De-Tox Monday and starting off my day with these Banana Oatmeal Muffins. For one thing, it's a great way to use up those bananas you left rotting in the fruit bowl as you reached for yet another Reese's egg. Ditto with the greek yogurt in the refrig and boca burgers in the freezer. Welcome back into my life, healthy foods. I had a brief fling, it meant nothing, and I know you will see me to bathing suit season, just a few short weeks away.....
These muffins are from a new favorite blog Chocolate Covered Katie, a great source of healthy desserts. We love to make a batch and freeze some. I pack them in my lunch for a healthy snack or for a post work out nosh. I cut the oil in half to make them lower fat and substituted applesauce. You can also add coconut, almonds - whatever strikes your fancy.
I always do favors when I entertain - the caterer in me won't go away - so for Easter I made a batch of these muffins in adorable baking cups and wrapped up pretty so we could all start off the week right.
And I promise over the next few weeks, you won't hear a Peep out of me about Easter candy....
So I'm claiming De-Tox Monday and starting off my day with these Banana Oatmeal Muffins. For one thing, it's a great way to use up those bananas you left rotting in the fruit bowl as you reached for yet another Reese's egg. Ditto with the greek yogurt in the refrig and boca burgers in the freezer. Welcome back into my life, healthy foods. I had a brief fling, it meant nothing, and I know you will see me to bathing suit season, just a few short weeks away.....
These muffins are from a new favorite blog Chocolate Covered Katie, a great source of healthy desserts. We love to make a batch and freeze some. I pack them in my lunch for a healthy snack or for a post work out nosh. I cut the oil in half to make them lower fat and substituted applesauce. You can also add coconut, almonds - whatever strikes your fancy.
I always do favors when I entertain - the caterer in me won't go away - so for Easter I made a batch of these muffins in adorable baking cups and wrapped up pretty so we could all start off the week right.
And I promise over the next few weeks, you won't hear a Peep out of me about Easter candy....
from Chocolate Covered Katie
Oatmeal Cupcakes To Go
(makes 24-25 cupcakes)
Adapted from: Cookie Dough Baked Oatmeal.
- 5 cups rolled oats (400g)
- 2 1/2 cups over-ripe mashed banana, measured after mashing (For all substitution notes on this recipe, see nutrition link below.) (600g)
- 1 tsp salt
- 5 NuNaturals stevia packets (or omit and use 5 tbsp liquid sweetener of choice–such as pure maple syrup or agave–instead)
- optional: 2/3 cup mini chocolate chips
- 2 2/3 cups water (640g) (If using the liquid-sweetener option, scale water back by 1/3 cup.)
- 1/4 cup plus 1 tbsp oil (45g) (I really like coconut, but veg oil will also work. For lower-fat substitution notes, see nutrition link below.)
- 2 1/2 tsp pure vanilla extract
- optional add-ins: cinnamon, shredded coconut, chopped walnuts, ground flax or wheat germ, raisins or other dried fruit, etc.
Preheat oven to 380 F, and line 24-25 cupcake tins. In a large mixing bowl, combine all dry ingredients and stir very well. In a separate bowl, combine and stir all wet ingredients (including banana). Mix wet into dry, then pour into the cupcake liners and bake 21 minutes. I also like to then broil for 1-2 minutes, but it’s optional. These oatmeal cakes can be eaten right away, or they can be frozen and reheated for an instant breakfast on a busy day.
Monday, March 18, 2013
Conquering Fear....of the Wedgie....
I signed up to do a "mini" triathlon. It seemed like a good idea at the time - you know, the next challenge and all that. A teacher friend of mine asked me to do it with her, so I said yes. This was back in December when March 24th seemed like a lifetime away. Now it's next weekend....as in 6 days from now. Now the thought of it - not so much.
Yup, I'm in great shape. Not as in Sports Illustrated bathing suit edition thong bikini type shape, just like a regular person - still a little flabby, size 14; I just work out a lot. So in theory, I can probably run 1.5 miles, bike 4 miles and swim 10 laps without the paramedics being called in with paddles and loud, "Clear!" needed to call me back from the bright light.
But I'm a little petrified. For starters, I really hate to run. Really. Hate. Like when I watch movies when someone is being chased by the bad guys, I know if it were me I would just stop running, bend over with my hands on my knees, and wheezily tell them anything they wanted to know, just so I could stop running. It's not a pretty truth about me but it is true.
And I guess I'm a little fearful of the unknown....and the annoying wedgie. I mean, I'm not really sure what to wear. Can you run in a bathing suit? I'd still have to wear one of my industrial strength jogging bras so what's the benefit of a swim suit? And don't tell me about the triathlon store in the next town. Given that I'll probably never do another one of these, I'm not planking down $68 for one of those weird singlet thingies. I'm just not. So I'm still trying to configure something I can run, bike and swim that won't give me the mother of all wedgies. I do not want to be that 53 year old yanking on her Fruit of the Looms while the groovy youngsters flash by - probably wearing the weird singlet things.
It's not just the running I worry about: where do you keep your bike while you run? Will people notice I'm wearing my son's helmet from 6th grade? Which side is the front? I may hate biking, too - who knows? Before yesterday, I hadn't ridden one in over 15 years. Why? you ask, especially if you know I used to love biking. That would be because I stopped riding bikes when the thought of how my size 22 butt looked from the back kept me from getting on a bike. I know....blah, blah, blah - let's just say that's all "behind" me now. So if I decide that I like biking, I'll get my own helmet. Promise. Something sassy - probably pink.
But I've done fear. And now I'm done with fear. So yesterday morning, unable to procrastinate any longer, I suited up, ran 1.8 miles, hopped on the newly tuned up biked the same route. And guess what? No paramedics, no wedgies. And it was okay.
And next Sunday, I'll do the triathlon. And I'll worry all week that I won't have the same outfit as the popular girls....or that I'll forget to take my sneakers off before I get in the pool....or....or maybe I'll just do it. It wasn't like losing 92 pounds was a piece of cake (it was the opposite of cake. More like celery), but I did that. So, hah! Take that, world. If I knew now what the weather, wind or wedgie conditions were going to be, I'd know exactly how to plan. But that's not really how life happens, is it? I just have to do it. And I hope the realization that I pushed myself to do something way out of my comfort zone, both physically and emotionally will make it all wedgie-worthy. Don't you agree?
Yup, I'm in great shape. Not as in Sports Illustrated bathing suit edition thong bikini type shape, just like a regular person - still a little flabby, size 14; I just work out a lot. So in theory, I can probably run 1.5 miles, bike 4 miles and swim 10 laps without the paramedics being called in with paddles and loud, "Clear!" needed to call me back from the bright light.
But I'm a little petrified. For starters, I really hate to run. Really. Hate. Like when I watch movies when someone is being chased by the bad guys, I know if it were me I would just stop running, bend over with my hands on my knees, and wheezily tell them anything they wanted to know, just so I could stop running. It's not a pretty truth about me but it is true.
And I guess I'm a little fearful of the unknown....and the annoying wedgie. I mean, I'm not really sure what to wear. Can you run in a bathing suit? I'd still have to wear one of my industrial strength jogging bras so what's the benefit of a swim suit? And don't tell me about the triathlon store in the next town. Given that I'll probably never do another one of these, I'm not planking down $68 for one of those weird singlet thingies. I'm just not. So I'm still trying to configure something I can run, bike and swim that won't give me the mother of all wedgies. I do not want to be that 53 year old yanking on her Fruit of the Looms while the groovy youngsters flash by - probably wearing the weird singlet things.
It's not just the running I worry about: where do you keep your bike while you run? Will people notice I'm wearing my son's helmet from 6th grade? Which side is the front? I may hate biking, too - who knows? Before yesterday, I hadn't ridden one in over 15 years. Why? you ask, especially if you know I used to love biking. That would be because I stopped riding bikes when the thought of how my size 22 butt looked from the back kept me from getting on a bike. I know....blah, blah, blah - let's just say that's all "behind" me now. So if I decide that I like biking, I'll get my own helmet. Promise. Something sassy - probably pink.
But I've done fear. And now I'm done with fear. So yesterday morning, unable to procrastinate any longer, I suited up, ran 1.8 miles, hopped on the newly tuned up biked the same route. And guess what? No paramedics, no wedgies. And it was okay.
And next Sunday, I'll do the triathlon. And I'll worry all week that I won't have the same outfit as the popular girls....or that I'll forget to take my sneakers off before I get in the pool....or....or maybe I'll just do it. It wasn't like losing 92 pounds was a piece of cake (it was the opposite of cake. More like celery), but I did that. So, hah! Take that, world. If I knew now what the weather, wind or wedgie conditions were going to be, I'd know exactly how to plan. But that's not really how life happens, is it? I just have to do it. And I hope the realization that I pushed myself to do something way out of my comfort zone, both physically and emotionally will make it all wedgie-worthy. Don't you agree?
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