I have logged into MyFitnessPal for 660 days in a row. That’s 1 year, 9 months, and 19 days.
For the uninitiated, MyFitnessPal is a free app that tracks daily food intake. It’s more than just a calorie counter. It tracks fat, protein, carbohydrates, fiber, vitamin c, iron, potassium, and several other key nutrients. It is a crowd-sourced program, with every food you can imagine already entered into the database. Just search and select the appropriate entry from the huge list of results. If by chance you have a food that isn’t already in the system, you can add it yourself. You can even enter the ingredients for your own recipes, and it will calculate all the calorie and nutrient details per serving. These are just a few features of this awesome program; I will get into more detail in the next two episodes of this series.
Like so many other aspects of weight loss, I had ridden the food tracking merry-go-round many times. I would commit to keeping a food journal, determined to write down every single thing I ate. I would stick with it for a few days, a few weeks, maybe even a few months. But eventually I grew weary of keeping up with it, and yet another journal bit the dust. Every time.
Sometimes on leg day, I feel like I’m going to die. But so far, I have lived to tell the tale each time.
The key word is “feel.” My feelings are not facts. Just because I feel like I am going to die doesn’t mean that I am in fact dying.
I once heard someone I greatly admire say, “My feelings are real, but they are not reality.” I totally missed that memo. I have lived a good chunk of my life ruled by my feelings. If I felt something, that meant it was true, and I had to react to it.
I’m also someone who has dealt with anxiety and panic. When it comes to the “fight or flight” instinct, I’m pretty much all about flight. When something is uncomfortable, or scary, or overwhelming, my first instinct is to run from it as fast as I can. It feels like I can’t handle it. It feels like I won’t make it through. It feels like I am going to die.
Human beings are animals. Eating is one of our most basic survival instincts. The urge to find and consume food is hard-wired into the most ancient part of our brains. Without food, we die.
So why can’t anyone decide what to eat?
I see it everyday when I go to work at Trader Joe’s. People come through the door, sometimes armed with books and web printouts, totally confused. They’ve heard that gluten is bad, but they don’t know what it is (I’ve been asked for gluten free cheese more than once). Dr. Oz says olive oil popcorn is a healthy snack, so they fill their carts with it and eat a bag in a sitting. Because it’s “good for them.” A friend told them cherry juice helps arthritis, so they buy it by the case and drink tall glasses daily, pumping massive quantities of sugar into their bodies. Bags of frozen spinach are labeled “fat-free” because we have been told for years that fat is evil. Doesn’t matter that it’s spinach, which of course has no fat. Put the buzzword on the bag to get people to buy.Continue reading “What’s for Lunch?”→
I’ve been thinking about goals quite a bit lately.
Our society loves to talk about goals: setting goals, working towards goals, reaching goals. Short-term versus long-term goals. Define benchmark goals on the way to the larger goal. Plan the steps necessary to help reach the goal. Organize your life in a way that gets you closer to the goal. Once you reach the goal, set up the next goal.
(Did you notice how strange the word “goal” starts to sound when you say it that many times in that short a space? Or is it just me? Anyway…)
Weight loss and “getting in shape” are huge goals for millions of people, with a multi-billion dollar industry devoted to helping people reach that goal in a myriad of ways, from the reasonable to the ridiculous.Continue reading “Planning Plans”→
Substitutes get a bad name. When I was a kid, there was a substitute teacher at my elementary school that all the kids hated. Her name was Mrs. Smith, but everyone called her Mrs. Fishlips. Because, well, she was quite unattractive and had a mouth that closely resembled a fish. Sometimes the material presents itself.
I was terrified of Mrs. Fishlips. She was mean, and she yelled. Whenever I walked into my classroom and saw her, I was instantly sick with anxiety. Physically ill, and on the verge of tears until the clock mercifully struck 3:30.
I didn’t want Mrs. Fishlips. I wanted my teacher. She was a poor substitute for the real thing.
Something to know about me: I’m a crier. Always have been. I cry when I’m sad, angry, happy, you name it. A giant reservoir of tears lurks just below my eyeballs, ready to burst forth at any moment for any reason. This trait has not always served me well, but I’ve accepted it as part of who I am. I’m a history geek, I love the Foo Fighters, I find all things fat-free repulsive, I cry. It’s part of the package.
I hit a new level with my crying after five months training with Matt at Ludus Magnus.
I cried over situps. Genuine, heart-felt tears of joy. Over situps.