Cuerpo Sano

The “mente” is still questionable. The facts:

I am apparently suffering from mild malnutrition. I figured eating a low-cal diet (by which I mean 1200 / day, for all of you ready to call the Karen Carpenter hotline, Mom) and taking my multivitamin and Viactivs was a pretty good road to weight loss sans fainting. Unfortunately, vitamins do not contain protein, something I haven’t been getting much of since taking leave of chicken. Note to semi-veggies everywhere: You must buy the fake meats (or equivalent backhoes of legumes) or you’ll be exhausted and snappish, because supplementing coffee for protein, while fun for a few hours, does not really work in the long run.

It’s only been two days on the new regimen, and noticeable differences include 1) feeling more rested 2) not craving sugar—like, at all, which is amazing 3) spending an extra hour (at work, but still) writing down the nutritional information of everything that goes in my face 4) freaking like I’m seeing spiders if the day’s numbers are too high / low. I think I’ll treat this as a study; get the information, extrapolate, and then tailor it to a life plan, because I can not obsessively record everything I eat until I die. I can take food out of my life, but I’m not prepared to take the life out of my food. But I do feel better, and that’s no small thing.

I not only have the energy to exercise, but the will to do so as well—which explains all that ditching the gym in favor of going home, or enduring five minutes of Billy’s Boot Camp before quitting in favor of a lemon sandwich cookie, that I just thought was laziness. [But no--malnutrition! I’m not a slob, I have a condition! Pity me and bring me small cakes!] I felt so much improved that on Saturday last I laced up my boots and drove to the gym, in the inexplicable and fickle (inexfickable?) snowstorm, parked my car three streets away (“Good day to sweat!” said Everyone in Ann Arbor), and walked though construction in the chapping wind without a hat. To run. I was dedicated, is my point.

I get to the locker and change, don the heart rate monitor (<- old person) and hang up my long jacket, which for some reason fits neatly into the locker. I wonder if I can attribute this to weight loss in any possible way, when in fact it’s because I took my sneakers home. And didn’t bring them back.

My sneakers are in my closet, at my house, five snowy miles away.

I weigh my options. I am not going home—not because I don’t want to, because why in blue hell would I have kitted out to battle the cold, my least favorite thing in the world (really, like, ‘fascism’ has to be second) and circumnavigated the giant Saarlac construction pit on my one day off unless, somewhere deep inside, I did actually want to go running—and not because taking this one final hint that the universe does not want me in its gym after ignoring the first seventeen omens would make me rather an idiot. I was here, I had a vague conviction, and I had given Outer Hebrides’ Last Meter eight good laundry quarters. I was running today.

And it occurs to me: Don’t soldiers have to run in boots all the time? All the PT and training missions and all that—they don’t need any sissified sneakers, so dammit, neither do I. And it’s a better option than running in my socks; if the shin splints didn’t kill me, the million-kilowatt bolt of static lightning that hits me in the lips at the drinking fountain when I’m finished surely will.

I suppose I could have just lifted weights instead but, besides boring the shit out of me, there was a greater chance people would notice my nonstandard footwear. Running, well, if they want to start shit with me they’ll have to catch up first, and yell while running, which I would admire a little bit and which I wouldn’t necessarily have to stop for.

So I ran 5 miles in my boots. Despite being sturdy, winter-weather boots, not Prada human lawn-dart boots (although, as it turns out they do have rather a high heel), I fully expected—nay, deserved—a little bit of lower back pain, but I am surprisingly twinge-free. I felt pretty good about that foolhardy decision.

Until I pulled a leg muscle by getting it tangled in the sheets. I guess I’m flattered to be the Irony Fairy’s last house call of the day.


crdrue said…
ha - maybe we can get a photo? Heeled combat boots, athletic shorts, track in background...
sueprano said…
Hi, Beedoo! I don't know if you remember me, but I'm still reading and enjoying your blog very much. In fact, with your permission, I'd like to tell some of my LiveJournal friends about it, because I think they'd enjoy it too.

Protein in coffee - I'm all for it! And why didn't God think of that? I mean, it should have been no big deal, seeing as how it's made from beans and all.
Beedoo said…
Sure I remember you! How's Mark Hamill these days?

I'm flattered you want to tell people about me--go right ahead, the more the merrier. You can link me from yours if you want; my Technorati rating is currently pretty pitiful.

Hmm... coffee/protein smoothie. I am right now filling out a patent request; recipe to follow.
Anonymous said…
Judging from past comments, I think CD just wants pictures of you.

Beedoo said…
Can't imagine why; he sees my sloppy mug every weekday, you'd think it'd be enough for a mental picture. I guess boys are all just about the visual aids.

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