Tag: working out

21 Day Challenge – Day 9 – Not Your Grandma’s Calorie

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Diverse Hands Holding The Word Calories

Remember when calories mattered? When they were all the rage? Then it was sugar and everything became sugar free. Then we eliminated fat, but had to add sugar so the cardboard was palatable. Soon after carbs became the enemy. The truth is we need all of that, okay, maybe less sugar, but we need good fats, and vegetables and fruits ARE carbs. And after all calories still matter. They’re just not very glamorous.

The science hasn’t changed, these diet shenanigans were mostly marketing tools used to keep us from getting bored with the same old stuff. Pulling our dollars in this way and that. And it made us fat and unhealthy. It confused our metabolism and messed with our heads.

Let’s take a trip back to simpler times and revisit the calorie.

Before you yawn and turn to something shinier, would it interest you to know that in other countries calories are called energy units?

We are going to combine two boring things you thought you would never use again and make it fun. Calories and math.

Back in the day we would look at a chart that had our age and weight and say, okay, I should be consuming 2,000 calories a day. Good start, but it’s a little more complex than that.

Food is fuel to be used as energy. We expend energy during the day, and even when we sleep.

Ergo: Energy Units Consumed (food/calories) minus Energy Expended (breathing/moving) = Energy Burned or Energy Stored.  If you take in more energy than you expend in a day what is left over becomes either stored energy or excess weight in the body.

If you use more fuel than energy units taken in you will either be depleted or lose weight.

But what I really love is this connection to food. By calling them calories we make them something unrelatable to our workaday lives. Knowing we need energy to perform tasks and well, live, we now can also see that food is the fuel that gives us said energy.

It simplifies everything. Obviously some energy units are more packed with nutrients than others. But the math still stands.

So as I start playing with my food this week I will look at my food as an energy source, not just something to satisfy my physical or emotional appetite. If I can recognize that my appetite is driven by emotions, I must also realize that eating to pacify those emotions will actually fuel them instead, leading me to eat more of the ‘bad’ stuff.

Or, I can just figure out how much energy I need to burn to make those sweet little chocolates disappear.

 

 

 

21 Day Challenge – Day 7 – Skulduggery Afoot

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Diary Book

One week in and here’s what I’ve learned:

  1. I am still really good at tricking myself into and out of what is good for me. Like professional grade status.
  2. I’m getting smarter and quicker at catching the skullduggery and doing the right thing more often than not.
  3. I have not lost one ounce but I have gained a ton of energy. Before committing to the “work-out” I was fuzzy, forgetful, tired, whiney, angry and frustrated. Now I’m just occasionally and strategically forgetful.
  4. I don’t like being pushed. And apparently I “bargain” with my trainer. Whatever.
  5. And, I actually like raising my heart rate and sweating.

While all of this seems like good news – and it is – what I am lacking is routine or ritual. I need structure. I fight structure. Do you see the problem? I exhaust myself.

A year or so ago I went through some of my old journals, and there are millions. I was expecting to find witty remarks, deep thoughts and profound insights. You know, the stuff that would comprise the movie they make about me in 100 years after they unearth these tomes of brilliance. What I found between profundities were pages and pages, years and years of planning my day. Get up at 5, 6, 5:45, work out, eat breakfast and on and on.

How depressing. Not so much that I was planning, but that I never really worked the plan.

In almost every case, everything I wanted to accomplish during the day had to be finished by 11 AM, my high point of creativity and energy during the day, so I was progressively getting up earlier and earlier. What did I expect to do with myself after 11? Have lunch with friends, skulk around independent bookstores, chat up shop owners and do gooders, come home cook a gourmet meal and share my day with my husband?

Sounds pretty amazing, actually, perhaps I should revisit those journals.

But I digress.

So now what? Plan again? Start over? Wing it? It’s the act of planning that feels solid to me. I have always been this way. I am the idea person, I’m going to lay it all out and then YOU go implement it.

There appears to be a learning opportunity for me. Can I be the implementer? I know I will fight it. For the past 8 years I have had my own businesses and my time is my own. Schedules just happen organically.

I think if I have a short list of things I plan to accomplish during the day – whenever – I will get them done.

No. That feels like a cop-out. I feel like there is a huge opportunity for me to break through this resistance to what is good for me.

I need the structure. I need to create non-negotiables. I just do these things because they are what I do. I brush my teeth every day, shower, make my bed. Why not pranayama, meditation and an hour of movement? Why not indeed.

There. Now onto the schedule.

You should know that in my head I’m already coming up with reasons why this won’t work.

 

21 Day Challenge – Day 5 – Gym Zombie

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Zombies IMG_6407

Today I had no appointments or classes around which to build my schedule. Sounds divine in that laissez-faire kinda way. But for me, I need an anchor, I need structure and I am not so great at setting it for myself.

I have had an incredible amount of work lately – all good – but overwhelming at times, so today was to be a get-it-done kind of day.

I slept in – which is to say 7 AM. I drank my two (ish – don’t judge) cups of coffee, had some toast and sat down to craft my plan. But first, let’s see what’s happening on Facebook. Wonder what some of my favorite bloggers are ranting about today. The dog wants out. The cat catches then releases a sparkly fish on an elastic line. Facebook pings. Let’s check email. Then the other email. Has that new Indian restaurant opened yet? Oh look, how cute is her new puppy? Is that a text? Where’s my phone?

And so it goes.

I did manage after about 30 minutes wrapped up in STS (Shiny Thing Syndrome) to focus. I think the coffee helped. Seriously. It’s medicinal.

I plunged into my work – my computer work I like to think of it. Responding to emails, texts and messages. Creating flyers for upcoming events. Writing copy for my own blogs, imaginary books and for real people who pay me. Organizing teacher trainings. Creating email blasts and Facebook posts. Editing photos. Stuff like that.

It draws me in sometimes and I can’t extract myself. Just one more tweak here, one more edit there. On my magical list in the sky today was the gym. Maybe a class. I received a more comprehensive list from my trainer, but I still don’t know what machines are what or how to use them. It’s frustrating. Still I thought maybe a class. Zumba?

I remembered it being in the afternoon, around 4, but I checked the schedule just to be sure. There was a class at 9:45. Missed that one. Around 3:30 I suited up, grabbed my iPod, and then headed out the door. On the way I double-checked the schedule. It was at 4:30 YESTERDAY. I went anyway. It’s the new me.

Since I didn’t have my new list – conveniently – I snubbed the machines. I wanted to go straight to the treadmill, we’re friends, but chose the elliptical instead. I decided on 10/10/10. Elliptical, treadmill, bike. Sounded reasonable.

About 1:30 in on the elliptical I started scrambling for excuses to abandon ship. Maybe this wasn’t good for my knees. My heart rate might be too high. Then I decided to become curious. Let’s just pay attention to how this feels, what’s going on in my body, I suggested to the ‘Flight’ part of my brain.

Four minutes in I hit my stride. I took a visual walk around my sweaty play pen. So many people looking unhappy. Working really hard and never getting there. That’s what I saw on their faces, anyway. They were doing it for someone else, to get something, not for their own energy. They were still reaping all the benefit, healthier heart, leaner muscle mass, but was that enough for them? It didn’t seem like it.

As I make my way around the vast room of clanking weights and grunting people I finally land on the stair climbers. We haven’t officially met yet. I  tend to walk a wide berth around them as if trolls can reach out and pull me onto the bottom step forcing me to walk up.

Atop the one closest to me is a man in his 30’s probably. He is leaning on the arm grip, barely able to sustain. He looks over at me, mouth open, eyes dead. He has achieved gym zombie status and apparently my brains are the only thing that can save him right now. We lock eyes as he continues to climb to nowhere. Creeped out I return my attention to reruns of Sex in the City set to the beat of the Gipsy Kings.

10 minutes done. Could have done more. 10 minutes on the treadmill. Then a relatively boring 10 minutes on the bike.

It’s raining. Hard. I can walk through the rain to my car, or stay here and do something else.

It felt good to get wet.

 

 

21 Day Challenge – Day 3 – Reality

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Image of female foot running on treadmill

The insides of my elbows hurt. How is that even possible? What’s even in there?

Today I went back to the gym. It was 6-ish in the morning and many sweaty bodies were already punishing themselves.

I dutifully hopped on the treadmill to do my 5 minute warm-up. As I wandered the belted highway I glanced out at the sea of machines. My trainer had texted me a collection of letters and numbers that I was to decipher into some sort of exercise routine.

Once my heart rate was up and my mind a little clearer I walked with confidence toward the bent and twisted steel with random pads and moving parts. Some looked familiar from a past life of gym false starts. Some looked fun. Some looked torturous. Many were mysterious.

Today is legs and shoulders. I pick the leg extension machine. It’s on my list. I adjust the seat and experiment with weights – my trainer is evidently trusting me to determine this minor detail as those numbers were not included in the hieroglyphics. I do 4 sets of 12. Feeling accomplished I saunter down the row looking for anything familiar. I spot the seated leg curl machine.

I sit down. I stand up. I adjust the seat. I play with the weights. I slide my legs over the seat, under the knee pad and reach for the padded roller that my Achilles tendon is to rest on, with the heel of my right foot. The knee pad is blocking my progress. I twist a little in the seat to see if I can angle one foot up to crank the pad down. I am kicking at it like I’m trying to dislodge it from under my couch.

The twist and lean is not working. I notice the gentlemen to my left has pulled something to lower the roller then effortlessly swung his ankles over the pad. I yank on levers that are not levers but solid bars meant for me to grip when I grunt with barred teeth as I push the roller down. Which may never happen. I look over at the weights. I grab the rubber thingy that acts a pulley to see if I can lift it enough to drop the roller.

My hand comes away with black grease all over it that I will likely wipe on my face before I exit this contraption. And the weights do not budge.

I am not meant to use this machine.

I walk around like I’m taking a break between sets. Just breathing. You know.

I spy a similar leg curl machine on which one lies belly down. I like the looks of it. I lower myself on the giant pad, kick my feet under the two rollers and reach for the hand grips. As I curl my fingers around the handles I slide forward losing contact with the foot pads, defeating the purpose. Clearly this machine is set up for [insert giant man-beast here]. I get up, adjust anything that will move and flop back down. Contact. I pull my heels toward my glutes for 2 sets. Done.

On to shoulder presses. I find the machine quickly, pick a weight and pump like a pro.

There are at least four more puzzles to be solved, but I have squandered my allotted half hour and walk back toward my comfort zone – the treadmill.

As I adjust the speed and incline randomly to the encouragement of Lady Gaga and the Black Eyed Peas, I glance up at the televisions accidentally catching the image of the ISIS/ISIL executioner with his weapon of death held aloft while looking down at the young reporter he will kill. My body begins to shake. I am punched in the heart. I cannot look away quickly enough.

On the adjacent screen is some vapid reality show on the fascinating, tumultuous lives of women wrestlers.

I am struck by the reality dichotomy in which we live. For a moment I am dismayed to the point of abandoning this ridiculousness. Why bother? What is the point?

Then I remember, I must first lift the veil and scrub my energy clean so that I can reveal my own inner light. So I can be part of the solution. Defeat is not an option. I must do this.

With a renewed resolve I turn up the volume on my trusty iPod and plug into my body. I become present with every movement, every sensation. I feel my heart rate rise and fall as I adjust the incline. I slow my breathing down as I speed up my pace, experimenting with my own capacity.

I am a soldier for peace. I am a warrior of light. That is the cause for which I am working.

 

21 Day Challenge – Day 2 – Yoga a go go

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There is nothing quite like yoga to tell you what’s going on in your body. Even the gentlest class can reveal secret tight places and hidden tension.

Today I did a level I/II hatha class, it’s one of my favorites. The postures are familiar but not always easy and the pace is just right for my attention span.

However doing side plank the day after working out the back and arms – or back and bi’s as us gym rats call it – may not be so wise.  My arms felt like paint inside the mixer-upper thing at Home Depot. I found a muscle I didn’t know existed and still can’t seem to locate on any diagram. I believe it is an unchartered area of my tricep. It’s unhappy with its newly awakened state.

Although I own a yoga studio, have taught for over five years and have practiced longer than that, yoga and I still have some stuff to work out. I am in love with the philosophy and could talk spirituality all day, but the asana portion, the postures, they challenge me on so many levels.

There are eight limbs in yoga, only one of them, the third one, is about postures. The rest include a code of conduct in how to be in the world, breathwork, and a few on various forms of meditation. They are all necessary. Even the postures.

It’s not that they’re too difficult, although there are many I cannot do, it’s the pace, the holding. I like to move. I love to dance. I like to walk and swim and ride bikes. Standing still with my arms extended and one knee deeply bent for a few breaths has my mind wandering, chattering, disagreeing with the whole notion that this is necessary.

And it’s that reason alone, that it is. I have to become at peace with where I am. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. Yoga does that. I can curse the teacher for making me hold a posture, making up stories about how it’s wrong, this particular posture should never be held this long, someone’s going to hurt themselves, and what’s with the breathing? Stop reminding me to breathe.

And then we’re done.

I am standing still, lost in sensation in my body, swimming blissfully in the energy just released from holding that godforsaken posture.

I am open, my mind is quiet (temporarily, but still) and I am at ease. Yoga is stilling the fluctuations of the mind. It is quieting the mental chatter by giving the body a little tension – in the best possible way – and moving the thoughts out of the head into the muscles, then out all together.

It just works.

Even though I know this, even though I will be back the next day or two, or on my mat at home, I will suffer the same process.

And in the end I will be grateful for it. Again and again.

[Photo credit: Allison L. Andersen. Taken in Daman, India. She’s facing the Arabian Sea as she does her variation of saluting the sun.]

 

21 Day Challenge – Day 1 – Just Weight

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Dumbbells with towel isolated on white

A little over 8 years ago I embarked on this holistic health odyssey. I wanted to make food my friend, understand it and use it properly. I became a Certified Holistic Health Coach. I gave advice to others as I continued to play with strategies for myself. Everything I did worked. My energy was high, my weight was low (enough) and I felt great!

Then somehow all those things I’d let go of crept back in; foods, habits, stop me if you’ve heard this one.

As I continued to see clients as a health coach and then as a yoga instructor I felt like a complete charlatan. I was a fraud. Am. Oh, I still give great advice. It’s intuitive, tailored to the person in front of me seeking my knowlege and always done with love. I can see exactly what they need to do or not do, add or subtract.

Why can’t I do that for myself? Why do I not take my own gilded advice? Why is it so easy to keep promises we don’t even want to make to other people, but even easier to break the promises we felt so strongly about when we made them, to ourselves?

This past week I attended a five-day yoga retreat. We ate vegetarian food, mostly organic, did yoga daily and yoga nidra twice a day. I was feeling lighter physically and energetically and then…

On the way home a friend and I stopped at Five Guys. I ingested a WHOLE double hamburger. With. The. Bun. A shared “little” fries and a healthy helping of sweetea. Then later I waddled across the street to a friend’s barbeque where I drank more than my share of wine, ate potato chips with dip, then a baked potato – you know with toppings, of course – and more wine.

Disclaimer: I am a full quarter Irish and that 25% would like potatoes 100% of the time please.

I have no such ancestry to explain the wine.

Anyway.

I had an appointment with a trainer today to get weighed and measured like a 4H heifer. But it was good – not the numbers, but the experience and now the knowledge.

I worked out. I tried to explain to the 20 something ex-Air Force soldier that I was not in a hurry. I want to be pushed, yes, but not immobilized. I want to have goals but none of them include a bikini. I also retained my right to say no and stop when I felt my body was physically defeated. But I only pulled that card once, I wanted to push a little. I need to push.

After the workout with weights I did 30 minutes on the treadmill.  And I felt great.

Tomorrow is yoga.

For me, it’s about closing the gap on that feeling of incongruence between the wise health coach and yoga teacher inside and the squishy, tired woman on the outside.

It’s time to walk the talk. One step at a time.

 

21 Day Challenge – Taking it to the Body

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bigstock-Beautiful-young-woman-jumping--15095405

It’s Challenge Time again! If you’ve been playing along, you’ll remember we added the good stuff in on our first challenge. Then we fell in love with our own bodies – right? – on the second challenge. Now it’s time to work with that beautiful beast known as the human form. This is more about uncovering your best, most healthy vehicle. Not about bikini season, that wedding or high school reunion. It’s not about a number on the scale or on a tag.

Think energy. Dr. John Douillard (you’ll hear more about him later) says we should have the same amount of energy all day long. When we get up, in the afternoon, when it’s time for bed. Is that happening for you?

Think radiance. Think joy. Think nourishment. This is not punishment, on the contrary it is the best gift you could give to yourself.

This could be about weight loss or weight gain. Maybe it’s about sleeping well or eating better. All valid goals, but it is also about longevity and sustainability so move into it at a pace that works for you.

At its core, this challenge is about using the body as a gateway to YOU. It is the act of sloughing off and peeling away the dust and detritus of daily living and stress so that the inner light that is YOU can shine through.

So, are you ready?

I will chronicle what I am doing daily and offer potential challenges for you. I am not looking for fellow travelers on this well-worn path. I am looking for your insights about you as you navigate food labels, personal trainers, yoga instructors and the ever present well-meaning friend. I am holding you up. I know you’ve got this. I know that even if you are at your peak, there is something you can change. Maybe the challenge for you is doing less physical activity.

The first week will be dedicated to movement. You know, exercise. It is your task to bring movement into your life everyday. Over and above walking from your car to your office or around the grocery store. Go to the gym, do yoga, swim, dance, ride a bike. If you’re already pretty active this week should be a breeze. If not, get out there and go for a walk. Your body will thank you.

I look forward to seeing you along the way these next 21 days.

Feeling Groovy

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18 Udaipur IMG_4636

I have not yet fallen into the groove of my life. You know, that comfortable, yet active, relaxed state. Leaning back into life, open and ready but not anxious. Available for the next moment by being present in this one.

I feel it must exist. I have friends who seem to be there, but then that’s my perception. I think I’ve even been there, dipped my toe in on occasion, only I just recognize it as somewhere I’ve been, I don’t catch it in the moment. Perhaps that’s by design. If I notice I’m in it, will that take me out of it? Yearning to recreate it, missing the present once again?

My imagined groove goes a little something like this:

I wake up smiling and refreshed at 5 am. I brew myself a cup of organic free-trade coffee, add a dash of organic cinnamon, raw sugar and organic half and half. I take mug, that I purchased from an extremely talented struggling potter, full of this morning brew, on the deck of my modest ocean front home, or the balcony of my 12th floor upper west side apartment in New York City. Of course I could be traveling, probably I am, so maybe it’s a chai on the rooftop of a 5 story walk up somewhere fabulous in India or a steaming cup of tea in a coffee shop in London. Whatever the case, I am armed with gentle caffeine and settled into a chair, facing east, with my journal and pen, ready to watch the sun rise and let go of thoughts that may be bouncing around creating havoc.

Then I go work out, because I love to, usually dance or some other high energy sweat-making movement. Come home, shower eat a breakfast of organic goat’s milk yogurt with organic granola and a banana from my own tree (why not?).

Refreshed, fed and ready to go, I am at my desk at 9 AM ready and waiting for inspiration to flow through me, which it always does. Sometimes I write, sometimes I edit photos or create photo cards, other times I make jewelry.

I stop for lunch. Something delicious, nutritious and organic, no doubt.

Ok, so this is my groove. The rest of the day just naturally unfolds into a glorious evening of meaningful conversations with great friends back on that deck or balcony. We talk about consciousness and ways to make the world a better place. We share what we’re working on creatively and our processes. We plan to go to gallery openings and take trips together. Maybe we’re drinking naturally decaffeinated organic tea grown since the 6th century, that someone has just brought back from their recent trip to China. Or perhaps a new Malbec from a friend in Argentina. Jazz plays in the background. It’s a band we know personally. Or maybe one of us is sitting quietly plucking the strings of an acoustic guitar, creating on the spot.

The flaw in this scenario? When do I get to eat too much of the wrong thing? Where do I fit in Orange is the New Black? Where’s the struggle that make success sweet?

Truthfully I would be totally okay with this groove. I don’t need to create struggle anymore.  I know enough people who do and they don’t age well. They don’t see that they have a choice. Struggling is a choice. Suffering is truly optional – a state of mind. It’s in their perception. A wise teacher, Yogi Amrit Desai once said something like, “Wanting things to be different than they are is our only problem.”  Acceptance of anything is the key. You cannot change something you refuse to accept, it doesn’t exist.

And so, I accept that I need to move, write, be creative and tromp through wildlife to snap photos. I also accept that I’m in my groove more often than not. I have sipped excellent coffee from ocean front decks, high rise balconies in New York, Chai on rooftops in India and tea in coffee shops in London. I write. I move. I create. I have done all of these things.

It is in those moments that I feel disconnected and outside that I need only remember that this too is part of my groove. It is the recognition of the present moment that is indeed the groove.

[Photo: The magnificent city of Udaipur, India.]

21 Day Body Love Challenge – American Thighs

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Colonialette

“I think the quality of sexiness comes from within. It is something that is in you or it isn’t and it really doesn’t have much to do with breasts or thighs or the pout of your lips.” – Sophia Loren

I love my thighs.

Ok, that’s a  little bit of a lie. Like my knees, I find them very useful but not appropriate for all audiences. We’ve sparred a lot throughout the years and they’ve never quite measured up to my expectations. Or dreams really, I don’t suppose I expected a whole lot out of them based on the DNA of the female thighs in my family.

They introduced themselves to me sometime in the fourth grade. I was wearing culottes and playing in the front yard with my best friend Maria, when I noticed her legs were way skinnier than mine. Mine were normal, so were hers, of course, but I was at an age where comparisons were how I was making sense of the world. Bigger, smaller, better, worse, prettier, uglier, nicer, meaner. At this time, Tiger Beat magazine started to make an appearance, informing my tastes and educating me on all things cool and correct. This was the same year I took the book “Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Sex, But Were Afraid to Ask” into school to share with my friends at recess. I was exploring, let’s say.

From that point on my thighs were never good enough. They were never normal or pretty. My knees touched, knock-kneed I believe was the term, which made my thighs touch if I stood with my feet together. Other girls had this great space between their thighs and knees that birds could fly through. A piece of paper would struggle to make its way from the front of my thighs to the back. If I ran in corduroys, the fire department would surely be called.

What I didn’t realize at a young age was that the structure of my legs was what it was and there were millions of girls with that same structure. They just didn’t show up in cool magazines, hanging off the arm of an up and coming rock star. Or maybe they did but their legs were crossed or positioned in such a way that their deformity didn’t show.

I continued to put on a brave face and wear normal clothes, even baring some thigh skin on occasion but I always checked the legs of those around me. As I got a little older I busied myself with extra-curricular activities in hopes I would find my thighs a safe home. Drama club, sports, keyettes, homecoming committee. When I was involved in a sport or otherwise occupied I didn’t give them much thought, but when I was lined up with other girls my age for a swim team photo or soccer composite, I always glanced from leg to leg to see if mine were thinner than at least one other person’s.

When I look back at photos of myself now, I see how ridiculous I was, but at the time it was all so true for me. Today my thighs continue to refuse to conform to the photoshopped, super model ideal I have set for them. And they’ve picked up a few bad habits; spider veins, a little extra cushion, skin that’s lost a bit of its elasticity and of course a few well-earned scars. So they remain mostly hidden.

Then I see women, whose thigh circumferences far surpass my own, with cellulite and all, wearing short shorts or cute little skirts. And I don’t judge. In fact, I’m a little jealous. And then I have a realization. It just doesn’t matter. The only person that cares about the shape of my thighs is me. I’m the only one who is keeping track of how big or small, firm or not they are or have been. Those who ARE judging my thighs are the ones who have the insecurities. I should know. I am them.

They wonder if their own thighs look better. Or could there’s end up like mine and what kind of life would that be? They wonder who could love a woman with thighs like mine and thank God they have a husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, wife, children or friends who would never judge. Yes, thank God.

Oh the irony. All over a body part gifted to the soul that inhabits it.

At some point in my young adult life I learned it was rude to refuse a gift from anyone. Yet daily I, and let’s be honest, you, refuse the gift of life in one way or another. This body, and even these thighs, are here and this way to help me do whatever work I am here to do, to help move humanity forward. And that’s really why we’re all here. On some level you already know that. You know that worrying about the size of any body part is distraction from your real work. In fact the size of whatever body part you’re consumed with may be the doorway into your soul’s work.

If a 300 pound woman wearing a bikini pushes a beached dolphin back into the ocean, does the dolphin notice her rolls of fat? If a 98 pound woman lifts a car off a pinned child, do the parents comment on her scrawny stature? If a 175 pound woman with big thighs loves even a small portion of humanity back to health, will there be an editorial about her weight?

It’s all subjective. My thighs will never look like a speed skaters or a ballerinas. Nor will they ever look like Heidi Klum’s. They look like mine. And my mom’s and my grandma’s. They’ve looked like this for most of my adult life and they’re not going anywhere, so I’ll just have to embrace them. Be extra kind to them while slathering nourishing exotic lotions on them. Take them on more walks; they really like walks, especially hills. Dip deep in Warrior postures.

And dance, oh how they love to dance!

 

21 Day Body Love Challenge – ‘Gam’orous

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photo (5)

“Darling, the legs aren’t so beautiful, I just know what to do with them.” Marlene Dietrich

I love my ankles, calves and shins. I include shins because of the three, my shins have taken the biggest beating and survived to tell great stories.

There are two body parts I know my father was very particular about on a woman. Oh, come on, it’s my dad! They were thin, delicate ankles and a long, graceful neck. In short, he would have been very happy with a swan. I never really understood the ankle thing, I mean, they’re pretty utilitarian, a juncture between the miraculous feet and, well, everything else. But then I met a woman who referred to hers as cankles. This would be the clever term for thick ankles denoting that her very calves have melted into her ankles.

To me, she looked like she had ankles. In her view, she had suffered through high school and college, hiding her ankles beneath long pants and socks. She had lost weight to the point of starvation, yet her cankles mocked her, diminishing nary a centimeter. Finally one day she realized she had the exact same legs as her mother and her two older sisters. They were all married, all happy and seemed to be oblivious to their plight. She realized that ankles were ankles and from that day forward she dressed like everyone else, shamelessly parading around in shorts and sandals, unafraid and unapologetic. Her confidence in her perceived flawed body part spilled into other areas of her life and she became the CEO of a large corporation, married a wonderful man and had three gorgeous children.

Gives me hope for my relationship with my thighs.

My own ankles have served me well. Scarred and bruised, they have never cracked under pressure. Never broken, never sprained. They have been twisted without damage while learning new dance steps, they have been stretched under me while attempting new yoga postures, and they have kicked many a soccer ball downfield, and they have always remained steadfastly true and stayed right where they were meant to be.

As a competitive swimmer for a minute and a half, a track star for 20 seconds  and a dancer for a few years, my calves developed quite lovely on their own. Not too big, not too thin, just right. Then one day, I moved away from the city to live in a faraway land called Florida, without a car. In this magical land nothing was close to anything else and walking would take days and melting was a possibility. Public transportation had not yet been invented where I was living so, instead, I procured a bicycle and set about to get around on two wheels. The byproduct of this was massive calfage. Bodacious bricks. They were quite a sight to behold and once I recognized them as my own,  I was a little proud. Today they are much softer and a lot less dangerous.

My shins on the other hand have seen some combat. As a soccer player for the better part of my childhood, shin guards could only do so much to prevent bruises and lumps and bumps. They took a beating. Being active outside of soccer left my shins defenseless as I ran around, climbed trees and overall had a blatant disregard for safety. On one particular occasion I wanted to share my gift of grace with a friend by showing her how adept I was at doing a walk-over in my living room. You know, gymnastics.

The handstand was flawless, straight up in the air, then as I began to narrate the walk over part something went terribly wrong. Instead of languidly placing my feet over onto the floor into a spectacular backbend, I crash landed into the coffee table. My entire shin scraped down the edge of the table removing most of the skin from the bone. But we were 15 so we laughed and laughed as I held my shin and secretly cried inside. It took many long minutes for it to even bleed. It was that deep. To this day I proudly wear not only the scar, but also the dent to my shin bone that resulted from my over-inflated sense of confidence.

All in all the lower half of my legs are keepers; they’ve been involved in all the hijinks and travel my feet have instigated. Every now and then one of my calves will cramp just to let me know it’s still there and maybe needs a little attention. So I take it to a yoga class and stretch it or to the gym or most recently I took both of them up, then down over 200 steps in a lighthouse. They were very chatty about that the next day.

Body parts speak but we’re usually too busy crafting stories with our mind about other more pressing matters such as hairstyles and deadlines. More importantly we are speaking to our body parts all the time; usually unconsciously and mostly negatively. Or we ignore them all together.  Every day as you rush through your morning or bedtime routine, stop and take a little extra time to massage oil or lotion into all your parts, cooing and sharing sweet nothings with them.  Each time you catch yourself berating your thighs or upper arms consider instead how valuable they are to your very existence. They’ll love your for it and they’ll respond in kind.

I have a great affinity for my calves and shins as they are the only part of my leg that usually sees daylight. My thighs often misbehave so I seldom let them out, but from the tops of my calves to the tips of my toes all is copasetic.