Diet, Exercise, and Me: A Three-Way Relationship That Isn’t Working Out
Being in my 70s has taught me many things. I’ve learned that my eyesight isn’t what it used to be, my memory occasionally takes an unscheduled vacation, and my body makes noises that I don’t remember authorizing.
But perhaps the biggest lesson I’ve learned is this: losing weight after 70 requires a level of self-discipline that I apparently left somewhere in my 50s.
I have a complicated relationship with diet and exercise. We know each other well, but we don’t get together nearly as often as we should.
My Diet: A Love Story
Every Monday morning, I wake up with the determination of a woman who has finally had enough.
“This is it!” I announce to absolutely nobody. “I’m going to eat healthy, watch my portions, and lose those extra pounds!”
I clean out the refrigerator, stock up on vegetables, and promise myself that this week will be different.
And it is different. For approximately four hours.
Then I remember there’s a perfectly good piece of cake in the refrigerator, and I begin negotiating with myself.
“It’s just one piece,” I say. “Besides, throwing it away would be wasteful.”
I’m a firm believer in not wasting food. Unfortunately, my body has become the designated disposal unit.
I’ve tried portion control, too. The problem is that I consider a serving size to be whatever fits on my plate without falling off the edges.
And don’t get me started on chocolate. Some women keep emergency cash in their purses. I believe in keeping emergency chocolate. You never know when you’ll need it.
Exercise: The Great Avoidance Strategy
I know exercise is important. Every magazine, television commercial, and well-meaning medical professional reminds me of this.
So I bought walking shoes.
They’re lovely shoes. Comfortable, attractive, and practically begging to be taken outside.
Instead, they’ve been sitting in my closet long enough to qualify for retirement benefits.
I’ve also considered joining a gym. I picture myself walking confidently through the doors, surrounded by energetic people lifting weights and running on treadmills.
Then I imagine having to figure out all those machines, and suddenly staying home and folding laundry seems like an Olympic sport.
My favorite exercise is walking from the kitchen to the living room. I’m exaggerating. Kip and I do take the dogs for a nice walk almost every morning. I bend over to wipe my dog’s feet when we’re finished. they’re usually full of sand.
That’s interval training, isn’t it?
And let’s be honest: at my age, getting up from a low chair can involve enough effort to count as a strength-training session.
The scale and I are no longer on speaking terms.
I own a bathroom scale, but our relationship has become rather strained.
I step on it, look down, and immediately question its qualifications.
Perhaps it’s broken. Perhaps the floor isn’t level. Perhaps it hasn’t been calibrated since the Reagan administration.
I step off and try again.
Same result.
Clearly, this scale has an attitude problem.
I’ve learned that weighing myself after a good day of eating healthy is much more satisfying than weighing myself after a weekend involving pizza, cookies, and a little too much enthusiasm at the dessert table.
So I have developed a sophisticated weighing schedule: I weigh myself when I think the news might be good.
This is not denial. It’s selective data collection.
My Self-Discipline Is on permanent vacation.
The truth is, my self-discipline and I have never been particularly close.
Self-discipline suggests an apple for a snack. I suggest that an apple would be even better with caramel dip.
Self-discipline says, “You need to think about your future.”
I say, “At this age, I think I’ve earned the right to enjoy my present!”
And honestly, there’s some truth in that.
I don’t want to spend my remaining years treating every cookie like a personal failure or feeling guilty because I prefer a comfortable chair to a stationary bicycle.
Life is too short to be miserable over a muffin.
On the other hand, life might be a little longer if I occasionally put down the muffin and take a longer walk.
It’s a delicate balance.
A New Plan: Baby steps and bigger snacks
I’ve decided to stop making grand promises that require the discipline of a Navy SEAL.
Instead, I’m going to try a few reasonable changes.
I’ll continue to walk when the weather cooperates. I’ll eat more vegetables.  I’ll pay a little more attention to portions, and I’ll try to remember that a second helping isn’t mandatory.
Most importantly, I’ll try to stop treating healthy living as an all-or-nothing proposition.
If I choose fruit instead of cake, that’s a victory. And if I choose cake instead of fruit, I’ll try not to require a week of emotional recovery.
Progress is progress, even if it occasionally involves a detour through the bakery.
The Bottom Line
At 70ish, I have come to understand that my body is not a machine, my metabolism has slowed to what appears to be a leisurely stroll, and my willpower is easily distracted by anything containing sugar.
But I’m still here, still trying, and still able to laugh at myself.
Maybe I’ll lose those ten pounds someday. Maybe I’ll finally wear out those walking shoes. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll learn to walk past a plate of cookies without feeling that we’re meant to be together.
I’m not making any promises.
After all, I’m in my 70s. I’ve earned my wrinkles, my opinions, and the right to eat dessert without holding a committee meeting first.
Tomorrow, I’ll start my new healthy lifestyle.
Right after breakfast.
And possibly a little something sweet.
You know, for energy.

I’m trying to lose 10 pounds. Just 10. I’m not asking for a miracle or trying to squeeze into my high school cheerleading uniform. I simply want to lose 10 pounds without giving up everything that makes life worth living.
You know, like cake.
And cookies.
And the occasional second helping of mashed potatoes.
At my age, I’ve earned the right to enjoy my food!
Why Is Losing Weight Harder in Your 70s?
When you’re in your 20s, you can eat a cheeseburger, fries, and a milkshake, then dance until midnight and burn it all off.
In your 70s, you eat one cookie, sit down to rest, and somehow gain two pounds.
I suspect my metabolism has retired without giving me notice. It’s probably on a beach somewhere, sipping a margarita and saying, “Sorry, lady. You’re on your own!”
Meanwhile, my bathroom scale has become my least favorite piece of equipment. I step on it hoping for good news, but it gives me a number that sends me straight to the refrigerator. I’ve even considered weighing myself while holding my stomach in. Surely that ought to count for something!
Exercise: My New Four-Letter Word
Everyone says the secret to losing weight is exercise.
So I walk.
To the refrigerator.
To the pantry.
Then back to the refrigerator because I’ve forgotten why I went there.
That’s three trips! Surely they count for something.
I’ve also heard that strength training is important as we get older. Every time I carry groceries into the house, I lift weights. Every time I put a heavy casserole into the oven, (Who am I kidding. Lean Cuisine doesn’t weigh that much.) I’ll practice resistance training later when I empty the dishwasher.
And when I get up from my favorite chair without making a sound like an old screen door, I consider that a gold-medal performance.
My fitness goal is simple: I want to be able to get off the floor if I drop a cookie.
Preferably before the dog gets it.
The Trouble With Dieting
I’ve tried eating smaller portions.
The trouble is that my eyes haven’t gotten the message that my stomach is older. I still think I need a dinner plate big enough to feed a small family. Then I put half the food back and, five minutes later, wonder whether anyone would notice if I ate one more bite.
Nobody would notice.
Except my bathroom scale. That thing has the memory of an elephant.
Diets also have a cruel sense of humor. The minute you decide to stop eating sweets, someone brings homemade pie to the house.
Where were these people when I was eating everything in sight?
Now they arrive with chocolate cake, banana bread, and cookies that smell like heaven. It’s almost as if the universe is testing me.
And frankly, the universe is playing dirty.
Ten Pounds and a Whole Lot of Determination
I’ve decided not to rush this weight-loss business. At my age, I believe in taking things one day at a time.
I’ll eat a little healthier, walk a little more, and try not to reward myself for losing a pound by eating a cheeseburger.
That last part may require professional help.
I’m also learning that the goal isn’t just to look better in my clothes. It’s to feel better, keep moving, stay strong, and enjoy life for as long as possible.
If I lose those 10 pounds, wonderful.
If I lose five, I’ll celebrate.
If I lose two, I’ll call it progress.
And if I gain three, I’ll assume the scale is broken and put it in time-out.
After all, we didn’t make it into our 70s by giving up every little pleasure in life. We’ve survived raising children, paying bills, changing fashions, and learning how to operate television remotes with 47 buttons.
Surely we can handle a few extra pounds!
My New Weight-Loss Philosophy
I’m no longer chasing the body I had at 25. That body is long gone, and frankly, I don’t think it wants to come back.
I’m aiming for a healthier, happier version of the person I am today.
I’ll eat my vegetables, drink my water, get some exercise, and try to make sensible choices.
But if someone brings me a warm chocolate chip cookie straight from the oven, all bets are off.
Life is short.
The cookie is warm.
And I’m in my 70s.
I think I’ve made my position perfectly clear.
My final goal? Lose 10 pounds, keep my sense of humor, and never become so skinny that I can’t sit comfortably in my favorite chair.

Because at this stage of life, happiness matters just as much as the number on the scale.
Besides, I have a feeling those 10 pounds aren’t going anywhere without a fight.
And I’m an old lady who’s been around long enough to know how to win an argument.
At least most of the time.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going for a walk.
To the kitchen.
I need to check on those cookies.
Wish me luck!

By a Woman Who Is 74 and Still Looking for Her Glasses

I have reached that wonderful age when I can walk into a room with a clear purpose, stop in the middle of it, and stare at the walls as if they might provide a helpful hint.

I call it a senior moment.

Of course, when you’re 74, you can explain almost anything with a senior moment. Forget someone’s name? Senior moment. Lose your keys? Senior moment. Put the milk in the cupboard and the cereal in the refrigerator? That’s not confusion—that’s an innovative new breakfast system.

The trouble is, these moments are becoming a little too common.

The other day, I spent ten minutes looking for my reading glasses. I checked the kitchen counter, the bathroom, the bedroom, and even the refrigerator, because apparently I was prepared to read the yogurt label. I finally found them right where they belonged—on top of my head.

Apparently, my glasses and I are playing hide-and-seek, and they have discovered the perfect hiding place: somewhere I can see them without actually seeing them.

Then there’s the matter of names. I can remember what I wore to a party thirty years ago, including the shoes that pinched, but I can’t remember the name of the person standing right in front of me. So I do what any resourceful senior would do. I call everybody “Honey.”

“Honey, it’s so good to see you!”

It works beautifully until two people named Honey show up, and then I have to start describing their hairstyles.

And let’s talk about why we go to the grocery store. I can make a perfectly good shopping list, take it with me, read it three times, and still come home without the one thing I went for. But I will have three bags of things I didn’t know I needed, including a seasonal cheese I bought because the package looked confident.

I may forget the bread, but I’ll remember the cookies. Priorities—and dessert is much harder to toast.

Technology hasn’t made things any easier. My phone has more buttons and features than I will ever understand. Sometimes I call someone by accident, and sometimes I can’t figure out how to hang up. I have ended calls by putting the phone down, pressing every button, and whispering, “Please stop.”

I’m beginning to think my phone has a mind of its own. Unfortunately, it seems to be the only one of us that remembers what it’s doing.

And don’t get me started on passwords. Every website wants a password with a capital letter, a number, a symbol, and apparently the name of my first-grade teacher, her blood type, and a small sacrifice. By the time I create one, I’ve forgotten it. So I click “Forgot Password” and start the whole adventure again.

At this rate, I’ll need a password just to remember my passwords—and a recovery question to explain why I’m standing in the kitchen.

But here’s what I’ve decided: senior moments aren’t all bad. They give us something to laugh about, stories to tell, and a good excuse when we do something a little silly. They also keep life interesting. Every day becomes a mystery, and sometimes the mystery is where you put the remote.

Besides, there are advantages to getting older. I’ve earned the right to speak my mind, wear comfortable shoes, go to bed early, and not care one bit what people think about my hair. If my hair wants to stand up like a startled dandelion, that’s between it and the mirror.

And if I forget why I walked into a room, I just turn around and walk out. Sometimes I even remember what I wanted on the way back.

That’s a victory—and at my age, I’m willing to celebrate anything that doesn’t require finding my reading glasses first.

So, to all my fellow seniors, don’t be too hard on yourselves. We may occasionally forget a name, lose our keys, or tell the same story twice. But we’ve lived long enough to know that laughter is good medicine—and we might as well enjoy the ride, even if we occasionally miss the exit.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go into the kitchen.

I know there’s something I wanted in there.

I just hope it’s not my glasses. If it is, they’re probably on my head, judging me silently.

Until next time, keep smiling, keep laughing, and remember: growing older is mandatory, but growing up is entirely optional!

This is a recent video of Lav making some much needed friends…

During my trip to Greece last week, I experienced ancient ruins, statues and stories of gods and goddesses who loomed over the country like ghosts on guard protecting and influencing their past history forever. This country I visited was a blueprint for the more modern history of our democratic country and its people. That was apparent in the presentations given by our knowledgeable tour guides.

As I walked the paths and stairways up from the tour bus parking lot, I saw the Acropolis and Parthenon rise up to the top of the hill like it was the zenith, the end of the hike calling to me to keep climbing, striving, going. It was mind bending.

Greek history set an example to the fathers of the USA who had fought the Revolutionary War to be free from England. They copied Ancient Greece in that the people decided what government would do, not one monarch or ruler. Laws should apply equally to all citizens. Participation in Ancient Greek assemblies through voting was carried forth in our country in the Constitution, with no women voting, non landowners, noncitizens at first which changed later in our country but stayed in Greek government.

I went on guided tours to Athens, Crete and Santorini. The Tour Director took us to many different places. We visited ancient sites like the Acropolis and Parthenon and Knossos. We ate Greek food: moussaka, spanakopita, dolmades, baklava and Greek Salad, feta cheese, eggplant. I attended a Greek cooking class with a young chef who had us make many dishes including tzatziki, stuffed eggplant, spanakopita and orange infused cake. I was trying to say Greek phrases. I was ready to become Greek but the language

is difficult and some of their letters look like a geometric shape.

Greece was captivating in a good way. It was Greek and to me it was fabulous.

A few weeks ago, I got a nice surprise in the mail. My sister-in-law, Liz Francis, sent me the Jones County Centennial cookbook (1905-2006). My hometown of Murdo is in Jones County, South Dakota. I read the book from cover to cover.

The neat thing about community cookbooks is the added color you get. This book had several comments from local people along with the many favorite recipes. Two of the remembrance of times gone by were from men who had worked for my dad. Paul Anderson and Gary Jorgensen. One was from my cousins, Andrea Miller Sheehan and Stephanie Miller Davis. The book was put together by Jody Lebeda and Dixie Warner.

Many of the names of contributors were of people I knew from Draper and Murdo. I couldn’t believe it since I moved from SD 50 years ago. It brought me back to my roots in Murdo.

I decided to try one of the recipes. I decided on the one called carmel-filled chocolate cookies. (I purposely left out the carmel part as I just wanted chocolate cookies.)

They turned out to be delicious. I did add peanut butter chips.

I’m sure I’ll use this recipe again as well as trying new ones from this well put-together cookbook. There is even a recipe for puppy chow!

I’ll add another post when I try one of the other favorites. What’s for dinner?