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.
