For Lent this year I gave up sugar (hey, it was either that or wine.) For six weeks, I ate nothing but sugar in its natural forms, so oranges and melon slices were dessert.
It's not as fun as it sounds. Sugar is an addiction, I found - at night, after dinner, I fantasized about chocolate, ice cream, and even just a Murray's Mint. Glumly, I went to peel myself another clementine instead.
At other houses I was offered cake, brownies, cookies... and I had to politely decline. That was hard, especially when other guests grabbed the goodies and dug in, uttering cries of enjoyment.
And the most cruel thing? None of this dreadful deprivation changed my waistline. My scales stubbornly remained on the same number, even though I was foregoing dessert and exercising every day; thank you very much, post-menopausal hormones.
At the same time, in order to really scourge the flesh, I gave up computer games. I'm not a big gamer by any means - no WoW, no Assassin's Creed - but I do enjoy a quick turn at solitaire and Hidden Object mindless nonsense after a long day of writing, editing, and being a mom.
The six weeks passed, and on Easter I joyfully indulged in peeps and Malteaser bunnies. That night, I played some silly games before I went to bed.
And then the insomnia kicked in.
Somehow, so subtly that I hadn't noticed it, my sleeping patterns had smoothed out during the sugar- and game-free time. I was sleeping at least eight hours a night.
That changed as soon as I put sugar and a glowing screen back in the mix. Sleeplessness came back, with the jolting memory of what it was like to wake up at 3 am and not be able to go back to sleep.
It continued until yesterday, when I decided to give up sugar and night gaming again. And guess what? I slept sweetly for nine hours.
I can still see Thornton's chocolates in my future, but perhaps only once a week. Friday could be my sweet night. My games will have to move to the middle of the day, if I play at all; my nighttime companion will be a book - in print.
We're off to see The Croods today, and I already know what is going to happen:
1. I'll dread the movie as a dumbo kiddie deal but will end up sniffling at the sentimental parts and laughing like a hyena at the comedy, just as I did with Despicable Me, Toy Story 3, etc etc
2. My kid will want a drink (a precedent set by someone's father) and I'll order the smallest one they have at the snack bar. The snack dude will hand me a filled soda cup the size of a small oil barrel.
People rail against drink limitations, stating they should be able to buy a beverage as large as they want - but couldn't we buy one as small as we want too? In other words, movie theater companies, could I please have the option to buy a Sprite for my kid that is smaller than her entire head and shoulder area?
3. We will stick to the floor , probably because other movie-goers spilled their massive drinks.
4. The tallest man in the world will come and sit right in front of my kid.
5. Halfway through the movie, just as I decide I love the film and am happily sniffling away, my daughter will have to pee, thanks to the....
oh, I'll stop.
6. The woman behind me will get lots of texts, and her alert will be "Gangnam Style."
7. I'll lose the car in the parking lot and have to use my embarrassing (to my 8 year old) Honk Option on my key fob.
8. On the way home she'll beg and beg me to put the DVD on her birthday wishlist.
9. Despite all of my whining, we'll have a wonderful time.
Last summer I confidently climbed into a pair of waterskis and prepared to get towed. It had been fifteen years prior since I had skied, and back then I had popped right up. So I just knew I could do the same again.
Yeahhhhhh - that didn't happen. My aging arms simply could NOT hang on the rope. We tried again and again, and the darn thing slid out of my grasp. No waterskiing for me.
It's at times like these that I realise - I'm getting old. And it stinks. And, furthermore, I refuse to sit back and let it happen.
After that debacle, I began chest and arm press-ups to add muscle that had wasted away from - what, exactly? I thought writing novels gave you biceps? Hm.
This weekend we went snow skiing. I fared better than on the water; but I could feel that my quads were in need of work. I decided this, actually, after my legs gave out halfway down a hill and Momma took what is known as a Yard Sale.
Once I gathered up my skis, helmet, gloves, and poles, and got myself down the hill (a quivery, whimpering mess at that point, ready for comfy shoes and a long beer) I decided that I would add squats to the press-ups daily regimen.
And this gets thrown in with all the rest of the exercises, designed to keep me Hanging Grimly On: Kegels, double chin lifts, face wiggles (I really do wiggle my face daily; it's something to do with the ears) plus Brain Fizzes to keep THAT thing going.
Age is an avalanche, and as the boulders and rubble crash down on me, I crawl back up the cliff, clinging on with my fingertips. Did I say crawl back up? No, I try not to get eroded too much.
All this from someone who finds Age beautiful. It's just that if I accept that I can no longer ski, doesn't that sweep me further down the mountain in one fell swoop? Rage, rage against the dying of the light and muscle tone, but I wouldn't say no to a hot cup of tea while I'm doing that rage deal.
So, next year I'll hop back on my snow skis and go for it, hopefully with tighter legs and a smile on my face. Don't look for me on the double black diamonds, though - more likely that I'll be on slopes with "Puff" and "Marshmallow" in the titles.
