It’s well-documented around my house that I easily obsess over things. I’ve denied it for a very long time, but I have to admit it’s true. I don’t just “like” things, I “adore” things. I revel in them. I become a cheerleader for what I like—much to the annoyance of those
around me.
Like that time I would only eat peanut butter and apple slices for dessert. Or the time I’d only wear black. Or the time I’d only wear every color except black. Then there was that month I kept buying Colgate toothpaste, because it was on sale, even though I preferred Crest, and I ended up with a cabinet full of toothpaste.
This time, my obsession is fitness and losing the 15 pounds I put on since last year. I’ve started a diet—a real diet, not just an “I’m eating well” diet, but a real “diet because I have to be on a diet” diet. Ever notice how when you are on a diet you instantly see the world in numbers?
Suddenly I see everything differently. It’s like I’m Neo and the world is the Matrix. Everything is clear. That bagel: 250 calories. That cookie: 100. As I pass restaurants, I see numbers instead of signs outside: 1,530 calories, 2,300 calories. After making peanut butter sandwiches for the kids (320 calories), I notice my finger has 20 on it, and I totally want to lick that 20 so bad, but I refrain because if I give in to 20, I may then give in to that 50 the baby just dropped onto the couch from his snack bag, and then that would be 70, and the numbers would grow stronger.
Just admitting to being on a diet is empowering, however. For years now, I’ve eaten almost ideally, with the exception of a little cheating here and there to stay sane. Since I already eat well and exercise regularly, I can’t lose any more weight by simply tweaking my diet or exercising more. I need to really cut back. I need discipline. Things like flour and sugars have to go. Butter and ranch dressing are outta here.
And committing to it makes me feel in control.
“Cookies in the break room? No thanks. Oh, that quiche? Thanks, but I’m on a diet.”
I’m Neo, and I’m deflecting everything bad—until a chocolate truffle kicks my ass.
I almost want to just give in and forget my fitness goals. My husband loves me; what the heck, right? But it’s a personal challenge, my own test of my will power, discipline, and strength. Which is a reason I have to give a shout out to my trainer Jennifer Santos at Anytime Fitness in Orcutt, for keeping me on track in a smart way without allowing me to cause injury or zealously under-eat. Because of this, I’m now totally obsessed with Jennifer, so my husband hears a lot of “Jennifer said this” and “Jennifer said that.” But it’s because her advice has totally been working.
Suddenly, my husband Ron noticed: “You sure are wearing a lot of pretty dresses lately,” he says when I step out in the same dresses he hasn’t noticed in years. And there’s the daily question: “You’re working out again?” And the curious: “Is the gym you work out at a co-ed gym?”
Either somebody just woke up and noticed I exist or Jennifer’s instruction is making a big difference. So I went along with Ron on a workout. On his turf. In the free weight room, as I went through my routine, Ron would occasionally pass and give me a small peck on the cheek. “Sweet,” I thought. Then there was the gentle pat on the back another time during bicep curls. Finally, as I was re-racking weights, he smacked me on the backside. Right there in the weight room with no regard for anyone watching.
In reality, it was a light pat—probably not unlike you see football players do. But for me the surprise of that pat traveled through me and caused me to blush brightly. I instantly got the gist of that pat. It wasn’t a way to say to me, “Look at how cute my wife is.” It was a way of making the point to everyone else: “Look at how cute my wife is.”
Ron will totally deny it, but I did some scientific research: As I busted out 30 minutes on the elliptical machine, I watched other couples in the gym. Sure enough, every one of them—even the frailest of senior men—showed small actions of discreet affection: a hand on an elbow or low back to help her pass a machine, men handing their female companion a towel, or yes, kissing her on the cheek during their workout. I surmised those little actions were a way to make sure that “in this sweaty, testosterone-filled room there is no question who this girl is here with.”
To be sure—and because every scientific research needs a control—I did some people-watching while grocery shopping. The same affectionate responses don’t apply. You would be surprised how many men don’t open a door for their own companion. Even more surprising was how many men carry the light groceries, allowing their female companions to do the heavy lifting. Then again, maybe it’s because those women work out with Jennifer.
OK, so I’m a little obsessed with working out right now. But if getting stronger, leaner, and healthier is a bad obsession, then my husband better watch out. My fitness obsession has spawned another obsession: shopping for workout gear.
Arts Editor Shelly Cone is searching for the perfect yoga pants. Contact her at scone@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Apr 19-26, 2012.