Mirror, mirror...

Last week, I shared the not-so-secret fact that I have added twenty pounds to my frame in the past two years. Thank you for rejoining me for this very important announcement. You could be worrying about world peace, global warming, the floundering economy, the healthcare system, pollution, the state of education, or moral decay in general, but you have chosen instead to drop your worries and your seventy-five cents to follow up how I had to move up a pant size.

Trying on one pair of pants after another, I had time to reflect on more than just my looming figure in the dressing room. I recalled envying people with dimples. Now, I too, had dimples of my very own. These, unfortunately, were around my knees, and those are significantly less charming.

My worries, as usual, are selfish. I like the relative maturity and stability of being a 42-year-old woman, but I would prefer that Mirror Mirror show me my 22-year-old, pre-children self. Perhaps you will be kind and say, “Vineeta, you don't' look so bad.” But then you will hasten to add, “for having had six kids, you don't look too bad at all.” That's like telling the hospitalized man wrapped entirely in bandages, “You look great, considering you were just run over by an 18-wheeler.” I do appreciate the intent of the compliment, (and I will take any compliments gladly!) but then I recall that the last time I bore a child was over four years ago. That's enough time to get a college education. Is it too much to hope to lose a few pounds?

After my Vision of the Dimpled Knees, I had a conversion experience: something had to change. This must be why I was in the changing room. Fortunately for me, our church was offering a free exercise class then.

Free is a word that is tossed around quite, um....freely these days. We have sugar-free, fat-free, lactose-free, pesticide-free, free speech, free elections, and, my favorite, free-free. Free-free is something that truly costs you nothing. This kind of free is on the Endangered Freebies List, except for people who are unable to read fine print. These people keep getting snaggled in all sorts of “free” deals. Free-free is my favorite kind of free. Oh, did I mention that already? I’m sorry; I should have warned you. This column is not repetition-free. My usual audience, consisting of six children, requires that everything be repeated. Everything. Repeated.

Many people are preaching the good news of getting fit to improve cardiovascular health, energy levels, endurance, and quality of life. These are the people who tend to look good in exercise apparel. We all want to be healthier, of course, and if our figures look better, who will object? My motivation is reversed, however. Give me the better figure first, and then, if I can liver longer and stronger to continue my chore-list of domestic duties, so be it.

I wish I had my priorities right. I want the heart and compassion of Mother Teresa, but then, I draw back. Could I adopt her simplicity: the plain and paltry wardrobe that cloaked her tiny stooped figure; the face that, lined by the deepest of wrinkles, radiated love and humility? Yes, I want her heart, but then I pass on the platter for looks. I look longingly at the dishes serving the latest pop divas, the original Pop Tarts. I wonder why I can't have both at the same time, but perhaps they lie on divergent paths. These platters may not even be served in the same banquet hall.

Homemaker Improvement: Time for a Change

I have a little secret to tell you. In the past couple of years, I have packed on almost twenty pounds. What do you mean, it’s no secret? Well, that’s very rude of you to have noticed and been snickering about it all along, because while I happily chunked up a pound a month, I had not. Not until the pounds ganged up and blockaded the free travel of zippers and belts that attempted to navigate the abdominal area and accomplish any border crossings.

One score years and one score pounds ago, I was not the pudgy, puffy-faced woman I have become today. Let me remind you that a score equals twenty, just in case you're rusty on your Gettysburg Address trivia. I needed to clarify that, lest you left this column thinking my decline began fifty years and fifty pounds ago.

I’m not sure what I’m doing differently now than in the past – eating? I'll admit it; I've never had great eating habits, and the spies who love me (my kids) will be the first to spill the beans...the jellybeans, that is, about my frequently poor nutritional choices. It's not like I've stopped exercising, because you can't stop something that you actually haven't started. Athletics always has been a bit of a foreign concept, although I did exhibit great bursts of speed as a high school student whenever I caught sight of the school bus for which I was perpetually late.

Should I blame that middle age “change in metabolism?” Too bad there are plenty of older women who dispel that notion. You know, the ladies with the perfectly sculpted bodies who are ubiquitous at graduations and summer weddings in their nearly backless sundresses, age spots and all. The age spots are not a matter of shame for them, they are, rather, a trophy that says, “Hey, I may be spotty, but I'm chiseled and sporty...what's your excuse, Potato Sack?” I try not to stand near women like this. That circumvents any painful comparisons. Also, it prevents the potentially more painful brushing of these women’s beveled scapulae that protrude from their backs.

If it’s the legendary change in metabolism, I deserve it. When I was younger, and slimmer, and already knew everything, I heard older women complaining about pounds “just sticking” to them. I always nodded sympathetically, but in the back of my mind, I wondered why they couldn't just lay off the Twinkies a bit. As a reward for those cruel thoughts, I must now do penance like the Ancient Mariner. Instead of wearing an albatross around my neck, I just wear an assortment of Twinkies around my midsection.

I can’t blame Twinkies, but discounted holiday candy and cookies are major weaknesses. I always chuckle when I see jellybeans labeled as a “fat-free food.” Free of fat, maybe. Full of sugar, definitely. But food? Doubtful. Doubtful, albeit delicious – just not at all nutritious, and very calorie-dense. Jellybeans are, however, very effective in keeping you awake during the wee hours of the night when the house is quiet and still, and you think you are going to accomplish something by staying up late all by yourself when there are no spies to monitor what you’re eating, and oooh, could they have some? That's when other, sensible women are assisting their metabolism by getting a good night's sleep, in addition to resisting the urge to ingest extra calories merely by the loss of consciousness that accompanies that sleep. I should stop buying discount candy, but some people can't pass up a bargain.

So, age and bargains have formed a coalition against me. The only way for me to do battle is to modify and pay attention to what I eat and when I eat, and then start exercising. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? My current regimen includes vigorous jaw exercises (eating or yelling at kids) and my weekly finger workout as I type out this column. That is often done late, late at night, and therefore has to be accompanied by the jaw working out on a few late night snacks.

Last year, a neighbor of mine loaned me an exercise video. When your neighbor loans you a tape to encourage you to exercise, either that person is exceptionally caring and observant, or she is getting worried about people who are starting to crowd the neighborhood, all by themselves.

I'm going to say Tanya was of the observant variety. I myself hadn't noticed a problem until I could no longer zip up any of my pants. I had managed by thinking that, as long as I didn't plan to bend or breathe too much, I could still fit. Dollar bills had to be wedged into the pockets, in much the same way as scholars talk about trying to slip a credit card in between the blocks of the ancient pyramids. (Thousands of years of holding their breath, and it still can't be done.)

I was reluctant to get bigger pants, because that is an admission that you need to move up in size, which is not the same feeling as moving up in the world. It means you are not only going to be more comfortable while you are bigger, you are also now comfortable about being bigger.

Join me next week for the conclusion. (Riveting, I know.) Just don't hold your breath, unless it's because of your pants.

A dash for cherry pie goes awry

I told you last week that a late-night cherry-pie run ended with me and two police cruisers in the Giant parking lot. (Don’t worry; the Town of Warrenton isn’t waging war on crimes against nutrition. If it were, I would have been behind bars years ago: peanut granola or Hershey’s, that is.)

My husband had returned from India barely 24 hours ago, and had succumbed to the 10.5 hour jetlag. With Dr. Security asleep, I decided to risk an after-dark dash to the grocery store with my three daughters. My husband frowns upon late-night excursions: after 6 pm in winter, and after 8:30 pm in the summer. I reassured myself: I was a tough, semi-independent, pseudo-American woman, after all. I had managed six kids solo for a fortnight with the single mishap being arriving at a staff picnic in Herndon with my youngest daughter forgetting to wear shoes.

I could justify the urgent need for cherry pie. The next day would be my son’s and my daughter’s last day as Junior Hospital Volunteers. Tevy has worked for three summers with Lisa Spitzer in the Patient Concierge Department. Lisa is dynamic and bubbly, so the two bonded immediately. My son Sergio, on the other hand, has bonded with the free Bistro lunches that are the volunteers’ recompense.

After just two weeks working with Tevy the first summer, Lisa drove four hours to Virginia Tech for Tevy’s Teacher/Mentor Banquet at Summer Governor’s School. Now you understand why, when Tevy wanted to take Lisa’s favorite dessert in for the last day, we didn’t hesitate to make the drive. Making the drive, anyway, is easier than making the pie.

We zoomed through Giant and got a pie for Lisa, one for our family (we would be the sacrificial royal taste-testers), a sugar-free one for my husband, and a hypoallergenic one for my eldest son. Thankfully, we were only shopping for “one thing,” so we checked out at 10 PM.

Using the pedestrian crosswalk, the four of us stopped between the two handicapped parking spots where the crosswalk had deposited us. A massive pickup truck was looming near the aisle we intended to cross. We waited for the truck. The truck waited for us.

Unbeknownst to me, the driver was waiting for the parking spot we had barely stepped clear of. It was late, so naturally, there were only 350 other spaces available. But I was near the ONE he wanted.

I never realized that having a handicapped sticker apparently obliges the driver to park in a handicapped spot. Nor did I know that by standing near such a space, I might be asking to be classified as one who would be entitled to such a sticker. Road rage I’ve heard of, but this was my first experience with parking-spot rage.

Tired of playing the waiting game, the man suddenly gunned his engine and swung in hard into the space near me, leaving my dress swaying and my heart pounding. Had I extended my arm, I could have touched the side of his truck. We heard a few “What-in-the-ha-yell?!”’s from other late-night shoppers.

The infuriated driver spat out, “Keep standin’ there. I don’t care!” Had I been alone, I might have walked away, shaken. But I had my girls, aged 20, 17, and 8, with me. What kind of poor example would I be setting? I was the ADULT here, despite my daughters’ propensity to advise me in matters of dress, response to reader email, and the handling of their siblings as well as their father. I couldn’t allow some hostile and cocky man to endanger us and then walk off with impunity.

I motioned my daughters to proceed to our car, and then accosted the man. “Sir, that was very rude and extremely dangerous!” (I don’t know why I think it will intimidate people if I call them “Sir.” Even I know how lame that sounds.)

He swaggered out of his truck. “Whaddaya gonna do – call the cops?” he jeered. “Here – take my cell phone!” He jabbed the air with his phone before stalking off. I noted his license plate number and returned to the Giant Customer Service desk. I requested that they call the police for me, and within two minutes, two cruisers were in the parking lot.

As the man passed me at the customer service desk with his express-lane shopping, I said, “Sir, you might want to wait a minute. I’ve called the authorities.” Obviously exasperated, the man threw up his arms and said he’d wait by his vehicle.

The man and I independently gave the officer our driver’s licenses and our versions of the story. As a foreign-born woman, I’m glad I can equally depend upon the authorities to help when I call. The officer was calming and professional. I don’t know what happened to the man after I left. All I know is I did my part.

Can I make a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy? Not as well as Giant, apparently. But if Billy Boy acts up, I won’t hesitate to call the cops.

When Going Metric was Standard

Published in the September 2010 issue of The Warrenton Lifestyle Magazine ...

Is it just me, or were school supplies simpler a generation ago? Granted, in the seventies much of our high-tech gear hadn’t emerged on the scene. Post-its® and Wite-out® stick-pens were unknown; the singular innovation was invisible Scotch tape that didn’t pollute gift wrapping with strips of portable fog.

For school, you just needed some basics: a big binder, loose-leaf paper, and some pencils. A cigar box was required so it could be spray-painted gold or silver after noodles were glued onto the lid for the all important Mother’s Day present, but that could be bought later in the year. Even the noodles weren’t available in today’s vast and befuddling variety: You chose between macaroni or the plain shells that resembled dead mollusks. There were no requirements for highlighters, dividers, or specialized 4” x 6” neon index cards on a spiral pack, lined on one side only, please. At most, we needed a wooden ruler with inches on one side and centimeters on the other, because any year now, the US was going to go totally metric.

In so doing, we were finally going to unite with the world, save the world, or defeat the world. We weren’t sure which, but one had to be done, and this school crop of lamebrains, who had difficulty seeing the semblance in quarts and liters, would have to be trained. The metric system was so confounding, the new generation would have to be indoctrinated and converted. (Converted…wasn’t that a truly clever pun?)

Indoctrination required us to watch a Sesame-Street-esque show called “Metric Man.” Although we feigned maturity superior to its entertainment value, we secretly delighted in it. We were sophisticates belonging to the era of the folded notes passed with imaginative messages such as: “I like you. Do you like me? Check Yes or No.” The admirer usually had the courtesy to append a convenient box before the choices so the admiree could apply a checkmark in the appropriate place. In fourth and fifth grade, the only appropriate place was “NO!!!”

This was also the era of intolerance; checking both Yes and No was disallowed, even though that is how we usually feel about the people we really love. Most of the times they are so likable, but the remainder of time, unfortunately, they are not.

It had to be just one or the other back then, as when specifying one’s race. The options were limited to “White, Black, or Other.” I was always “other.” This piqued the kids in every school district I attended. Daily, they demanded to learn where my loyalties lay. Was I black or white? Surely, I was one or the other, and not Other, with a capital ‘O.’ When I told them I was neither; I was Indian, they declared defeat, but by way of retaliation, resorted to calling me “Pocahontas,” or “Poca,” for short. (This was before Disney enlightened us: Pocahontas was not merely a bright and compassionate 12-year-old daughter of a chief, but a voluptuous and leggy brown maiden with flashing eyes and a mass of raven hair that moved as if were its own life form. If Disney had produced this fiction in the 70’s, I might have delighted in the appellation.) Classmates weren’t wise to multiple race categories, but they were smart enough to reserve the jeers of “Poca” to the playground only. Nowadays, for race, we can check as many as apply: White – European, White – Anglo Saxon, or White – Eastern European.” Not only do you identify yourself as Asian or Pacific Islander, you specify the island and which end of it.

Remember “Metric Man?” Our weekly bolus of this show featured a sidekick with a rainbow propeller cap. For this, the TV had to be rolled in on a big black cart. The teacher exited the classroom to fetch this marvel of multimedia, and assigned the role of Benedict Arnold to the Pet. The Pet “took names” of all who dared to talk, squirm, laugh, pass notes, or even gas. Those whose names were recorded would be reckoned with upon the teacher’s return.

This involved a rap on the knuckles with a ruler and/or a couple of “licks” on the hand with the teacher’s miniature leather strap. This was the usual punishment for students excepting the snooty ones whose parents had refused to sign off on the corporal punishment permission slip. These unfortunates were left to hold up a book on either outstretched arm while standing in front of the class in a manner that, after about two or three minutes, looked almost as painful as the crucified form they resembled. I’m not sure what retribution the tattler, the teacher’s pet, would suffer later on the playground, but there was suffering, to be sure.

That final school supply, then, was the ruler. Crucial for measurement, it was equally effective in meting out corporal punishment. A swat on the hand was standard in school back then, but it was rapidly becoming quite metric.