On the fat and juicy life

I went to the dietician last week. Every now and again, like most people my age, I get filled with this overwhelming sense that a detox is in order – it normally hits me after my third cup of coffee that I take while having my first breakfast.

I was ushered in to the office. I sat down. She pricked my finger and placed the results under the microscope and onto this intimidating computer screen. I have been through the detox motions before so I knew what was coming. Before my poor blood cells could be examined, on the screen was the perfect representation of what good blood cells look like: really smart, healthy looking blood cells, the George Clooney of the blood cell world. They were free floating, hippie-like in the bonhomie of bumping loosely into each other, large, plumpish, at-peace-with-themselves blood cells. Mine? Well. Mine were not very much like that at all. Think polar opposite.  After the paradise of the first cells, mine were ushered onto the screen. An apocalyptic wasteland: anaemic, stuck together, none of them bouncing against each other – rather all strung together lethargically like a chain-gang after a long stint in the sun.

I looked at this and considered the sheer miracle of me still able to sit there and draw breath. What was most disconcerting though was the music playing in the background – it was a horrible instrumental version of ‘Amazing Grace’. This seemed a little manipulative. Just looking at those blood cells made me consider my mortality; I hardly needed the help of ‘Amazing Grace’. What next? While taking my blood pressure would she forward to ‘Abide with me fast falls the eventide’? As my wheezing cells spluttered and hiccupped their way across the screen I softly sang the words, ‘When we’ve been there ten thousand years…’

I left the building with an invoice for fourteen hundred rand and a suitcase full of pills.

I mention this because I’m scared that I’m falling victim to a trend: this health and eating habits trend. This obsession with what goes into our mouths – how much, when, to what degree, sometimes to the detriment of common-sense which, for me, seems to be solution enough.

Mary belongs to a Weigh-Less group. These three fine young women are constantly talking about going for weigh-ins that happen through the months with charming irregularity. The irregularity of the actual weigh-ins is matched by the resolve of these three to continue the process; calories are constantly counted, portions carefully considered, cake strangely still gets eating (at least in my household). They also chirp each other about this process. They can say things I can’t which is hard because the scope of these conversations allows for a volley of witticisms, none of which I’m allowed to speak. They can mock each other, bystanders however – especially male bystanders, bystanders married to one of these three – are absolutely forbidden to comment. If they do, it won’t end well. They call themselves Fat Club (their whatsapp group comes replete with an image of Miss Piggy and actually, they spell it Phat Club) and as we all know, the first rule of Fat Club is nobody is to talk about Fat Club. My wife asked me about a pair of jeans she was wearing the other day that were by all accounts a little tight; in an inspired moment, after her inquiry, I remarked, ‘Well I am considered the Pants Whisperer and I can tell you, those jeans are screaming.’

That did not end well.

But I see this kind of infatuation with body and eating all over the place. There is this show on television where three chubby fellows chomp their way through various exotic delicacies prepared by a group of usually young, nervy, sweating, newbie chefs. It always seems to end with a highly emotive taste-off where one of these three, normally the largest one - always sporting a cravat - is smooshing the food around his mouth. But this is not the part that gets me. The part that gets me is the seriousness of the moment. This moment has all the severity of a child sacrifice on an Incan temple altar. It is normally at this moment that I look at Mary absolutely puzzled and say, ‘But it’s just food?!’ This is normally followed with her instructing me to shut up.

Coupling this obsession with food is the obsession with body shape and size and exercise and running and lifting and nibbling and checking waistlines and muscle powders and… well, the list goes on. 

And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this is just life and a big part of life is eating and exercising.

But another part of me thinks that we’re doing what we’ve always done when things are a little out of sync: the thing that is there to help us live life better slowly becomes the purpose of life in general. The helpful means to a better life becomes the end goal of life itself. And I suppose to some degree that is okay. I mean, there are worse mistakes to make. But I worry that by doing this, we shrink our worlds. I mean by all means, build bigger muscles and devote lots of time to it if that is your thing but don’t let that be all you build.

I can’t fathom meeting God one day and requesting a moratorium on questions about my contribution to life till after I’ve showed off this dazzling six-pack I’ve spent a lifetime creating. (Hence my firm resolve never to build a six-pack, a resolve I have held to with unwavering determination.)

So those of you who are like me, I offer you a dietary plan:

·         Drink more water.

·         Consume less sugar.

·         Exercise a few times a week.

·         And check the fat content on products. (That seems to be a big thing.)

·         Also, stay off ice-cream. Unless you are using it as a defence mechanism against rapid weight gain, in which case eat as much as you like. And all bets are off.

·         And then swing past my house. I’ve got some pills I want to sell you. Obecalpym©. Special price.

And my last piece of advice is a platitude because this seems to be a part of our world particularly susceptible to platitudes. After my blood was checked I was informed that, I quote, ‘You are not happening to life, life is happening to you.’ This sentiment was offered with such gravitas, so sagely, I could do nothing but wobble my head up and down in agreement. Absolute tosh of course. Not only would I not mind falling on the wrong side of that equation, I just wish it was that simple. My happening to life and life’s happening to me are constantly colliding like an atomic super-conductor super-collider.

 

“Are you happening to life or is life happening to you?”

“It depends, what time is it?”

Another saying that has more helpfully stuck with me is something Anne Lamott (of course) said a while back and something I recently re-read (and paraphrase here): “Don’t forget to have a juicy, creative life.”  (Read this great article on this whole idea.)

So from time to time I will eat a carb and yes – gosh! gasp! - I will do it after seven in the evening, because sometimes that is when a carb demands to be eaten. And yes, sometimes I will eat sugar (refined!) and I will probably live to tell the story, Tim Noakes be dammed. 

“Don’t forget to have a juicy, creative life.”

That and my simple diet plan will have to suffice until such a time that we have, as a species, evolved to the point where a dietician’s opening remarks to me are, ‘Well, with this detox plan you’re going to have to increase your caffeine intake by at least two more cups of a coffee a day.’ That will be a 'Hallelujah moment' unaccompanied by ‘Amazing Grace’.