Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Workin' the plank: good things come to those who Google.

As I sprint to the "finish line" of this project (dude, I'm only getting started!), I'm taking a more serious approach to the exercises I still can't complete. Specifically, I'm talking about my personal favorite: the FIVE sets of 90-SECOND planks. For some of you lucky hardcore crazy people, this ab-rocking task is easy. You are all my heroes.

Literally, you are heroes. I did some research. Fire fighters who train at the Mississippi Fire Academy only perform the plank pose in 30-second intervals. Which means that we should all be climbing up and down poles on day 90. And rescuing people and cats from the flames. Like this hottie:


Yesterday I approached plank with a smile. I told myself this move was not going to conquer me. I did the slow breathing, I went to my happy place, which for me is this plank-like spot where I spent many a wonderful hour (a dock on the island of Itaparica, in Bahia, Brazil):



I counted some crumbs on my rug and tried to focus on the E! True Hollywood Story about NBA wives or something. During my third set, I felt pain in my shoulders and neck. I figured this was not where I should be feeling the burn (since my "core" wanted more). I slid backward and forward on my toes, trying to adjust, but that only caused my lower back to ache.

I took a break and Googled (that internet thing is so cool) and found this awesome article on how to plank.

Some of the author's many insightful tips about maintaining the correct posture during the pose include connecting the abs "in and up" (is that what the Pilates teacher means when she says "pull the belly button towards the spine"?), rotating the inner elbows forward, pulling the shoulders away from the ears, and softening the "creases in the ankles." It sounded a bit abstract at first, but I made the modifications and felt my lower abs fully engaged. Additionally, the tension in my neck, shoulders, and back eased up.

In other news, the indulgence is here and I'm going to try and not over think it this time. Though I would love it if my boyfriend cooked me a lavish organic-local- free-range-grass-fed meal. With ice cream. BABE. Are you listening?

Or maybe I'll just drink all 1000 calories and go sing karaoke. Kidding! I can't imagine what my tolerance for alcohol is like now (and how much cheaper it's going to be to get tipsy when this is over!).

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Perfectly Imperfect

So, what the hell is perfection anyway?


Patrick sent us an email about how we might start developing unhealthy thoughts about our bodies at this point in our journey, despite the drastic changes. We start to get greedy for improvements. We want MORE MORE MORE! Um, hello. My name is Shivani, and I'm addicted to destructive self-criticism.

Whether I'm writing, teaching, loving, or cooking, I'll find something to berate myself about til the egg whites come home. So, it came as no surprise last week when I started grumbling at the lack of perfection in my arms, abs, and thighs. I'd grab at the bit of flesh on the side of my stomach or below the belly, or pinch that hint of a waddle under my arm, wishing it would all just melt away like this misunderstood evil one:



Today, I hit a new low in the self-loathing department. The hours of dissatisfaction (this is what happens when I start working, then take breaks to stare at myself in the mirror like a true narcissist and shake my waddle and blow out my stomach and ask god why I was born with dimply knees) made me want to overeat, which I did. I ate too much bread at lunch, and no, my stomach didn't rebel. It was happy and comforted and super self-righteous (you deserve the extra carb grams woman! You baked a pretty dope spelt and coconut flour loaf, after all!).

And now, rather than spiraling into a tunnel of self-hate, I'm trying to stay positive and remind myself that tomorrow is another day!

On the exercise front, today was much better. My workout felt longer because I did each movement a tad slower in order to work the right muscles. I finally paid more attention to the photo captions that indicate which muscles we're supposed to target (better late than never).

I felt re-inspired when I came across a quote from my favorite writer, Junot Díaz (the PEAKIEST of all writers). I think what he says about writing applies to what we're trying to do here (just substitute "writer" with "peaker"):

"..in my view a writer is a writer not because she writes well and easily, because she has amazing talent, because everything she does is golden. In my view a writer is a writer because even when there is no hope, even when nothing you do shows any sign of promise, you keep writing anyway."

Even in our darkest hour, we keep peaking! Go on team! We're almost there.

Friday, March 26, 2010

Setenta!

Yesterday marked Day 70. For once, I'm at a loss for words. I can't even be sarcastic or funny right now. I'm like, hella serious and hyperaware. I finally see and feel and BELIEVE the changes in my body (and we're not even done!). I've got little to say, though I feel reflective and illuminated with all we have learned, sort of like this "halo" tape I'll use next time I'm on the back of a motorcycle:


Patrick says I'm in the ZONE. Here's the closest I ever got to that elusive Bermuda triangle of serenity, strength, and habit:

For the first time, I believe that this body is really mine (as opposed to PCP's Frankenstein) and that these muscles aren't part of an art project that I'll take apart, recycle, or destroy at the end of 90 days.

For the first time, I can't wait to get home to my jump rope. Sometimes I don't want the jumping to end, and then I can't believe that I've gotten to that point. Will this feeling last long? Will I lose the eye of the tiger? And then I have to remind myself to calm down, stop spazzin'. Accept and enjoy this phase, and don't worry about if and when it's going to fade.

What I still need help with: the plank. I don't know how to get through this one without quivering and panicking. I find it hard to distract myself while staring at the floor. Does anyone have any special strategies for this MONSTER ab sculptor? Cuz' next time I go home, I've got to do this:

Monday, March 22, 2010

Gone in 60 Seconds: You Are How You Eat


So, foodwise I've been pretty much havin' a blast here on PCP (I know, Patrick, it's gonna get rough!). But so far, this beats any plan I've ever been on. Veggies? Sky's the limit! Carbs? Choose complexly! Fruit? Strawberries are the new bonbons, and a grilled banana now rivals the cookie in my heart.

However, the manner in which I consume my dainty, ladylike portions is pretty atrocious. I can blame it on my skull-crushing schedule, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm capable of scarfing down 180 grams of couscous in, say, 60 seconds. Faster than you can hold plank or finish one set of those ass-kicking bicycles!

I fling egg whites into my mouth while hacking up veggies and heating up the Foreman grill, and type emails with one hand and tear apart steamed broccoli stalks with the other. Last night I ate my yogurt "treat" straight out of the ml measuring cup while finishing up some reading for class. I know, I know. Can I get some ambiance people? Or, at the very least, a doily?



In honor of my indigestion and sleep-deprived insane brain, I have some new goals this week. Namely, to take time out and concentrate on the sensual experience of eating (egg whites need love, too). Heather's food always looks so elegant and gorgeous, and though my work schedule doesn't allow for candlelight, place mats, or even more than 20 minutes of lunch breakin', I'm going to try to make the best of my tupperware meals.




But anyway, good times ahead. Spring Break! I may not be going to Cancun but I'm really looking forward to a more restful last leg.

Hope the rest of you are going strong!

Friday, March 19, 2010

Anger Management


After my last post, Patrick suggested that I watch my thoughts. I'm watching, and they don't look very good.

I'm ashamed of the things that have been running through my mind, if only as lightening bolts of negativity, toxic flickers. Some of my cruel sentiments were directed at this kid who kept banging into my basket with a plastic sword at the co-op. Then he started hitting my leg with it (ok, not hitting, but aggressively tapping), while his mom watched the whole thing before finally deciding to try her hand at, I dunno, DISCIPLINE?

Then, last night as I did my exercises in front of the television (not a good idea when you're on a self-righteous, angry stint), I was shouting at the commercials, much to the dismay of my sister. I mean, does this country really need food commercials? Or drug commercials? Or diet plan/pill commercials?

My favorite ad of all time is the one in which the woman has an orgy with a piece of chocolate. Seriously Dove, Nestle, whoever you are. Thank you for sexualizing - and perhaps reinforcing the myth of - women's 'addiction' to chocolate. Would you ever show a man popping an M & M with his eyes closed, head thrown back, sighing in sugary ecstasy? Running silky fabric down his legs as one might a negligee?




Along with my rage against consumerism, the workout and I are not getting along like we used to. I seem to be getting weaker, or maybe I'm approaching the exercises with more trepidation. The scariest of all are the floor jumps. I get all nervous before I get to them (like now. Just the thought of having to perform these makes my knees ache).

So, I've decided to post some positive, inspiring images before I start jumping. Hopefully these will dilute the psycho-warrior tendencies brewing inside me...





This is what I plan to wear to the boxing gym on Day 90:

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Day 62: You Know You're on PCP When...




1. Pepto-bismol tastes like butterscotch, a lollilop, an ice cream cone (pictured above, Pepto ice cream, I shit you not!)

2. Your late night binge includes a raw, unpeeled carrot. If you dream hard enough, that carrot turns into a french fry

3. Your loved ones don't want to live with you anymore because the house (and you, come to think of it) smell like fish

4. At the club, those people you used to think were so dope suddenly aren't as funny or lovable anymore (Sobriety: WAKE.UP.CALL)

Seriously, back to 1. The reason I needed the Pepto was because I had a major slip up last night, and my stomach naturally declared war on me today. Thank you, stomach, for keeping me in line (literally, at the lady's room).

It all happened so fast. The day was going well. I had a great chat with Patrick and he got me all psyched about working the iliopsoa.

Liliputian, you say?

No, iliopsoa!

The magic muscle that makes life better, brought to you by the Kung Fu sit-up and the bicycle:



I went to a yoga class because I needed a good stretch, but when I came home, the prospect of the egg white, the spinach, it killed me. Luckily my yogurt had miraculously frozen in the fridge and though it wasn't Haagen Daaz, it did the trick once I mixed in some Stevia, almond extract, and cinnamon.

Everything after that is a blur of complex carbohydrates. I think the dessertiness of the yogurt set me off and suddenly I was spooning out another frozen treat, and reaching for the leftover spelt flakes from breakfast, a sweet potato, some quinoa, two pieces of bread, and two whole wheat tortillas. I inhaled it all.

Of course, as I sabotaged myself with glucose poisoning, I envisioned all the ways I would remedy the situation the next day: a six mile run! Four days worth of exercises! Fasting!

But why punish myself? I figured a better challenge would be to start today fresh, without the castigation that would lead me to relive (and perhaps recreate?) last night's downfall. I took my mutiny in the kitchen as a sign that I have to make more of an effort to make my meals, um, edible? Some new veggies perhaps?

Funnily (or obviously), the burn in my stomach made it impossible to finish today's breakfast and lunch. So, it all worked out. I didn't have to hate on myself, just LISTEN to myself.



Later, I wondered if the binge was related to my totally irregular cycle, which has apparently turned me into Raging Bull. Today, while I was running in the park, a man riding his bike whistled and waved at me. I barked back, "I hope you fall off your bike!"

I mean, I have been known to snap when provoked but I'm surprising myself with these new bursts of aggression. So what the heck is wrong? Do I need Zen or a punching bag?

Monday, March 15, 2010

Day 60: Preemptive Postpartum Depression



I'm with you Lili, I'm anxious.

We only have 30 more days of this luxurious structure. 30 more days of rules, plans, planned cheating, sets, instructions, grams, scales, expert coaching, video chatting about our aches and whether Stevia is ok, whether a sweet potato is a carb or a vegetable, whether the avocado counts as a fruit or a veggie (and by the way, what does that mean for the coconut?) whether we're going to simply sniff the truffle or eat the truffle, and bloggin' it all out! All this round the clock attention and support from Patrick and each other (in lieu of salt, sugar, and oil) have really spoiled the hell out of me. So what's going to happen on Day 90, when the ripped lady sings??



I know, I know. Live in the now. Calm the monkey/mind down. I will, in five minutes. Now I'm going to let it run wild a bit, like a puppy on a leash.

I can say with confidence that on Day 91 I'm not going to bounce out of bed, toss the rope in the trash and inhale a kilo of chalupas from Taco Bell; it's really days 110 and beyond that concern me. It's a scary world out there, and without ya'll watching (I'm talking to you, oh dreaded Flickr account), will I just revert to my old bad habits: soy products, the treadmill, and self-loathing?

Yes, some of my cravings really are in the grave (a cupcake is now a cupcake, not something to fear), and I actually do love the burn brought on by the tricep dips, and I love the taste of steamed asparagus over brown rice, but...is this love or just infatuation? Will the honeymoon period, made yummier by all this reinforcement from strangers and the understanding that PCP is only temporary (a weekend getaway, a vacation fling), blossom into a full-blown marriage? Am I a Diet Player for Life, or do I have what it takes to be peaky on my own?



You've given me roots now grant me wings!

Thursday, March 11, 2010

This is Why I Hate You, Gym


That's not fair. It's not the gym that's the enemy of the people, it's that arrogant, self-hating "professional" who specializes in manipulating the psychologies of innocent gym members, who works tirelessly to convince the average Joe-the-Plumber gym goer that she's an out of shape idiot in need of rescue (at the bargain price of $90 an hour!). Some of you might know him as The Rude Trainer.

Last night, the two of us were introduced.

One of the reasons I headed over to Park Slope Crunch (P.S. Crunch's motto is NO JUDGMENTS. We'll see about that) was to avail myself of its pull-up bars and chest dip thingies. Those exercises weren't on yesterday's schedule, but my flimsy bar stools and door frames have made it almost impossible to complete these moves to the fullest degree. So I was playing catch up.

When I saw the pull-up bar and its many buff users, I got shy. I circled it, made eye contact, played hard to get. Finally, I made my approach, and we were face to face. I was reading the directions when a young lady kindly demonstrated how to adjust the knee pads and weights. After she finished her reps, I climbed on and struggled through a set of eight. Still suspended, I sort of felt like I was getting the hang of things when a trainer came over and offered some "help."

Now, normally I interact with trainers as I would lions. Respect their place in the animal kingdom, but don't get too close. Whatever happens, do not make eye contact. Show no fear.


But over these last few weeks, I've been committed to learning as much as I can about my body; thus, I graciously accepted Rude Trainer's unsolicited advice.

His first bit of wisdom was the suggestion to roll my shoulders back. "Cool," I said. I suppose he took my friendly smile and further inquiries about the proper posture and grip to maintain while attempting an assisted push up as license to point out each and every one of my body's flaws, and of course, how He Alone could save me from a lifetime of bad posture, flabby arms, and saggy booty. Rude Trainer's barrage of "help" included the following comments:

1. "You're in okay shape, but your posture is disgusting."

2. "You have some definition in your arms, but it has to be better. You have to impress people when you have your book tour. We're an image conscious society, you know." REALLY, FOOL?

2. "And this, the booty... (he points to my now mini globes) is sagging. We need to get it back up."

3. "Are you Indian? You should have a beautiful body, like those Bollywood actresses!"

And here I had to wonder which Bollywood actresses he was referring to, because not all Bollywood bellies are created equal. Aficianados will notice a drastic difference between pre- and post-1999 Bollywood bodies. Here's one:



And here's another. Wonder if she does kung-fu sit-ups:



And the humiliation did not end there. Rude Trainer asked me to demonstrate some more moves so that he could give me some "tips" about posture. I know that I hunch. That my chin tends to jut forward, that my spine is curvy, and that my shoulders are a tight mess. However, even if I'd come into Crunch curled together like a shrimp, would that have given him the right to be such a douchebag?

Rude Trainer, as you might imagine, did not look like this (and no one says he has to, but let's just say he was FAR, FAR, FAR from Peaky):


But it does matter. Let he who is innocent cast the first frickin' stone! And doesn't he realize we live in an image conscious society? That children would rather play with kittens than turtles (this was his analogy, I sh**t you not!)?

His "help" continued to ooze of toxic snippets, and when I tried to assert all the progress I'd made on PCP (I had the workout printed out on a sheet of paper) he insisted that the exercises were "dangerous," that he wanted to "kill" my last trainer for not teaching me how to use the row machine correctly, and that yoga would not do anything for my posture.

Are you serious?

What pisses me off about that interaction the most was not what he said, but how I reacted. I wish I had excused myself from the lecture-attack and told him, politely, that his comments were degrading, unprofessional and entirely inappropriate. And that though I'm no businesswoman, I have the sneaking suspicion that INSULTING SOMEONE ISN'T THE BEST MARKETING PLAN.

Or is it?

Instead of actually interacting with his garbage, I fumed through my ab exercises and told the receptionist I wanted to cancel my membership.

Monday, March 8, 2010

Bo-ring


I hate to say it, but I'm bored. Bored of uncrispy, ungreasy spinach, broccoli, zucchini, tomatoes, sweet potatoes, and the occasional head of cabbage. Lately, I wish every vegetable entering my mouth were smothered in tempura batter.

And I'm bored of staring at the same shimmery, sea-green curtain in my living room each time I work out. I'm bored of counting reps, talking to the door (the same door) which holds my elastic band.

It's kind of depressing to jump and squat and pull, all the while staring at walls. I need a change of scenery! Mirrors that make me look like wonder woman! Gigantic flat screen TVs and reality shows in which I can lose myself (instead of find myself, perhaps, which is what seems to be happening a lot these days).

Any other PCPers out there who've started talking to themselves lately? My inner monologue is so out of control, I'm beginning to scare myself. I hear voices (sometimes Patrick's). I find myself looking at every vegetable I pass on the street, going, Oooh! What could I do with you, seasonal beauty? No produce is safe.


Another moment of boredom occurred when I had my "indulgence." That was a snooze fest and a half. I hyped it up so much in my mind. What I should have done was just "indulge" with the first thing that popped into the crave-zone/sphere of my brain come 6 p.m. on Thursday: Yogurtland.

God knows of what that stuff is made. I hope it's less fake than some of that other crazy low-cal ice cream out there, but Yogurtland too makes outrageous promises. You know, they claim a mountain of some airy chemical sweetness called Mounds Peanut Butter Fudge Nut Swirl Cake is like, 60 calories a pint or something. I'm exaggerating, but the calorie count is suspiciously low. Still, I love it! Creamy, sweet, and totally custom made.

I was all set to do it, when the inner monologue started firing away. Yogurt and fruit for your indulgence? BO-ring. Yeah, it's not boring if you smother it with piles of Butterfinger bits and Fruity Pebbles!
Instead, I planned this whole elaborate day with my boyfriend in Jackson Heights -- where I'd be strategically placed to sample any number of ethnic cuisines: Brazilian, Indian, Korean, Chinese, Thai, Malaysian, Greek...I love Queens, dude!

We chose Malaysian. I was my usual undecided self. He just laughed and talked me through all the food decision making processes: Sweet or salty (or both?). Noodle or rice? Curry or steamed? Nothing really stood out to me. I wanted to go home and think about it some more, but this wasn't an episode of Seinfeld, so I just went with something that looked enticing: a coconut curry soup that once I tasted, realized I could have made at home. The noodles were all hard and yellow - a step up from Cup O'Noodles. There was not a green insight. The thing wasn't even picture worthy.

And the protein? So skimpy. The soup contained like two shrimp and a couple shreds of chicken. The broth was an oily mess, so I tried not to slurp up too much of that. Dessert was a peanut pancake (we shared), which felt like chunky Skippy spread on a sweet tortilla with a bit of honey.

Do you feel sorry for me yet?

Therefore, I felt justified in consuming two glasses of wine and a vodka on the rocks while we watched the Oscars! And I fell asleep on the couch and thus did not complete my work out, even though my boyfriend had the pull-up bar in place, even though I was all geared up for it after my totally unworthwhile carbo-loading. I just crashed.

The morning after I had a bit of a stomache ache, a little wooziness, but not much else. I was annoyed at myself for going overboard with the drinks, but in the end, I didn't feel too much regret (maybe because I passed out before I could process).

I look at food like medicine these days, which is kind of cool and practical and liberating (not every moment has to be a sensual explosion/party in your mouth). I dutifully take in my grams without much joy (and hopefully there's a placebo effect here). Hopefully this week's dosages will serve as a "remedy" for Sunday's slip ups.

Friday, March 5, 2010

Masculine Feminine



How I love thee, Godard. However, I also love my curves. I'd hate to surrender the hour-glass to the PCP. Please don't turn me into a V.



Last night I saw a friend who commented that I was loosing some of my lady lumps. That was on the heels of someone else telling me that I was "turning into a boy." Yet another friend said, "You don't want arms like Madonna, do you?"

And what if I do?

These remarks got me thinking about our exercises. I'm glad we're building strength in our shoulders, chest, and back, but do I want rippling deltoids (are we doing anything to build rippling deltoids)? Because while my bras fit more snugly around my chest, the cups droop sadly like emptied pockets.

Is there a reason men and women on this program perform the same exercises? And if we're skeptical about the omission of Olivia Newton John-type calisthenics or Windsor Pilates from our exercise sheets, does that mean we've been incorrectly trained to think that there are "feminine" strengthening moves, and consequently, exercises a woman should avoid to maintain a physique that is curvier, smaller, slimmer, and softer than a man's?

Women of the PCP - are you experiencing similar physical changes and questions?



I try not to see the world through this gender binary too much. Maybe I'm obsessed with shape since it took me about 20 years to appreciate my "pear" one. When I was younger and growing up in Hawai'i, it seemed that body beauty standards for girls enforced straighter, boyish figures. Preferably petite. Among my circle of friends, I was taller, heavier in the legs, and my derriere was, well, globular. It's only as an adult that I began to see a well-endowed bottom as an asset (thank you, J. Lo).



And it's not that I think there's anything wrong with having a gymnast's body (represented above by the beloved rectangle). Who doesn't appreciate those compact powerhouses? Still, admittedly, the last thing I want to become is "masculine."

What does that mean anyway? Standards and boxes and types and charts that tell us what we're supposed to look like are stupid right? Am I just holding myself back in an antiquated, un-feminist way, by wanting to hold onto this padding in my hips?

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Fun Housin'



People have been talking a lot about the positive responses their changing physiques have elicited from friends, loved ones, etc. I have to say that no one's really commented on my biceps (what's up people?), and that I myself have only noticed major changes in the upper body. It's the only part I can see in the bathroom mirror (still no full-length). I tried to check myself out in the H&M dressing room, but those mirrors are so damn distorted! Same with the gym. Sometimes the slimmifying is so over the top. And no matter where I look, the parts I've always hated still exist. How's that for destructive thinking?

I think I'm okay with not "seeing" what's going on. We do so much weighing here - of chicken breasts, broccoli, and oatmeal (that's a messy one), so I'm not interested in stepping on the scale. Yeah, I feel my belt getting looser, and oh, my sneakers basically feel like they could slide off at any moment (I'm exaggerating). Sort of.


A sign of overall weight loss? I hope! My exhausted booty nearly tripped over my super sized Saucony's as I finished today's jumps.

I'm also trying to wean myself off the four cups of coffee a day. Although I almost got hit by a bus while running across the street to the Starbucks before class (it's true, folks. Addiction will kill you). I only had three cups today, and tomorrow I'll take it down to two, and then...I'll go totally insane and you'll have to read more posts like this.

But seriously. After I read Patrick's blog post about the woman who goes to the vending machine everyday, I tried to pay attention to the moments I felt I "needed" coffee. Besides the morning cup, and the one I "needed" at 6 p.m. to keep myself awake at my desk, I noticed that I tend to crave the stuff when I'm about to tackle a task I don't like: grading papers, teaching, work meetings, reading things I don't want read but should probably read because I have to teach it. You know the drill.

Coffee makes me less miserable. Adds some sweetness to my drudgery. Which means I MUST make time for writing my novel or else I'll turn into this guy:


Until next time! Cheers.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Day 47: The Salt March



Alright, Mohandas Karamchand, Mahatma, the big G. I know that whole salt thing was a big deal. Those Ungrezes and their despotic colonial project. It was a drag. And I'm glad you made it after marching 24 hours to Dandi, and that you exercised your god-given birthright to that fine Indian salt!

But did it have to make its way into everything? Seriously. I have a bone to pick with some of my ancestors and their pickling practices. Behold the Indian salsa (I can't believe I have survived 47 days without this):



I miss me some achaar, ya'll. It's been so long since I've even seen a bottle of mixed pickle! Thus I can't report its sodium content.

Oh, wait, I almost forgot about these, the beloved sodium-filled papadum.... I used to eat these for dinner (that is, when I was out of popcorn).



I've thought about my visits to the motherland so many times on this PCP journey. I'm like hey, this is how my grandmother ate! Finally I've unlocked the secret of the Drop 20 Bombay Diet - as my sisters and I used to refer to the weight loss that accompanied our childhood summer trips to India. Literally, I'd cry every time I heard my mother was forcing us across the sea, forcing us to miss exciting things like camp. Who needs the Taj Mahal when there are ropes courses, corn syrup-soaked shaved ice and boys with braces ahead?

We'd whine all the way through Narita and Bangkok, all the way to Bombay, where we'd spend a month not lifting a finger, let alone a jump rope, squealing at all the "fattening" food our aunties, uncles, aunties' friend's cousin's brother's grandma's sister's in-law's cousins forced us to eat. And I'm not talking monastery, ashram, Ayurvedic type eats. I'm talking meat kebabs, thick, stuffed breads, vegetables glistening with ghee, full fat goat's milk (the horror!). Real sugar.

Miraculously, despite the sloth and daily indulgences, we'd head back to Hawai'i 10 pounds lighter, skin brighter, hair softer, etc. etc. Sort of like what's happening to us all now (minus the fat, sugar, and salt). Maybe it had something to do with eliminating preservatives and processed foods from out diet.

Another gift from the motherland that I got to enjoy today is yoga. I love my class. It's the only reason I still have a gym membership. The room is like a womb. I surrender, open up the heart chakra. I love the teacher's voice and the way she adjusts my tight hips and wayward knees. She completes me.



The only problem was that after an hour and a half of it I had no strength for the floor jumps. My legs were shaky achy. And this after I bragged about finally finishing those guys! Anyway. Onward. I also don't have the infrastructure for the kung fu sit ups (due to weak door frames, I can't hang my pull up bar). This makes me anxious, because Patrick told me I'd love them. I would like to love them. What to do instead?