I miss the days when I could eat peanut M&Ms for breakfast.  I miss the days when a donut was considered a good breakfast, more nutritious than M&Ms.  And a bowl of Apple Jack’s was just fine before heading off to school.  Back in the teen years, I could eat anything and my jeans would never be the wiser. I didn’t really exercise much so the muscles didn’t fill up my clothing either.  This was bliss:  Eat what I want, barely exercise and still slip into my Levi 501 jeans.

Donated to my favorite teens.

After college, my sweet freedom became more restricted.  I looked for ways to maintain my bad habits I was only discovering were bad.  In the 80s, Jane Fonda made it possible for me to have my M&Ms and eat them too.  Aerobics abound in gyms and on video because of her quest for thinness. (I need to send that gal a thank-you note.  Who knew?)  If I exercised, those moments of recklessness didn’t park around the middle and remind me of my decadent ways. This was a pretty good deal for a very, very long time.  Sweat = Sweets.

The ever-evolving relationship with food is weird.  It’s like a bank account in reverse.  The more you pay in the less it shows.   The green stuff is worth the most.  If I eat a lot of salads the payback is big; I’m smaller, less of me.  If I eat a lot of the rich stuff, I am overdrawn and the payback is zero or worse, negative; I am bigger, heaps of me.  And if I want a better return on my deposits I workout.  Balancing weight is harder than balancing a monetary budget.

I have since eaten up my savings in the food bank.  I don’t have one red cent left.  In fact, I think I am in hock.  I don’t have teenage youth on my side any more.  When a chocolate chip cookie or second glass of wine doesn’t show up immediately in my spare tire, I think I am ok.  I take this positive sign as a show of invincibility; I can beat the bank.  And then suddenly I’m not, by a lot!

That’s where I’m at right now.  I got so cocky I started spending more than I banked.  Until one day, it’s like I withdrew that $10 one too many times and suddenly there is nothing left in my account.  I did not save enough for a rainy day and my rainy day arrived via knee surgery.  I was in trouble before I even got started.

There is no rushing the healing process.  I used to say, “Ah sure I’ll have some birthday cake.  I’ll just work it off at the gym.” Now I say, “Sorry no wine for me, or fries or cake or bread or cheese or fill-in-the-blank.  I can’t pay for it.  I’ve got nothin’ in the bank.”  I can’t work off my debt or even borrow against it.  I can’t fight back with my cave man, testosterone drive to muscle my way through with an extra set of push-ups or another 20 laps in the pool.  I will only send myself back to the couch and crutches.  Patience is huge here.  Is this what it’s like to be a guy?

My new peers and fellow lettuce eaters.  (Photo by C. Sereno)

Three weeks into this surgery gig and I can’t hit the bike for more than 10 minutes with no resistance and no sweat.  I burn 35 calories.  What is that worth, an orange?  Yippee.  I stare at desserts and wine and try to resist their magnetism.  A friend gave me permission for a half glass of wine.  I was weight lifting after all, just gotta pick a 10 pound glass.  With that logic, maybe a full glass might have been better.  With no investment power and nothing in reserves, I seriously cannot justify any extracurricular eating or drinking.  I am broke and borrowing means I will pay back at an outrageous interest rate later, like a maxed out credit card.

I’m managing my food bank conservatively.  It’s like I’m learning to save for that 10-speed bike I wanted when I was thirteen and made a dollar an hour babysitting.  At least the lack of workouts put the kibosh on my appetite to spend.  I’m depositing the green stuff frequently enough to qualify for rabbit status.  Introducing mild swims will make my bank account work harder for me.  Sweat equity never meant so much to me.  And peanut M&Ms never before seemed so expensive.