Back from Disney World

Wow, nothing like two weeks of horrible eating to get a person on board with a dietary New Year's resolution! We were in Orlando over Christmas, and while it was really fun to indulge in every junk food known to man (except for the funnel cakes, which for some reason I drew the line at), I am more than ready to clean up my act. It should be pretty easy, since my husband and about a thousand other people on the ten thousand blogs I read will be joining me.

In case you're curious, we'll all be doing this. Except M.H. says he's doing a Whole180, and more power to him. Maybe I'll even join him if we're on a roll and I magically lose all desire for pizza.

Thinking about New Year's resolutions

I've been trying to decide if I want to make some New Year's resolutions or set some goals or intentions for 2013, and if so, what those resolutions/goals/intentions should be.

I don't want to make the mistake I made last year and set a bunch of goals so ambitious that I don't end up achieving ANY of them. Well, I could still give nine more items to charity to meet my goal of getting rid of 100 extraneous things, but even that wouldn't technically count since I had originally intended to sell those 100 things on eBay (ha ha ha ha ha ha). And anyway, I can't see "trip to Goodwill" even making it on to a to-do list that already includes work, editing M.H.'s new book, sending out cards, hosting an early Christmas party with my in-laws, and getting ready for a trip to Florida.

M.H. has told me that he plans to drastically clean up his diet starting January 1, so it would be pretty easy to jump onto that bandwagon, but I'm not sure I'm in the right mind-set for extreme self-denial. I'm pretty happy with my normal, medium amount of self-denial, which actually feels like no self-denial at all, since I was pretty successful at permanently changing my eating habits in 2012, which is funny since it wasn't even one of my goals.

No guts, no glory

I had a breakthrough of sorts at swim posse this week: I did the workout, and then I didn't feel drained and exhausted for the rest of the day. I guess that means I'm ready to make the jump from one practice a week to two, maybe. I wasn't sure I was going to enjoy the class at first, but now I really do. It's actually nice to have somebody else write the workouts, and to have friendly lanemates in the pool.

See, that's the kind of class my gym should offer more of. That spinning instructor from last week is still bugging me. I think it's because the message a class like that sends is, "The way to be healthy is to beat your body into submission." Honestly, even though it's not really my thing anymore, I have nothing against a nice, hard workout. It's just that if the class has to be shouted through the whole thing, presumably to overcome the screaming in their legs or chests, then something's not right. (To say nothing of the "it's never good enough" mentality, but I can't believe the instructor actually meant that. I suppose all sorts of stupid things come out when you have to shout for an hour straight.)

I think the motivation in swim posse is a lot closer to healthy: a) fun, b) friendly competition, and c) wanting to be a faster swimmer.

…And d) unsuccessfully trying to relive my glory days, but that's not really the gym's fault.

Spinning

I haven't been on a bike in 18 months, but I know I might need to again at some point, since I'm planning to sign up for a sprint triathlon next summer with Mik. And so I guess that's why I was susceptible to being talked into trying a cycling class this morning, even though I could have predicted that I was going to hate it.

Now that it's over, I'm not sure I can adequately express how much I did hate it.

It was too dark and too loud, which I was expecting. The instructor barked at us a lot, which I was expecting. The music was not really to my taste, which I was expecting.

But I was unnerved by the unrelenting "go hard or go home" vibe. Examples:

• "I want to see sweat pouring down your face right now!"
• "If you're thinking about anything other than your legs, that's a sign that you need to pick it up and get focused!"

Naturally, I got a bit rebellious. I started turning the resistance down instead of up whenever I felt like it and daydreaming (in direct violation of edict #2) about what I'd like to say to the instructor. About how a sweat-pouring-down-your-face workout might not be appropriate or safe for everyone. About how, actually, studies show that subjecting ourselves to this kind of relentless cardio for an hour straight is counterproductive. But that was before these doozies:

• "You might not like this kind of workout, but who cares? You're not here to be entertained; you're here to work!"
• "However hard you're going right now, it's not enough. It's never enough, just like in life." 

Okay, first of all, I actually was there to be entertained. (Maybe that's just me.) But…It's never enough, just like in life? We must strive and struggle and suffer in a quest for perfection until the day we die?

Chamber of horrors. Seriously. And yet people must buy into it, because the class was completely full.

Marriage and the art of egg carton management

M.H. and I have been married almost 20 years, and the other day I mentioned one of his little quirks that I had been cheerfully humoring for a long time. It's no big deal. It's just that he likes there to be an even number of eggs left in the egg carton. So, if at all possible, we always try to use them in pairs. And if the number is odd, we might hard-boil five eggs instead of four to restore balance. And just for fun, we make a kind of unspoken game out of always having the eggs arranged in a symmetrical pattern, so if you weren't the last one to use them, you get a little surprise when you open the carton. I know the whole thing is ridiculous, but it's always brought me some small delight to play along with this harmless eccentricity in someone I love.

Except M.H. had no idea what I was talking about. He thought the entire thing had been my neurotic little quirk, and he'd been the one humoring me all these years.

Don't you think it's funny how a marriage itself can develop charming little quirks?

Kitchen incompetence

I have the sense of having been in the kitchen all day, and what do I have to show for it?* A huge stack of dishes, a food processor that's been washed eight times but is dirty again, crumbs all over the counters, overflowing trash, a sick feeling from too much sampling, and ONE finished dessert for tomorrow.

(There should have been a second dessert, but I burned it. The edible portions were very tasty, though, so that gives me the heart for a second attempt.)

I feel like I should videotape myself cooking to try to analyze just how I always manage to accomplish so little while feeling so frantic and leaving such a huge disaster. It doesn't help that Paleo cooking is a thousand times more complicated than microwaving cheese onto a tortilla.

* Besides breakfast, lunch, and dinner** for a family of four, which I admit is something.
** Some had dinner; some had had too much burned test cake. The point is, we're full.

Thanksgiving

My mom always hosts Thanksgiving, so I've never had to deal with turkey guts or gravy lumps or had to try to get 15 things on the table all at once or any of that nonsense. It's great. But I do like to contribute something beyond just stirring whatever she tells me to stir and saying grace. But what could it be this year?

Turkey is out, obviously. Potatoes have to be finished at her house, and she'd have them peeled and ready to go by the time we got there anyway. Rolls are pure evil and I want no part of them. The relish tray is better done by her (trust me) and can also be done in advance. The cranberry sauce is just the canned stuff, because that's what Grandma likes, and it's pointless to have two kinds. I mentioned asparagus, and my dad made his "you disgust me with your continued insistence on healthy eating" face.

Well, I thought, I could bring desserts! I have about a hundred Paleo dessert recipes bookmarked, and I've hardly gotten to try any of them. Less-bad-for-you indulgences! My mind started clicking.

"Now, wait a minute," my dad said suspiciously. "When you say 'dessert'…are you talking about something somebody else might actually want to eat?"

"Oh, I think I'd better at least make a pie," my mom added. (Which actually, when translated, means, "I'd better make three or four kinds of pie.")

Oh, well. What can you do? I'll show up on Thursday with a heart full of gratitude—along with some asparagus and several dubious-looking desserts—and let the chips fall where they may. And I might even have some pie.