The most important thing to do in solving a problem is to begin.
– Frank Tyger
J
anuary is a good time for beginnings, so for years I have had the habit of seeing all my assorted doctors soon after the New Year. Two weeks of being poked, prodded and probed by internists, gynecologist and radiologists while clad in a paper dress that makes me feel like a large lamb chop in a badly made grill. When it’s all over I feel virtuous, reassured that I am not dead and able to make intelligent decisions about how to stay that way for a while longer.
Despite being too fat for my height or too short for my weight, I’ve always had low blood pressure and cholesterol, a slow pulse, lots of energy and the ability to wrap my legs around my own head - a pointless and unaesthetic exercise, perhaps, but it keeps me limber and frightens off burglars.
However, throughout most of 1996, problems I confronted in writing my new book had squashed my usual optimism. It was all I could do to maintain the discipline of writing something every day. My few healthy habits vanished. I stopped my daily walk and swim, and I was living on ice cream, pork rinds and mayonnaise. This regime soon made me feel rotten - lethargic, creaky and even more depressed. My arthritic joints ached and I was chomping Rolaids by the handful as I watched daytime television - for a writer, a sure sign of physical, mental and spiritual decay.
I went to a New Year’s Eve party at a friend’s house, stayed the night to avoid the drunks on the highways and got to bed around two. When I awoke at 6 A.M., as usual, I lay there, staring at the ceiling and thinking about my life. When the others got up, we still sat blearily around the living room with mugs of coffee, and someone asked, “Has anyone made any New Year’s resolutions?”
“I have,” I said into the laughter. “I’m going to walk for twenty minutes four days a week, and eat five servings of fruits and vegetables every day.” This rather dull statement was greeted with polite murmurs, and then the discussion turned to the more interesting subject of what to have for breakfast.
I began the month with my customary round of doctors, and found to my horror that I was in even worse shape than I thought. My blood pressure and cholesterol were sky high, and I had gained twenty pounds in a year. No wonder my knees hurt. I was now carrying the equivalent of an extra person on my belly, thighs and buttocks. This news, instead of depressing me further, made me angry - not with myself, not at the doctors, not even at those evil publishers and editors who had made my life so miserable. I was just plain angry. And that anger spurred me to action.
I drafted Sally, my new internist, into my war on the midlife blahs. I told her I didn’t want any advice about diet and exercise; I had been reading and writing about food and fitness for years. I needed her to monitor my blood pressure and cholesterol, but mostly I wanted her moral support. Sally is much younger than I, and I think she was taken aback at first by the large, belligerent, extraordinarily naked woman on her examining table, but she agreed to see me once a month for a checkup and chat, and soon she became my strongest ally.
I began walking every day, twice around the half-mile circle near my apartment. The twenty- minute walk made me breathless at first, and I could hear my knee joints clicking with every step. I could even hear the seductive voice in my head whispering a million reasons not to walk, but I usually managed to ignore it.
I’m an excellent cook, so the large quantities of vegetables and fruits I added to my diet tasted great. I hadn’t eliminated or restricted any food, so I never felt deprived. What I did feel was gassy. My digestive system, startled by all this roughage after so many years of fatty, salty, sugary smoothage, expressed itself in loud seismic rumblings and explosions. It’s a good thing I’m not a smoker.
After a few weeks, however, this side effect passed, and I began to feel better. I wasn’t 100 percent consistent; I had occasional relapses into excessive amounts of fudge ripple ice cream and television, but most days I walked and ate my greens.
My weight dropped from month to month, sometimes quickly, sometimes not. The blood pressure and cholesterol proved more stubborn, but after six months, the changes began to show.
It has been eight months now. My blood pressure is normal, and I’ve lost forty pounds. I can see my feet without bending over, and my knees don’t hurt. For me, a mile is an easy walk, and I danced all night at my nephew’s wedding with hardly a creak or gasp. However, the demons of depression, with their weapons of fatigue, apathy, insomnia and doubt still plague me now and then.
Publishers are as obtuse as ever, and I still have days when walking, broccoli and coherent sentences are all beyond my reach.
But at fifty-two I’m doing okay. The world looks good to me most of the time, and the face in the mirror pleases me. I like the feel of a brisk walk in the rain. I’m strengthened by the love and support I get from friends, family and a doctor who takes the time to listen. I rejoice in so simple things: my cat washing her face in a sunny window, a dark red nasturtium blooming on my balcony, a phone call from my sister or an hour over coffee with a new friend.
I will never be an ascetic who actually likes steamed tofu and working out. I will always prefer lying in a hammock with a cat, a book and a large bag of Oreos. But once I’m out I enjoy my walk, and a baked potato with a glass of buttermilk tastes very good when I’m hungry. A good night’s sleep, silent knee joints and a cheerful vitality feel much better than my sad, sluggish state of a year ago - occasional demons notwithstanding.
My New Year’s resolution demanded not a destination, but a journey that, like all journeys, began with one small step. I have no advice for others - no maps, prescriptions or platitudes - no idea of where I will end up, or how I’ll get there. I only know that the trip is worth taking, the scenery is always interesting and the only way to begin, is to begin.
- Luisa Gray