Living off the fat of the...bland?

 

I have not been a tiny little thing since I had my first child a few decades ago. But I tell ya, this dang BS is trying to turn me into Rotunda, the Humorless Wonda.

I am the object of the Universe’s hilarious health hijinks, almost cartoon-like in their wicked irony. I’ve gained at least the weight of a beefy newborn or two since my stroke a mere four months ago. I want to slap my doc every time she says, “eat less, exercise more…try for an hour a day.” She and I both know this is a catch 22 and that her pat answer is just something to shut up my whining. She and I both know this is how the Universe is playing it:

1. Stroke

2. Quit smoking = lower heart rate and BP = slower metabolism = weight gain

3. Quit caffeine = lower heart rate and BP = slower metabolism = weight gain

4. Beta blocker = lower heart rate and BP = slower metabolism = weight gain (one of the most prevalent side effects of this class of drugs)

5. SSRI to combat post-stroke emotional “incontinence” (laughing hysterically at UPS driver; weeping uncontrollably at a falling leaf) = feeling more stable = better appetite = weight gain (also a common side effect of SSRI’s)

6. Clunky left leg & lack of balance = no running/jumping, difficulty walking distances/stairs = less exercise = weight gain

7. Plantar fasciitis = painful left heel (slow to heal due to stroke aftermath) = less exercise = weight gain

8. Holidays = Mom’s sugar cookies & Chex Mix + post-stroke fatigue & obsessive knitting = weight gain

9. Diminished sense of humor (another common after-effect of stroke) + frustration + weight gain = spousal jitters

So, it seems I was maintaining my sveldt silhouette by keeping myself perpetually stressed out and hopped up on stimulants. But isn’t this extra weight putting a strain on my heart? But if I stop the beta blocker to kick-start my metabolism again, won’t my heart rate (and possibly BP) go up? But if I stop the SSRI so I can get back to my pre-stroke stressed out non-eating, will I go back to loud, annoying sobbing in the hardware store? and will the freaked-out stares of hardware shoppers raise my anxiety level and, hence, my heart rate and BP? I have a pack of American Spirit cigs in my freezer (for nostalgic smell-a-thons)…should I start smoking again to boost my metabolism? Should I just go back to my pre-stroke breakfast of a bottomless pot of spoon-corroding, high-test Italian roast and a couple of coffin-nails? But couldn’t that lead to another stroke?

Lather. Rinse. Repeat. You get the picture. There’s no good way out of this mess. I refuse to sacrifice my summer vacation for a week at Fat Camp. So for now at least, I’m eating mouse-sized portions of brown rice and steamed veggies. I’m thinking up affectionate nicknames for the hand weights and recumbent bikes at the gym. I'm avoiding anything that might be (a) delicious; (b) comforting, or (c) fun. I’m cultivating a Johnny Cash (the late years) je ne sais quoi: black moo-moo, black stretch pants, black industrial steel-toed boots, black bandido poncho. And if teaching doesn’t pan out, I think poetic psychic medium has possibilities, because this old poem of mine was surely prophetic…

ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST              

patron of health spas

Let me burn slowly in the fire

of Midsummer, feed me only

roast lamb and hypericum,

let me sweat off a pound a day

for forty days and forty nights,

wrap the demon cellulite clinging

to my thighs in a pall infused

with kelp, salt, lemongrass, 

let your dizzying mineral steam

drive out this ghostly evil adipose,

stir ashes and dust into rosewater,

a fine holy paste for stubborn heels,

purge these wanton open pores

with fennel and warm clay, anoint

my idle hands with castor oil and lanolin,

lead me beside distilled waters

(my ass will need a miracle).

Let me fit, at last, into that black

crepe dress, the slinky one with

blue glass beads like fading stars,

the one I keep buried

in my cedar chest.

(Amen.)