Archives for posts with tag: health

I owe Aporia a recipie for Thai food. Today we finally perfected it.

Dice a large potato
Chop a small head of broccoli (florettes, not stems)
Cut 3 large carrots into rounds/circles
Mince 2 onions
Mince 1 head of garlic
Slice 4 vegetarian chicken patties (although it’s fine without)
Heat vegetarian chicken patties on stove or in the microwave until done

Warm a large pot to medium heat
Add 1 large tablespoon of coconut oil
Add potatos, carrots, and garlic
Add salt and ground pepper as the mood strikes you
Cook until fairly soft, about 5 minutes
Add onions and broccoli
Cook until mostly soft, about another 5 minutes
Add 1 can of coconut milk
Add 1 cup of vegetable stock
Add 2 cups pre-cooked brown rice
Add ample amounts of Yellow Curry as the mood strikes you
Add cayenne to taste
Add a couple dashes more salt and pepper
Keep cooking until the coconut milk is hot and rice is soft

Let cool so that it’s not “OH MY GOD, I’M GOING TO BURN MY FACE OFF” molten lava hot, and eat.

I wish I could tell you how many teaspoons of the spices we used, but it’s such an individual thing that we didn’t bother measuring it. You know what you like.

Keeping in mind that Gay Boy and I are hardcore fatties, this still serves us for at least 2 full meals. I could easily imagine it serving a more reasonable couple for 3 or 4.

You’ll have to let me know what you think. I’m just glad that we finally toned it down enough so that the spice didn’t blister paint. Happy munching!


Giving my identity over to Buddhism is frightening to me. I can’t necessarily put my finger on why. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to advocate for my students anymore. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to make people laugh. I’m afraid that I won’t have friends. I’ve been afraid of these things for years. Only now, the potential reality is much closer than before.

Yesterday I wrote in a mixture of anger and confusion about my sister-in-law being ungrateful and irritating. But the Buddhist part of me recognizes that she has her reasons. I don’t make excuses for her behavior, but, if I’m being honest, it feels wrong to outright condemn her for it.

Soto-Zen teaches us to be aware of our passion, aggression, and ignorance, and to apply our awareness to all forms of interactions with others.

I’m known for being funny. I’ve strongly considered becoming a comedian. I’m extremely comfortable when I’m making people laugh. But if I apply my awareness, I start wondering about why I want to make people laugh at all. Is it because I want them to see me as clever and likable? Is it because I think I know what they should be thinking about better than they do? If so, isn’t that ego?

I’m also known in some circles for being polite, direct, and observant. But because I’m polite and observant, which might come across as weak, some people think of me as a pushover. I have a professor who regularly reminds me that I’m wrong, she’s right, and that’s just the way it is. I want to lash out at her and show her my cutting brilliance. But that’s ego, too.

I suppose that when I get down to it, my fear is that applying my awareness and giving up my identity will make people see me as stupid, weak, and boring, and take advantage of me the way my professor does.

I’m afraid that by being quiet, people will walk all over me.

Or that there won’t be a me for them to walk all over.

I’ve talked before about gentle firmness. The idea that you can be quiet, polite, and watchful, but when push comes to shove, you’re a boulder in the stream.

I wonder what that looks like on a daily basis? In a conference room, I get it. But what does that look like when my sister-in-law’s being rude and part of me still wants to vent? (Or slap her for it?)

So many questions…

And about friendlessness; people don’t want to spend their time with someone who’s boring. People really don’t want to spend their time with someone who’s calmness and honesty make them put down their defenses and start to self-reflect. It makes them feel guilty and confused. They want to drink, eat, and gossip.

How can I be part of American culture without pretending to be something I’m not? How can I keep my twentysomething friends without pretending to be something I’m not?

So many questions…

Happy merry joyus belated Kwanzanikuhmiss!

I’m not even Christian, and I still vote for sticking with Merry Christmas. Dirty heathens trying to mess up my simplicity.

Kidding, kidding… sort of…

I’ve been sick for almost a week now. We went to Granny’s place on Saturday for the in-laws’ Christmas party. It was, you know, one of those days. I got to spend 5 hours in a car with my favorite cousin-in-law for a 2 hour drive because she took a wrong turn and we ended up near Canada before anyone noticed. It was easily one of my all-time favorite road trips. Good people, great laughs, and zero sense of urgency.

But, because the universe needs balance, I also had the honor of seeing the sister-in-law who hates me, and seems to take some miserable pleasure in reminding me of that whenever she can.

Bare with me for a second as this train goes dangerously off track.

What the heck is with my in-laws not appreciating a single thing Granny gets for them as Christmas gifts? First of all, you know why she buys you socks, pajamas, thermal underwear, blankets, mittens, etcetera? Because she loves you and she cares whether or not you’re cold in the winter. Dude! She loves you! You’re in your twenties and you’re lucky enough to still have a Granny, much less a Granny who bakes apple pies, sends you hand-written birthday cards, and calls just to ask how you are. That’s awesome in and of itself!

Okay, she didn’t get you that Nikki Manage CD you put on your Christmas list. Who cares? She loves you enough to buy you adult-sized footy-pajamas with a butt flap, and you’re getting bent out of shape because the butt flap wasn’t hiding the life’s work of a two-bit alcoholic who fancies herself an artist? There are worse things!

Listening to the spoiled brat that is the make-believe 22 year old tell her Granny, “Oh, thanks, Granny. Apparently you’re too old to read now?” made me allllmmmmooooosssssttttt regret that vow not to kill.

And she’s not alone. Other than kids under ten, I honestly can’t think of anyone who didn’t complain about what Granny bought them.

Again, you have a granny who cares enough about you to buy you adult-sized footy-pajamas with a freaking butt flap — A FREAKING BUT FLAP– and you’re going to slather a nasty smile on your face and tell her thanks while directly implying that she’s old, broken, stupid, and uncaring?

Girl, I will drown you.

Note 1: People didn’t even complain in whispers and sympathetic glances. One male cousin even said, “Oh. It’s cute how you think I’m going to wear this. Thank God you included the receipt.” Because his new shirt was blue instead of grey. Who does that?!? And he’s straight!

Note 2: I don’t give a flying fig if I misspelled Nikki Manage’s name. She’s not worth the Google search.

One of Granny’s Christmas gifts to us was several pounds of homemade, handmade candy. One of my mother’s gifts to us was several pounds of vegetarian tamales. So what did we do when we got back home? Lived on nothing but tamales and candy for a week.

And man, could I feel it.

Looking back, it seems kind of strange that it didn’t occur to us, “Oh, we’re not feeling so hot, maybe we should go buy some real food. You know, like vegetables? Or that our not feeling so well could be in any way connected to our diet.

We ate. And ate. And ate. And it was glorious.

We’d decided that Christmas was going to be our final hurah. We ate chips, cookies, cakes, doughnuts, and hot chocolate like we haven’t in years.

An hour later we fell asleep sitting up.

On a whim, I checked my fasting blood sugar this morning for the first time since June. 281.


Remember how in June we found out that I was no longer diabetic? Then I stopped watching what I ate as much and started focusing on my anxiety issues? What was the worst that could happen? I mean, it’s not like I was diabetic anymore, and I was being relatively healthy without really caring about the particulars.


I have to give us a little credit, here. We didn’t even say anything when the numbers came across the talking glucose monitor. We just started throwing away anything in our house that didn’t strictly fit into the diabetic diet from a year ago. 281 is bad. 490 was worse. We have no interest in slipping back into old habits.

I’m going to eat like a kid and move like a kid, right? Well, kids with no ground rules might pig out on sweets during the holidays. But now that we’re past the holidays, I can be past that behavior.

Part of me is glad. Being diabetic was the one time I’ve ever really eaten how I should. It was easy– we just didn’t have that stuff in the house. I felt great. So I’ll just go back to it and we’ll see what happens. The identity of “diabetic” gives me a structure to work in. It lets me explain my socially awkward behavior in a way which doesn’t have social consequences. No, I can’t share your birthday cake. No, I can’t have bread, tortillas, or rice with every meal, or eat carb-loaded protein bars for breakfast. I’m diabetic.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Next to blindness, diabetes is the best thing that ever happened to me. Welcome back, old friend. 🙂

(But seriously, what’s up with ungrateful twentysomethings these days? Jesus.)

I hate beginning these things. I imagine blank white boxes full of the space where I’m supposed to start and end a series of thoughts, but how can I possibly start at the beginning if my thoughts are nothing more than never-ending paragraphs?

The joke’s on you, cultural norms: I’m starting in the middle!

I’m skipping over a bunch of not so happy stuff that went down over the weekend. Everything’s fine, there’s no lasting damage, but let’s just say thank god I’m careful about logging communication between myself and group members on school projects. I get an A in the class, They, well, don’t.

Moving on!

I’ve wanted a different body for as long as I can remember. I was fit as a little kid, I got straight up obese when I was 9 years old, I started losing weight as a teenager, and I’ve stayed between 149 and 135 pounds since I was 15. And before you read those numbers and get all weird about how low they seem, A) Dude, it’s my blog! And B, I’m short. Like, reeeeaaaalllllyyyyy short.

I’ve hovered at the low end of overweight and the tippytoe top of a healthy weight range since I was 15. My all-time low was 134.2 with a goal weight of 130, but then I got busy with something else, I ballooned back up to 147ish, and I felt I had to go back to hiding my gut with baggy sweatshirts and winter coats. I’m sure some of you can relate. (Fatties.)

Yesterday I was trying to meditate on my relationship to my physical body. I have a lot of questions about this whole mind-body complex.

Is making a point to eat and move a certain way attachment to a certain kind of body? Why am I so interested in being “healthy” provided my current weight doesn’t increase my risk factors for problems later on? I’m already diabetic from my childhood obesity; does it count as attachment to keep that in check? Why am I interested in not being sick, anyway? Isn’t sickness an invaluable opportunity for exploration? Some monks believe that regular exercise is just an excuse for overeating. How do I feel about that? Do I believe their beliefs? Do I believe mine? I’m scared that I’ll get sick if I don’t eat enough. How do I experiment with that safely?

Beyond that, I’ve also been applying my awareness to what kind of body I’m looking for. I’ve never really had a goal besides being less fat and having more energy.

Do I feel comfortable in my body as it is? I don’t. Is that because I don’t have energy to function? Is it because I’m depressed? Is it because I’m hairy? Is it because my clothes are too tight? Is it because I feel less capable than I predict I should feel? Am I missing out on some kind of life experience because I have too much body fat? Do I just dislike feeling unnecessarily low-energy given my less than nutritious diet? Do I even know that my diet is what makes me low-energy, or could it be more than that? How would my life be different if I had a body in which I were more comfortable?

I started to contemplate the body of a healthy, active boy. I’ve always found a healthy kid’s body to be one of the most artistically beautiful and mechanically perfect things on the planet. It’s this completely natural, innocent expression of being alive, yet it’s full of vitality and power. Kids’ bodies are bilt to learn, explore, grow, and do. Kids’ bodies slow down when they don’t use them, but they don’t have to use them very much at all to speed up again. It’s beautiful!

That’s what I want. I want a body that does what I want, when I want; a body that learns with me and can change when I need it to change; and a body that is low-maintenance, entirely natural, and perfectly average.

I don’t want to be ripped. I don’t want to be fat. I don’t want to be skinny. I want to be thin, firm, and flexible. I want to have energy to climb a tree or go on a long walk with my students. What would change if I had my perfect body? Not a whole heck of a lot, but enough to make it important to me. I’d have energy to be a kid again. And as a teacher, that’s a big deal.

That’s…. that’s it.

The other questions still apply. But now I know what I want, and that’s a great next step.

To me, part of having a natural body is not overeating, and to eat things that make me feel good even when what I want is something that will make me feel bad. (ESPECIALLY when what I want is something that will make me feel bad.)

I don’t want to exercise a lot. There it is. I want to go on about an hour long walk every day and maybe work my way up to doing some light yoga or bodyweight exercises. I don’t want the special clothes. I don’t want a personal trainer, I don’t want to obsess over what I’m eating and how I need to change and how I’m not good enough. I don’t want this to be so complicated. And I don’t want to be my own home improvement project.

I’m not obese. I’m not even technically overweight anymore. (Within a few pounds, but not technically overweight.) I have time to start adding these things as I want to, and to find my way back to a natural, kid-friendly body.

I’m fine. I’ll get there when I get there. I know what I want and how to make it happen. The equation isn’t going to up and change if I get sidetracked for a few weeks. Now I just have to make one tiny change here and there to make it happen, and before I know it, it’ll be done.

Maybe wanting a natural, kid-friendly body is attachment. But aren’t I also attached to over-eating and undermoving? Aren’t I attached to not knowing what to do, and aren’t I attached to trying to figure it out?

I bet that letting my cravings pass without acting on them, choosing simple food over complicated food, not over-eating, and not under-moving are much less attached than what I’ve been doing for the past several years. I just need to eat how kids eat, and move how kids move. Maybe it really is that straightforward.


Personal development is a tricky thing.

I’ve recently learned that my income is being cut by 40%. Trust me when I say that there’s nothing I can do. I’m still planning to take a year off after grad school, but I’m going to have virtually no emergency money between now and December of 2017. I’ll have about a hundred dollars a month more than my bills– and sometimes not even that.

We don’t spend much as it is, but there’s a big difference between not spending money because you don’t want to and not spending money because you can’t. The latter is much more frightening.

There’s no need to get into specifics, but suffice it to say that I’ve been in an exceptionally dark headspace this week. We have no friends in the area, I’ve gained twelve pounds in six weeks, we have no money, and there are moments when it feels like the world is falling down around our ears.

At the same time, our bills are paid, I’m officially halfway through grad school with a 4.0, and although we’ll be dead broke for the next two years, the upside is that it’s a choice. I’m making the choice to be broke for two years so that I can take a year off and work on my mental health. Granted, I’m not sure how good it is for my mental health that we’ll be so poor, but, hey– it’s better than tying a rope around my neck because I’m too stressed out.

And this week’s had positives, too. A friend spent time with me to help me sort out some of my sensory issues. I passed all of my finals so far. I read a new Star Wars book. And I’m getting a better handle on my health goals.

I need to move more. Not being physically active equates to a wicked downward spiral in my mental health. I don’t know how to make it a routine, but at this point, I want to exercise for the sake of exercising, not for any kind of fat-loss crap. Screw fat loss. It’ll be nice, but it’s way less important than my overall wellbeing.

What I don’t know is how to make it a habit. I’ve been so close, but I’m still so far away. I do great for about ten days and then I totally fall apart. I don’t overeat, I just never move. When I do even mild exercise, I shed fat, feel great, and have tons of energy. But then something comes up, I stop exercising, I actually feel my metabolism slowing down, I get depressed, and then I don’t prioritize myself at all.

Self-care. Not my strongsuit.

Even less-so when my income is drastically slashed and I make the possibly selfish choice to wait two years to do anything about it.

Wow, how those two years are weighing on me. They seem like an eternity.

Now I know what kind of body I want. I know what to do to get there. But there’s still something missing. And the dark cloud isn’t helping too much. The monks’ answer is, “Sit with it,” but sitting with depression doesn’t necessarily make you function any better. It just makes you acutely aware of why you’re depressed in the first place. Excellent, if you can do something about it. But what if you can’t? In theory, you get up and do what you need to do regardless of how you feel. Realize that sometimes you’ll have motivation, and sometimes you won’t, and too bad– do it anyway.

Ugh. I’m tied up in so many knots.

I know it’ll all be okay. I’m a wizard with money– I can and will make this all work out. But I’m scared that if one thing goes wrong, we’re screwed. And on top of everything else I have to deal with, I still want to prioritize my health and sanity.

I need clarity.

New Year’s resolutions are flawed. If you make a New Year Resolution, you’ll fail. Instead, recognize that every day, not just January 1st, is a day for change, growth, and reflection. It doesn’t matter if you ran last Tuesday. It doesn’t matter what you had at your last meal. It doesn’t matter what you’ll do tomorrow. Today, right now, is the only thing you can influence. Choose wisely.

Second, resolutions take resolve. Resolve is bullshit. Instead, make a choice. Decide to be someone different. Decide to be your truest self. Anything less is a lie.

Resolutions make me raise my eyebrows. I’d never want to be part of the 99% who’s resolve seems to somehow fizzle out by the middle of February. I’ve never before made a New Year’s resolution– but I am the kind of person who tends to attack life-changes with an almost predatory viciousness. I became a vegetarian in the middle of a meal and never looked back. I became a runner less than a week after having my second eye surgically removed, and I ran two miles on day one. When I do something, I’m all in. Period. I never give less than my best. Which is why the last year’s been especially difficult for me.

I began having bizarre symptoms of an unknown medical disorder starting in the middle of December 2013. I would become extremely disoriented, I’d begin speaking another language without realizing it (which is weirder by virtue of my not knowing it than by my doing it at all; I study languages in school,) and I was losing several seconds of time many times a day. By May it was so bad that I woke up passed out in the middle of an intersection. That’s when I knew it was time to go to a hospital.

Over the next few months I heard that it was a sinus infection, a week later it was a viral infection, then it was an unknown form of diabetes, then it was pancreatic cancer, then it was back to being diabetes. There was one point where I was on 19 medicines– more than half of which were designed to treat the side affects from the others. And every time I was given new meds or a new diet, my blood-sugar climbed higher, and higher, and higher. But what was interesting was that when I was between old and new meds or when I ate like a normal healthy person (which is my custom) my sugar would plummet to about 125. A lot better than 490. And I had literally no symptoms of diabetes. I subsisted primarily off of vegetables and nuts. I wasn’t in the habit of eating pizza and cake how most vegetarians would. But I did have an excess of desserts between May and October. I had basically given up on eating right and focused exclusively on not dying. I was awake so rarely while on diabetes meds that I wanted as many calories as I could get and as fast as possible. I practically lived on desserts and junk food. Still, even at my unhealthiest, I was easily five times healthier than any other American I know. That tells you something about how I was eating pre-diabetes diagnosis.

Anyway, the long story long is that the diabetes piece ended up being figured out by complete accident. Someone at Temple, actually, was watching me eat and asked if I was diabetic. The conversation continued, she mentioned a super rare form of diabetes, I took it to my doctors, and bam. Ten months of suffering was over in a flash.

I began reintroducing sugar to my diet and moving more. I gained a full ten pounds while incapacitated; now I have to get back into the healthy patterns of running, rowing, and weightlifting. My muscles have deflated. My stomach’s bigger than it’s ever been. I can hardly move I’m so lazy and lethargic. I have as many psychological barriers to learning to move again as I do genuine physical ones.

But I also have a fierce determination. One of our priests said last week, “We all shake our heads in amused wonder as we watch your boundless enthusiasm for slaying any obstacles foolish enough to stand in your way.” I was touched. That reminded me that although I’ve been sick, although there have been times when I had no idea how much more I could take, I took more. I cut back where I needed to. I did my own impossible. And I’ll do it again.

A while ago I signed a contract with a personal trainer to work with me every day for twelve months. It’s a large financial burden. It’ll be an even larger time-commitment. Half of our time will be spent on diet and nutrition, half of our time will be spent on building muscle and shaving off my ten or fifteen pounds of fat. All of our time will be spent getting me back to a place of health and wellness. I’ve already signed the contract. There’s no going back. And I can’t wait.

I’ve also decided to cut desserts out of my life. Just like I cut out meat all those years ago, it’s nothing for me to do the same thing with sugary cakes, cookies, pies, breads, muffins, and even alcohol or coffee drinks. I have those things so rarely as it is that it won’t make a big difference. But I’ll feel better. And that’s what counts.

My rule for the last while has been that I won’t have dessert unless it’s made by granny. This rule also encompasses the Aunties, who, not unlike the harpies from folklore, will flap around my head and badger me with deliciously tempting, home-made, sinfully tasty treats whenever we see each other. Then granny has to send us home with boxes and boxes and boxes of the things like we were going to a warzone and broccoli was the enemy. It’s a family that shows their love with food. What can I say?

But it doesn’t hurt anyone for me to just say no thank you. Granny and the Aunties will still love me, my boyfriend can still gorge himself on all the sweets he wants (without gaining an ounce. Skank.) and the world will be good. They all know I’m diabetic. Their treats are even becoming sugar-free and progressively tinier. So it won’t be a bumpy transition for me to simply avoid the sweets and keep near the fruit, instead. I’ll still have something sugary, they’ll have shown me their love, I won’t get sick, and everything will work out for the best. I’m already considered a health-nut. This really won’t change things.

So, my New Year decisions, not resolutions, are to work with a personal trainer 6 days a week and check in with them on the 7th; to no longer have dessert, even when it’s made with love; and to just find something to smile about every day. Even bad days can have good moments.

What about you? What are your decisions?

Happy 2015!

I’m no longer interested in thinking weeks or months ahead in order to try and sort out how it is that I’ll lose twenty pounds between now and the end of the world. I’m focusing on today. Right now. What can I do in this moment, with this meal, to be a happier, healthier me?

I’m not fat. I’m skinny-fat; that peradoxical boarderland between committally healthy and a food-loving fatty. I love to hate to run. I do half-assed body-weight exercises on my living-room floor in a sad attempt at building muscle. I’ve read dozens, maybe hundreds of books on health and wellness. I know what to do. But I’m somehow unmotivated to do it.

That’s been changing lately. I’ve found myself eating right and exercising more. I’m not sure if the scale’s dropping quite yet, but I feel better and, maybe it’s just my imagination, but my clothes seem a heck of a lot more comfortable.

I’m a blind, gay, health-loving Buddhist. I have no idea what all I’ll write about on this blog. I might just use it to post once a month about my cats (Poptart and Toaster,) or about my sardonic whimsicality. We’ll see.

But one thing I do know I’ll write about is my weight-loss journey. I’m sick of feeling inferior. I’m sick of feeling like I’m not doing my best.

I’m going to lose twenty pounds. I’m going to do my own impossible. And along the way, who knows? Maybe you’ll see some funny stories about me and my crazy life. Stay tuned.

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