Tuesday, February 2, 2016

Eleven in February – A Retarded New Year’s Resolution

“Eleven kilos,” K. said brightly.

I was standing on a Boditrax machine at the gym.  K. was reading off the machine generated numbers between my current weight and my ideal weight, taking into consideration the fact that I am of a sturdy type build. The super duper machine these days apparently takes into consideration a person’s build.

I didn’t react. The machine stated that I would be perfect at 56 kilos. A day later upon reflection I calculated that would be about 123 lbs. When was I last 123 USA pounds?  Thirty years ago. About when I was 18 and lived in California.  Or, here’s a thought: I was under that when I was starving in Paris and wore a (what is now) size zero then called a size two. Not by choice.

“Your bones weigh 2.4 kilos.” She added quickly. There was a little circle on the screen around my bone number, like a plastic bag. It reminded me of my cremated cat.

Perhaps I should have jumped up and down and held my head or something. I guess it was fairly obvious from my reaction that I was not going to do anything grandiose about my 11 kilo surplus. At least not that moment or even that month. Maybe she expected me to say, “But I am big boned.”

I am not. I didn’t attempt to say I was big boned.  I thought the machine was insane. Another way of making humans chase after numbers obsessively. 

“How long have you been coming here?”

Uh oh. I believed she was prodding me towards making a plan to lose the eleven kilos. Timeline thing. Graphs involved.

The zumba class was nearly about to begin.  That was a start. It was while waiting for the class to begin, inspecting the plasticized BMI chart on the table, that she had pounced and put me on the machine.

Here’s the thing:  I love jumping jacks now.  Ever since more than a kilo was shaved from my chest three months ago by a very kind surgeon, I have been noticing changes such as I can distribute weight evenly on the balls of my feet instead of trying to keep myself from falling forward by clenching my toes. This means yoga is vastly different.  Warrior two? Piece of cake. Eye of the needle?  I can actually do this pose now. Swimming?  I don’t need to hyper arch my back to pull myself up and forward in the water.

“Your arms will thin out.” A friend who has had the procedure said.

My arms have thinned out. I even have a strange suspicion that they might be longer, at least I don’t need to roll up my sleeves like I used to do. That paunch? It’s got a line in it now, something called a waist in fighting its way into sight.

But if I compare my pre-surgery weight (taken at the hospital) to the Boditrax reading, I apparently weigh more in kilos.  So what is the deal? Frankly I don’t care about what or which machine says what or witch.  I am much more interested in learning if I can finally get to the tree position with my foot wedged on my upper thigh. Now that would be da bomb, especially at my age. And oh yeah, I have another bag of too big for me now clothing to donate to charity. Eleven kilos my….

“You are more than welcome to come back, in the future, if you need any more work done.” My surgeon had said to me throwing a gallant smile my way at the final assessment consultation.  I politely replied I thought I’d stay put.

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