Scientific American profiled an interesting study today from the Oregon Research Institute on physio-psychological triggers that contribute to obesity:
"When neuroscientists scanned the brains of obese individuals viewing images of desirable food, they found greater activity in brain regions rich in dopamine receptors. These are the same regions of the brain activated by addictive drugs and thought to lead to addiction. “Eureka!” said many brain scientists. “I bet people exhibiting greater activity in brain regions encoding food reward will be at increased risk for obesity!” The more rewarding the food, in other words, the more likely you are to eat too much of it and pack on the pounds.
But there was another camp of researchers who posited that there was decreased, not increased, reward activity in the brains of obese individuals. Following this hypothesis, overeating serves as a compensatory strategy to normalize this reward deficit. If you find food less rewarding, in other words, you eat too much in search of finding a ‘normal’ reward experience, and thus gain weight. This phenomenon is known as ‘reward deficiency syndrome’."
Link to full article here.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
What is WIM?
Since my sixteen weeks have expired, you might notice I've been writing a bit more holistically - diluting the chore of logging with the personality-laden art of blogging. Today, I'll be whining (more) about my not-so-recent-to-recent stalls, positing various hypotheses for why, and donning my aluminum-can-crushing, concussion-dodging, jock braincap to delve into the ineffable, implacable notion of WIM.
"Why'mInotgettingstronger," I bellyached to F. It'd been nearly two months of not successfully squatting the winsome weight of a hundred and ten pounds; my bench press, once on a victorious trajectory, had sputtered to a standstill at 85, and the deadlifting 165 pounds still inspired a covert tendency to cheat. The important takeaway answers from the conversation were:
Strength is range-of-motion dependent. What's that mean? Lifting a small child off the ground won't improve my ability to lift a small child over my head; squatting 110 at half the depth won't affect squatting 110 at the correct depth. Very important! I'd been operating under the assumption that gradations of depth were accessible - when I couldn't make a weight, I'd just waive it at half-mast, expecting a partial effort to contribute to a robust one. Apparently a dismal waste of time.
Rest. Eating poorly and sleeping inadequately used to be a point of pride for me - back in the days where we were young and raw enough to turn hypothetical (hyper pathetical, in actuality) desert island "survivorbility" into a pissing contest. Strength is gained during rest periods. Cardio, insomnia, and beer benders aren't restful activities, and will inhibit the build of strength.
WIM.
You'll turn up empty if you Google, UrbanDictionary, or Wikipedia Want It More. I'm in fact not confident that I have a firm grasp on the concept - owing, of course, to swinging in higher-brow recreational circles than the term typically habituates. In context, it's a (grossly) brutish turn-of-phrase employed by sports writers to describe the ephemeral quality of athletic chutzpah. As I understand it, it toes the realm of philosophical qualia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qualia) - an anima that transcends any measurable talent or learnable skill.
Not being a sports enthusiast myself, the best demonstrative visual I can call upon is Michael Phelps' seventh gold medal race at the Beijing Summer Olympics - the 100m butterfly.
I know a thing or two about swimming. Swimmers fall in one of two categories: distance, or sprint. It's a broad delineation, but it dictates training programs, lineup strategy, nutritional demands. True sprinters are the rarer breed - the 50m and 100m are simply too short for technical aptitude or developed stamina to make much of a meaningful impact. Distances of 400m and up, on the other hand, are somewhat "fairer" races - won or lost through a confluence of more 'controllable' factors.
The 200m is a dead zone - a no-man's land too long for true sprinters, but too brief for swimmers relying on superior stamina. Because it favors neither party, the 200m is arguably the most compelling and accurate battleground (certainly, the most common) for all-around, hydrodynamic superiority.
Michael Phelps isn't a sprinter. He certainly sprints very well, but like the majority of swimmers, he's primed to excel at longer distances. The Serbian butterflyer, Milorad Cavic is a sprinter. He's not as balls-out talented as MP (who is?), but there's a distinct and devastating advantage in having a killer 50m when you're competing in a 100m race. It takes the distance swimmer too long to get "fired up" - by the time his acceleration plateaus and the sprinter's stamina gives out, it's too late: a deficit of a mere 5m is too great to overcome in the last quarter of the race.
In my favorite virtual recreation (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E3paiELa7mA), you see that Phelps - sluggish at the start, lopping languidly and inexpertly on Cavic's turf, the 100m - is lingering in the third or fourth position entering the final meters of the race. (For context: twenty meters is covered by world-class swimmers in fewer than ten seconds.) We of course knows how the story ends, but it's no less incredible or impossible upon a tenth, twelfth viewing. One commentator, I recall, remarked that Phelps won the race even though he was slower, which feels strangely accurate. I guess he just wanted it more.
"Why'mInotgettingstronger," I bellyached to F. It'd been nearly two months of not successfully squatting the winsome weight of a hundred and ten pounds; my bench press, once on a victorious trajectory, had sputtered to a standstill at 85, and the deadlifting 165 pounds still inspired a covert tendency to cheat. The important takeaway answers from the conversation were:
Strength is range-of-motion dependent. What's that mean? Lifting a small child off the ground won't improve my ability to lift a small child over my head; squatting 110 at half the depth won't affect squatting 110 at the correct depth. Very important! I'd been operating under the assumption that gradations of depth were accessible - when I couldn't make a weight, I'd just waive it at half-mast, expecting a partial effort to contribute to a robust one. Apparently a dismal waste of time.
Rest. Eating poorly and sleeping inadequately used to be a point of pride for me - back in the days where we were young and raw enough to turn hypothetical (hyper pathetical, in actuality) desert island "survivorbility" into a pissing contest. Strength is gained during rest periods. Cardio, insomnia, and beer benders aren't restful activities, and will inhibit the build of strength.
WIM.
You'll turn up empty if you Google, UrbanDictionary, or Wikipedia Want It More. I'm in fact not confident that I have a firm grasp on the concept - owing, of course, to swinging in higher-brow recreational circles than the term typically habituates. In context, it's a (grossly) brutish turn-of-phrase employed by sports writers to describe the ephemeral quality of athletic chutzpah. As I understand it, it toes the realm of philosophical qualia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qualia) - an anima that transcends any measurable talent or learnable skill.
Not being a sports enthusiast myself, the best demonstrative visual I can call upon is Michael Phelps' seventh gold medal race at the Beijing Summer Olympics - the 100m butterfly.
I know a thing or two about swimming. Swimmers fall in one of two categories: distance, or sprint. It's a broad delineation, but it dictates training programs, lineup strategy, nutritional demands. True sprinters are the rarer breed - the 50m and 100m are simply too short for technical aptitude or developed stamina to make much of a meaningful impact. Distances of 400m and up, on the other hand, are somewhat "fairer" races - won or lost through a confluence of more 'controllable' factors.
The 200m is a dead zone - a no-man's land too long for true sprinters, but too brief for swimmers relying on superior stamina. Because it favors neither party, the 200m is arguably the most compelling and accurate battleground (certainly, the most common) for all-around, hydrodynamic superiority.
Michael Phelps isn't a sprinter. He certainly sprints very well, but like the majority of swimmers, he's primed to excel at longer distances. The Serbian butterflyer, Milorad Cavic is a sprinter. He's not as balls-out talented as MP (who is?), but there's a distinct and devastating advantage in having a killer 50m when you're competing in a 100m race. It takes the distance swimmer too long to get "fired up" - by the time his acceleration plateaus and the sprinter's stamina gives out, it's too late: a deficit of a mere 5m is too great to overcome in the last quarter of the race.
In my favorite virtual recreation (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E3paiELa7mA), you see that Phelps - sluggish at the start, lopping languidly and inexpertly on Cavic's turf, the 100m - is lingering in the third or fourth position entering the final meters of the race. (For context: twenty meters is covered by world-class swimmers in fewer than ten seconds.) We of course knows how the story ends, but it's no less incredible or impossible upon a tenth, twelfth viewing. One commentator, I recall, remarked that Phelps won the race even though he was slower, which feels strangely accurate. I guess he just wanted it more.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Live Strong?
The reason aesthetics is an effective driver is twofold:
1. Unlike that abstract notion of "health", the results are visible (and awesome!).
2. Dividends are tangible and wonderful. Clothes and sex feel tight and delicious.
I never did see the benefit of strength for strength's sake. I'm a white-collar office girl; my varsity days are far (five years this month, in fact) behind me. There are no parlor tricks, killer skillz, or social games associated with or bettered directly by the (marginal, for all intents and purposes) addition of strength. It's supremely unlikely that I'll ever be able to (or ever want to) accumulate the strength to single-handedly wield and move my mattress, fend off any real physical threat (save for a feral smallish dog, perhaps), or be the most compelling candidate for rescuing a baby trapped under a car.
"Getting strong" as a marketing campaign for weight training therefore holds about as much appeal to me as any other isolated physical endeavor. Practicing yoga only makes one better at the practice of yoga; lifting more weight is analogous, only much less fashionable.
So, it caught me by surprise when I identified with being strong several times this past week - while innovating wily maneuvers about the unlined, unfenced, unmanned dangers of the rural playground over which my darling alma matar is draped. I sprinted through milkweed, scaled dormitories, scrambled up trees as never before - for the quintessence of every object was a climbable, mountable, surmountable apparatus that I couldn't fall off, because I was falling back, gratefully, confidently, on the fact that I was strong (and also the nine+ ounces of forty-proof liquor coursing hotly like ambrosia through my veins). The next branch was far, but I trusted my footfall; the water's edge was distant, but my leap would carry me.
Obviously, this precise foolhardy high preceded many an ill fate, not the least of which was Icarus'. The point, as demonstrated in droves this weekend, is that being strong (when properly tempered with being smart) introduces possibilities. Possibilities beget possibilities; the feat of taking a literal bull by the horns allows the imagination to expand its scope considerably - intensified physicality in everyday living is only a short philosophical skip from a more concerted intellectual effort, more innovative social engaging.
So here's to living strong - and bracing for the notion of strength (power, control, leadership, capability) to line all endeavors.
1. Unlike that abstract notion of "health", the results are visible (and awesome!).
2. Dividends are tangible and wonderful. Clothes and sex feel tight and delicious.
I never did see the benefit of strength for strength's sake. I'm a white-collar office girl; my varsity days are far (five years this month, in fact) behind me. There are no parlor tricks, killer skillz, or social games associated with or bettered directly by the (marginal, for all intents and purposes) addition of strength. It's supremely unlikely that I'll ever be able to (or ever want to) accumulate the strength to single-handedly wield and move my mattress, fend off any real physical threat (save for a feral smallish dog, perhaps), or be the most compelling candidate for rescuing a baby trapped under a car.
"Getting strong" as a marketing campaign for weight training therefore holds about as much appeal to me as any other isolated physical endeavor. Practicing yoga only makes one better at the practice of yoga; lifting more weight is analogous, only much less fashionable.
So, it caught me by surprise when I identified with being strong several times this past week - while innovating wily maneuvers about the unlined, unfenced, unmanned dangers of the rural playground over which my darling alma matar is draped. I sprinted through milkweed, scaled dormitories, scrambled up trees as never before - for the quintessence of every object was a climbable, mountable, surmountable apparatus that I couldn't fall off, because I was falling back, gratefully, confidently, on the fact that I was strong (and also the nine+ ounces of forty-proof liquor coursing hotly like ambrosia through my veins). The next branch was far, but I trusted my footfall; the water's edge was distant, but my leap would carry me.
Obviously, this precise foolhardy high preceded many an ill fate, not the least of which was Icarus'. The point, as demonstrated in droves this weekend, is that being strong (when properly tempered with being smart) introduces possibilities. Possibilities beget possibilities; the feat of taking a literal bull by the horns allows the imagination to expand its scope considerably - intensified physicality in everyday living is only a short philosophical skip from a more concerted intellectual effort, more innovative social engaging.
So here's to living strong - and bracing for the notion of strength (power, control, leadership, capability) to line all endeavors.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
16 Weekish
Sixteen weeks (give or take) prior to this, the weekend of my five-year college reunion, I, spurred on by an off-handed jab at my flab, embarked upon a fairly comprehensive overhaul of my diet and exercise regiment. Five-times weekly cardio sessions (because Bones is on back-to-back, literally, everyday-) were reduced to two, then one; now none, as thrice-weekly lifting.
Nutrition-wise, I have some good days and some (very) bad days. The underlying goals have been to 1. up protein intake and reduce carbs consumed so as to appropriately supplement strength training and ensure gains and 2. to not eat "mindlessly". My good days average at about 80 grams of protein between white meats, eggs and shakes, raw greens, and lots of water; my bad days begin and end with sticky-sweet baked goods.
The results are observable, encouraging. I've gained strength, and I've come to know my own body a lot better. I'm less doughy, and, when in deficit, tawny. I successfully, conscientiously lost 8 pounds to rock a slinky dress, and I'm confident that I've got the baseline education and fitness to resume deficit eating when I need ("need") to.
Lessons learned? After gaining back the 8, I found that I look better. I feel stronger, healthier, and confident in the weight room. Dieting is hard execute, and impossible to maintain (for me, anyway). Sleep is important; I underestimated the value of sleep.
Goals moving forward? Importantly, I want to escape the mindset that an ice cream cone flushes the rest of the day's dietary habits down the drain, and that I "might as well" wait till the next day to start over. I don't want to work for "perfect" days if the result (and it inevitably is) is a really bad day following. It's hard, but I could definitely use to be a little more balanced about eating, since I'm no longer aiming to lose weight. I'll probably scale back on gym hours this summer in favor of activities that can incorporate a little photosynthesis. I'll get stronger, gradually, I suppose, but there's no rush; I think I'll cycle in more intensive workouts when the weather starts to turn in the fall.
Nutrition-wise, I have some good days and some (very) bad days. The underlying goals have been to 1. up protein intake and reduce carbs consumed so as to appropriately supplement strength training and ensure gains and 2. to not eat "mindlessly". My good days average at about 80 grams of protein between white meats, eggs and shakes, raw greens, and lots of water; my bad days begin and end with sticky-sweet baked goods.
The results are observable, encouraging. I've gained strength, and I've come to know my own body a lot better. I'm less doughy, and, when in deficit, tawny. I successfully, conscientiously lost 8 pounds to rock a slinky dress, and I'm confident that I've got the baseline education and fitness to resume deficit eating when I need ("need") to.
Lessons learned? After gaining back the 8, I found that I look better. I feel stronger, healthier, and confident in the weight room. Dieting is hard execute, and impossible to maintain (for me, anyway). Sleep is important; I underestimated the value of sleep.
Goals moving forward? Importantly, I want to escape the mindset that an ice cream cone flushes the rest of the day's dietary habits down the drain, and that I "might as well" wait till the next day to start over. I don't want to work for "perfect" days if the result (and it inevitably is) is a really bad day following. It's hard, but I could definitely use to be a little more balanced about eating, since I'm no longer aiming to lose weight. I'll probably scale back on gym hours this summer in favor of activities that can incorporate a little photosynthesis. I'll get stronger, gradually, I suppose, but there's no rush; I think I'll cycle in more intensive workouts when the weather starts to turn in the fall.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Free Personal Training Sessions Are Just. The. Pits. And Here's Why -
I occasionally employ free trials as a sales tactic at work - when a potential client (and everyone is a potential client) is dubious about the quality of my work, there's no more effective way than to jam a foot through a closing door than to offer up a risk-free, complimentary taste of the goods. During the free trial, it's my goal, as a salesperson, to demonstrate a dearth, and to satisfy it so completely, that there's no question that I'm the superior service provider. It's the client's job to defend their soft dollars, and refute the suggestion that a need exists, and scrutinize my performance. And so the dance begins; a series of interactions that's part-performance and certainly full of tension. By its end, both parties will have reached some level of utility; capitalism is achieved markets are efficient, the kingdom is saved.
If you happen to be a personal trainer by trade, the strategy subsists analogously. "Heather", thirty-three and reeking of Mid-Atlantic strip malls, sat me down to demonstrate the dearth - expose, through some form questions and 'test's, my insecurity, my inexperience, my ignorance about diet and exercise.
H: What are your fitness goals?
H: What's your diet like?
H: What would you like to change about the way you look?
As the client, it was my job to defend my disposable income against her witchcraft, by exhibiting that there was no dearth - that I was perfectly confident, clever and capable:
M: To squat 120, press 100 and deadlift 170 by July. I'd like to increase posterior chain strength to compensate for anterior dominance. I used to be a swimmer.
M: I'm on a macrobiotic diet. I consume approximately 80 grams of protein daily.
M: Nothing.
We advanced to the mat, where she again reapplied the pitch, while I reapplied resistance. I sassed my way through some warm-up exercises; she remarked that my hamstrings were abominably weak. I disagreed on the form she recommended; she cited the American Academy of Sports Medicine. (I met defeat on the push-up mat; I breezed through two sets of fifteen; she countered by assigning two more. Red-faced, puffing, dripping sweat, I had to fumble a nod when she said, triumphantly and didactically: "See? That was hard, wasn't it?" Never get in a land war in Asia, never challenge a Sicilian when death is on the line, never put your push-ups where your personal trainer's mouth is.)
The second reason personal training sucks is that it's so goshdarned dogmatic. Working out is, after all, an endeavor of vanity. Subscribing to an exercise and nutrition regiment - and then making a concerted effort at adhering to it - takes so much devotion that it's impossible not to take different denominations personally. I'm not really combative by nature*, but this woman was getting under my skin with her questionable directives, and I hers, with my arrogance and impeccable form.
I ultimately survived - both the hour with Heather and the ensuing sales pitch - unscathed, save for some upper-arm soreness the morning after.
*Not really
H: What are your fitness goals?
H: What's your diet like?
H: What would you like to change about the way you look?
As the client, it was my job to defend my disposable income against her witchcraft, by exhibiting that there was no dearth - that I was perfectly confident, clever and capable:
M: To squat 120, press 100 and deadlift 170 by July. I'd like to increase posterior chain strength to compensate for anterior dominance. I used to be a swimmer.
M: I'm on a macrobiotic diet. I consume approximately 80 grams of protein daily.
M: Nothing.
We advanced to the mat, where she again reapplied the pitch, while I reapplied resistance. I sassed my way through some warm-up exercises; she remarked that my hamstrings were abominably weak. I disagreed on the form she recommended; she cited the American Academy of Sports Medicine. (I met defeat on the push-up mat; I breezed through two sets of fifteen; she countered by assigning two more. Red-faced, puffing, dripping sweat, I had to fumble a nod when she said, triumphantly and didactically: "See? That was hard, wasn't it?" Never get in a land war in Asia, never challenge a Sicilian when death is on the line, never put your push-ups where your personal trainer's mouth is.)
The second reason personal training sucks is that it's so goshdarned dogmatic. Working out is, after all, an endeavor of vanity. Subscribing to an exercise and nutrition regiment - and then making a concerted effort at adhering to it - takes so much devotion that it's impossible not to take different denominations personally. I'm not really combative by nature*, but this woman was getting under my skin with her questionable directives, and I hers, with my arrogance and impeccable form.
I ultimately survived - both the hour with Heather and the ensuing sales pitch - unscathed, save for some upper-arm soreness the morning after.
*Not really
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Hi, Ma!
Last night my mother, a serial hobbyist, revealed that she's taken on baking bread. "Loaves and loaves of bread; I eat so much bread!" "Well, don't eat. . . mindlessly," I cautioned. "No, I don't eat mindlessly," she gushed. "I eat this bread with my whole mind and my whole heart! I'm okay with a B-, C+ grade in staying healthy."
Bless her.
Bless her.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
REFEED CITY
I went into uber-deficit (read: very bad weight training) mode in the four days leading up to my formal affair, so as to compensate for my hair and make-up inexperience. The best thing the dress had going with it was its slink factor. I donned big jewels, big lips, big hair (inadvertently channeling Sandra B. -to show solidarity!) little dress, and a hundred and thirty-sex pounds (that's right, 1-3-6) of primp and confidence. Judging from my ex boyfriend's inability to make eye contact for the first hour after I made my entrance, I think I can say I killed it.
The three ensuing weeks have been filled, not unlike the moist sugary centers of creme-sandwich cookies, with moist sugar. I scarfed a half-dozen Dunkin' Donuts the morning-after (after brunch); the floodgates open, I rediscovered pastries, ice cream, whiskey, pasta, and, most winningly, accessibly and destructively, creme-sandwich cookies. Pleasingly, it took about ten days to gain any weight at all - I was still all narrow boy-belly and golden tan until just last week, when I reached, and hovered comfortably at 140 lbs.
One forty. As a Big Girl - accustomed to shouldering Big Girl inconveniences (the ill-fit rompers, the involuntary air of austerity, the dreaded Big Spoon Syndrome) - the number haunts me. I'm -dare I say it? - self conscious. It's not a Big weight to be sure; but while my build is stubbornly svelte, and my clavicular lordosis* lends itself to the appearance of delicacy, there's simply something about being Big that runs counter to femininity. (135, on the other hand, ekes out 'winsome'.)
Numbers aside, though, it's got to be said that I look better at 140 lbs. I don't apply "too thin" lightly - I admire thinness, aesthetically speaking. Taylor Momsen, in a skeletal blaze of cigarette smoke and cigarette jeans, is addicting to look at. There's something ethereally striking, almost academic about a really willowy woman - the prominent leanness of Angelina Jolie supersedes, in my mind, pin-up types (quite low-brow, really) and athletic figures.
Of course I realize that weight isn't a particularly relevant component to endearing appearances. A 98 lb Jessica Simpson retained, albeit on a smaller scale, her bux.
Angelina, meanwhile, makes a lanky pregnant lady. The frame on which one carries one's weight is the determinant of perception - and mine, as it were, isn't "skinny". Infuriatingly, I look "too thin" without actually being too thin! The frumpy turn of phrase 'being comfortable in one's own skin' is the inevitable solution.
*Not a medical term
The three ensuing weeks have been filled, not unlike the moist sugary centers of creme-sandwich cookies, with moist sugar. I scarfed a half-dozen Dunkin' Donuts the morning-after (after brunch); the floodgates open, I rediscovered pastries, ice cream, whiskey, pasta, and, most winningly, accessibly and destructively, creme-sandwich cookies. Pleasingly, it took about ten days to gain any weight at all - I was still all narrow boy-belly and golden tan until just last week, when I reached, and hovered comfortably at 140 lbs.
One forty. As a Big Girl - accustomed to shouldering Big Girl inconveniences (the ill-fit rompers, the involuntary air of austerity, the dreaded Big Spoon Syndrome) - the number haunts me. I'm -dare I say it? - self conscious. It's not a Big weight to be sure; but while my build is stubbornly svelte, and my clavicular lordosis* lends itself to the appearance of delicacy, there's simply something about being Big that runs counter to femininity. (135, on the other hand, ekes out 'winsome'.)
Numbers aside, though, it's got to be said that I look better at 140 lbs. I don't apply "too thin" lightly - I admire thinness, aesthetically speaking. Taylor Momsen, in a skeletal blaze of cigarette smoke and cigarette jeans, is addicting to look at. There's something ethereally striking, almost academic about a really willowy woman - the prominent leanness of Angelina Jolie supersedes, in my mind, pin-up types (quite low-brow, really) and athletic figures.
Of course I realize that weight isn't a particularly relevant component to endearing appearances. A 98 lb Jessica Simpson retained, albeit on a smaller scale, her bux.
Angelina, meanwhile, makes a lanky pregnant lady. The frame on which one carries one's weight is the determinant of perception - and mine, as it were, isn't "skinny". Infuriatingly, I look "too thin" without actually being too thin! The frumpy turn of phrase 'being comfortable in one's own skin' is the inevitable solution.
*Not a medical term
Thursday, April 22, 2010
TasteSpotting
taAre you familiar with TasteSpotting (http://www.tastespotting.com)? It's a food porn / recipe meta-filter, and I daily get about 70 photos via my RSS reader that look like this, and I don't even like lemons, but they compel me to desire 1. cake 2. moving into my own studio following this lease cycle in order to practice baking, cooking, serving.
Lemon Syrup Cakes
Lemon Syrup Cakes
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Charcuterie of Death
I noticed this morning that a portmanteau for "cheese" and "meat" is "cheat".
Which is really, cosmically apt, given that since the start of high-protein, deficit eating, charcuteries are my "cheat" of choice - I know that they're calorically dense, and fat-laden, but there's less guilt and terror involved than cheating with Cake, Cookies, and Candies, because:
1. you must share a charcuterie, and adhere to Small Food sharing etiquette. Social shame prevents me from stuffing my face
2. it's fatty, but it's also protein-heavy!
3. it's pricey, especially at places like The Ten Bells (where I ate last night)
4. it feels* like less than a meal.
The biggest con is that charcuteries are inevitably, must-edly accompanied by wine and bread. I limited it to a small glass of Petite Blanc last night,and tried to fill up on raw oysters before getting into chorizo picante, duck rillette, and a very creamy goat cheese.
*feelings . . . count!
Which is really, cosmically apt, given that since the start of high-protein, deficit eating, charcuteries are my "cheat" of choice - I know that they're calorically dense, and fat-laden, but there's less guilt and terror involved than cheating with Cake, Cookies, and Candies, because:
1. you must share a charcuterie, and adhere to Small Food sharing etiquette. Social shame prevents me from stuffing my face
2. it's fatty, but it's also protein-heavy!
3. it's pricey, especially at places like The Ten Bells (where I ate last night)
4. it feels* like less than a meal.
The biggest con is that charcuteries are inevitably, must-edly accompanied by wine and bread. I limited it to a small glass of Petite Blanc last night,and tried to fill up on raw oysters before getting into chorizo picante, duck rillette, and a very creamy goat cheese.
*feelings . . . count!
Monday, April 19, 2010
The Weekend Roundup
The weekend roundup:
-Bad food days on Friday / Saturday evenings, owing to a wonderful, tasty duo of dinner parties featuring French cooking, wine, cheese and cake. -2 deficit days, which sets me back to 15 days to go. Sad face.
-Good lift on Saturday; mini-lift on Sunday.
-Procured a dress! After much scrambling around Midtown - SoHo BarneyDale's, becoming panicked at unbecoming, uneconomical choices, I made an eleventh-hour drop into my favorite little vintage boutique. Miraculously, they pulled out a luscious one-off unlined satin, backless vintage slip dress that fit like a dream - and for $100! It needs a little bling, but it's succulently slinky and quite unique for a black, floor-length dress. It's deliciously clingy also - which is inspiration and threat to be extra-conscientious with regard to deficit this week.
The only problem is the sunburn pattern on my back.
-Bad food days on Friday / Saturday evenings, owing to a wonderful, tasty duo of dinner parties featuring French cooking, wine, cheese and cake. -2 deficit days, which sets me back to 15 days to go. Sad face.
-Good lift on Saturday; mini-lift on Sunday.
-Procured a dress! After much scrambling around Midtown - SoHo BarneyDale's, becoming panicked at unbecoming, uneconomical choices, I made an eleventh-hour drop into my favorite little vintage boutique. Miraculously, they pulled out a luscious one-off unlined satin, backless vintage slip dress that fit like a dream - and for $100! It needs a little bling, but it's succulently slinky and quite unique for a black, floor-length dress. It's deliciously clingy also - which is inspiration and threat to be extra-conscientious with regard to deficit this week.
The only problem is the sunburn pattern on my back.
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