The Hunger Games

It’s been a little while I know.  Maybe having six kids is finally getting to me. Truth be told, I was about to post something right before Hurricane Sandy hit complaining about dieting and weight loss, about how hungry I am, and how skinny everyone is in this city, and how no one actually eats. “The Hunger Games”—cute, right?

But then in some ways—not to sound too dramatic-- the world changed.  A major disaster hit, and I did what everyone does at a moment like that, I remembered what’s really important. Health, my family, safety, survival. How could I think about something as trivial as weight loss and body image when people were without homes, power, and clean water?

And yet, as always happens with these national or international disasters, before we know it, we pick up right where we left off—worrying about all those things that we had just sworn off as completely frivolous.  This is how life works. And so, I am back to where I was wondering how everyone around me can possibly be so thin and what I need to do to look like that too.

The truth is, many New Yorkers found their exercise routines and eating regiments really thrown off by the hurricane. I mean, even Soul Cycle was closed for a half day, and many friends of mine told me they put on a few pounds during Sandy—nervously eating and munching on all the carb-heavy non-perishables they haven’t indulged in since college.

But that alternative universe we were in is over—at least in these parts. Thank God everyone is back on non-eating, heavy exercising, looking perfect track. I’ve been doing the South Beach diet, a diet that is a blast from the past, and might be laughed at by today’s Dukanites and those who swear by private practice nutritionists, but worked for me the four previous times I’ve had to lose baby weight. Although lately I’ve been f’ing it up a little—you know, adding some pieces of the F factor diet to it because there’s only so many days I can go with only eggs for breakfast; I need cereal, even if it’s Fiber 1.    

Anyway, here I am working on my own weight loss program and thinking I will now be a party pooper, the one who’s on a diet, the one who’s not really drinking, the one who does not even pretend to eat dessert, not even a “sliver,” the one who shoos away the busboy with the bread basket in horror, the one who’s doing sashimi only, quinoa no rice, light meat chicken no skin, turkey burgers without buns, lots of green tea, you know the type. But for better or worse, I am not the party pooper, I am actually not standing out at all in my food restrictions, I am fitting right in—I’m just not fitting into what anyone’s wearing.

Stay focused, no carbs. . .no fries. . .no sugar

When did everyone stop eating? When did everyone discover spicy tuna hand rolls without rice? It wasn’t always like this.  When I turned 30, my husband threw me a surprise party at Bowlmore Lanes and he ordered food from Dougie’s, kind of like a kosher version of KFC—wings, poppers, French fries, one of those places where everything more or less tastes the same. And everyone seemed to eat it. But those days are long gone. We wouldn’t make a dent in a spread like that today. In fact, people in my circle might actually be offended by it. Something has changed dramatically in those 6 years—I guess it’s age, which is depressing. As we get older, waistlines are examined more closely because they are tougher to maintain, cholesterol levels are watched, sugar levels, blood pressure, and the like. Men, women, makes no difference. Eating is out.

You know things are bad when friends of mine want to come over and catch the stomach virus that has spread through my house this week. Though, I must admit, it’s a good one, 24 hours, quick and to the point—I lost three pounds from it.

It’s sad what’s happened in these six years. I recently went to my 30 year old cousins’ karaoke party and the food spread included candy and pizzas. No, it wasn’t a typo, pizza. There was no crudité in sight. It was actually disorienting to see young adults eating pizza. In my age cohort, no one eats pizza. At children’s birthday parties, when the host walks around offering leftover slices to the chaperoning adults, it is social suicide to take it. You even get funny looks from the kids.

And this is a part of the food story—what are our children thinking about all of our dieting and exercising?

In school last year for my first grader’s mother’s day program, they played a cute game testing how well the children know their mothers. Each child asked his or her mother a question, the mother answered, and then the child read what they had predicted the mother would say. Kind of like the Newlywed Game but for mothers and children. “What is your favorite food?” every mother was asked and nearly every mother responded with something like “pizza” “ice cream” French fries,” or some other food they might have eaten recently--in a dream that is. The children looked confused by the answers, and when it came time for the child to read what they thought their mother would say, one child after another said “salad.”  Except for one boy who thought his mother’s favorite food was falafel. Yikes.

It’s a tough place the Upper East Side. Don’t get me wrong, I love it, but those of us who live here have to admit, it’s hard not to care, and hard not to compare. There’s a bit of a playbook here—you’ve got to be thin, you’ve got to spin, you’ve got to have your hair perfectly blown, it’s not easy.

Just Sunday, I was jogging in the park, as a light rain was falling, and two young women were jogging alongside me. “I’ve got to stop,” one of them said, ”and tuck my hair inside my hood, I don’t want to have to wash my hair.” And in a hair salon this past Friday, one woman booked an appointment for 2 pm every day that week. “What can I do?” she asked with a giggle. “I’ve gotta exercise.”

Indeed it’s hard to juggle it all.

Truth is, I had my own dilemma this week. It was my 4 year-old’s Chanukah-themed mother’s visiting day in school. And in a true Upper East Side moment, she—my four year old-- asked me if I was going to have my hair blown for the big day. I had actually been thinking about whether I could sneak in a run at 8 am and arrive in time for the 9 am start of the program. What to do? Exercise or hair? And so I set my alarm for 6 am so I could run before any of my six kids were awake, and at 8 am I would have time to blow my hair. Myself by the way.  

“You’re going to be the fanciest mom there,” my seven year old said to me on her way out to school,” as she saw me in a non-sweat pants, non-ponytail get-up.

Yeah, right. That’s a good one.