Trying to practice a little restraint

Sheryl Van Der Leun

Normally by this time of the new year I’m slouched in front of the TV

with a bag of Double-Stuffed Oreos and an ashtray nearby, as I gaze

at the running shoes parked where they’ve sat for the past year. I am

utterly depressed by my inability to maintain any of the resolutions

so stoutly made in the fervor of the New Year.

This year it’s different. I’m confident I can maintain the course

of action for physical improvement upon which I embarked days before

New Year’s. Why? I gave up and decided not to make any resolutions at

all. The list was just too daunting. I did vow, however, to begin

exercising some restraint, especially in the area that takes on the

greatest concern for most of us this time of year, our eating intake.

In my case, the inspiration, or degradation, was the 20-some

pounds I had accumulated over the past year, for which the culinary

talents of my husband are entirely to blame.

A professional change also created unwelcome poundage. My old

workplace had a convenient if boring cafeteria where I defaulted

daily to the bland salad bar, helping to balance out the caloric

stratosphere of my husband’s lovingly prepared gourmet dinners. And

my new job forces me -- forces me, I tell you -- to go out to lunch

several times a week, so instead of sullenly munching on naked

iceberg lettuce, I’m breaking bread and spearing fried calamari with

all too much frequency.

And all the lessons I’d learned in Weight Watchers about points

and portions and drinking gallons of water? Blithely forgotten.

Surely a symptom of encroaching middle age, not wanton abandonment of

healthy eating principles.

I read recently about a theory of behavior modification that’s the

antithesis of the cold turkey method. This theory involves several

levels of progressive acceptance -- reminds me of the grieving

theory, wonder why -- until the point is reached at which the

individual can truly be committed to the behavioral change. Maybe

this is what had been happening to me unconsciously all year. Like

when I joined a gym. It took me weeks before I actually went. I also

signed up for spinning classes and purchased the very expensive

specialized shoes that help prevent you from flying off your

stationary bike when pedaling at high speed. Even managed to (barely)

make it through a couple of classes before my back went out. And when

I traveled for work, I took my sweats and my running shoes. I didn’t

actually use them, but I did take them.

There were the usual signs that something was going to have to

give, or it would probably be the strained zipper on my jeans. One

day I was blow drying my hair when I realized with despair that even

my forehead looked fat. The horseshoe-shaped scar I’ve had ever since

that bicycle accident in fourth grade was actually puckering. That,

or I was way overdue for the Botox appointment.

The final straw came when I downloaded images from a friend’s

birthday luncheon. That couldn’t be me. My arm looked like a ham

hock. Thankfully, I was standing at the far side of the group, so I

just cropped a good portion of my body out of the picture.

Last weekend, as we loaded up the car up with gifts and cookies

and candy to make the 500-mile trek back home to Laguna Beach after

visiting our families in Northern California, it dawned on me that I

didn’t have to wait until New Year’s to begin practicing a little

self restraint.

So when my sister-in-law Kim offered me a piece of her special

deluxe sour cream coffee cake before we left, I said no thanks. And I

held off, too, until the first Starbucks break, 23 miles down the

road, where I had only half of an apple fritter with my nonfat

vanilla latte. And so my journey to restraint began.

With a nine-hour drive ahead of us, I had plenty of time to think

about it. I started working on my willpower right there and then in

the car. When confronted with a bag of Tootsie Roll Pops, I

challenged myself to not bite at all until I got all the way to the

soft center. It only took four Tootsie Roll Pops until I made it

without biting.

I showed even more restraint at our numerous stops. At the gas

station, while my husband and son stocked up on Twinkies and Fritos,

I stayed outside, doing mini lunges on the curb, pausing only to

flick the ashes from my cigarette.

Once home, my friend Colleen and I struck a pact: We’d meet at

5:45 a.m. to walk on the beach at least three times a week, and we

would not stop for coffee halfway through. Will I be able to keep up

with this insanely rigorous schedule? Will I be able to suck on

Tootsie Pops without biting? Who knows? And we won’t even talk about

quitting smoking. One thing at a time. Maybe when next year’s New

Year’s rolls around, I’ll be ready to make a real list of

resolutions.

* SHERYL VAN DER LEUN is a Laguna Beach resident.