Mumbling Madly

How you’re fed as a child shapes the way you approach food for the rest of your life. As a kid I may have thought I was horribly deprived being served fresh vegetables from the garden, pasta from scratch, and only two oreos a day. In my mind, food that came in packages was much more exotic–and delicious. But as an adult, old eating habits die hard and I am pleased to say that my folks provided a very nice food foundation for me to eat upon. Here are a few foods I discovered ‘late’ in life:

Sour cream. My mother disliked white sour food (i.e. yogurt and blue cheese) and my father’s healthy proclivities kept him from indulging. Both my brother and I discovered how delicious sour cream can be on Mexican food and wondered why we were so late in discovering it.

White bread…everything we had was whole wheat for many years–right down to the wheat germ my father sprinkled on his yogurt. This is an old habit that’s died hard: my love for gummy white bread conflicts with the nagging knowledge that wheat bread is much better for me. While I try and stick to whole wheat bread, I occasionally treat myself to white (opting for potato of fortified bread).

Garlic. This was something we fished out of our pasta and put aside–similar to ginger in stir fries. My freshman year of college a friend treated me to a slice of pizza at pagliacci’s covered with cloves of garlic. I was shocked, confused, and fascinated. It was obvious the garlic wasn’t a garnish or a spice…it was actually part of the pizza! I devoured loads of garlic until, sadly, I married someone who had the same aversion to garlic as my family. Eating it in large quantities resulting in bad breath is highly discouraged in my household.

Tortillas. Currently a staple of my kitchen, I use them regularly. When I was 14 I went to a friend’s house and was served ‘make-your-own-tacos’ for dinner. I was so thrilled with this concept that I convinced my Mom to buy tortillas, fry up some hamburger, and cut up iceburg lettuce for our own taco bar. We only did this once,but as the years wore on I have returned to tortillas time and time again.

Jalepenos and other hot peppers. A year of working at a Mexican restaurant strengthened my pallet and my tolerance level to spicy hot.

Food I discovered as an adult and then discarded: Kraft Mac and Cheese, pre-made frosting, sheet cake from Safeway, and all the other little goodies that tempt me from the center aisle. These packaged foods once seemed like delicacies to me…only to be shoved aside for their non-pre-packaged counterparts. I’m not saying I’m immune to their charms–sometimes a Hostess ding-dong is exactly what you need. I also know that convenience, whether it be adding water and mixing to a pre-made sandwich is one of the wonders of our country. But from kool-whip to microwave cakes I’ve dabbled with each one of them and always end up back to the basics. After all: just buying whipping cream in a carton and pulling out the beaters is worth the extra step.

Every now and then I’ll hear a song on KEXP and become HOOKED. This is the song that I’m listening to constantly:

Acoustic version of a Rise Against song. Loving it. I can’t find this song to buy, only the hard rock version–which is poop.

Is there anything more rewarding then home gardening? I don’t mean to sound like a touchy, feely, NPR-listening, hippy shoe wearing, latte drinking, eco-friendly, nerd but I just grew my first cucumbers. I went to the farmer’s market today. When I went past the cucumbers I thought with great zest, “Nope, I don’t need THOSE…I have them growing in my backyard.” The same goes with jalepenos, which, ok, so they aren’t quite big enough but I still picked one anyway. I planted yellow peppers…but the pepper growing on the plant is green–and getting bigger and bigger, (did they make a mistake? Or do they start out green and turn yellow eventually?) My mint is out of control and delicious in mojitos. My tomatoes are bountiful, stubbornly green, and I am impatient. Finally! One of my “early girls” is turning slightly orange–which means soon I’ll have a ripe tomato. Somehow I’ve collected four full grown tomato plants and six baby tomato plants that I stuck in random places because I couldn’t bear to throw them out. (I grew them out of a free seed packet that came with my Burgerville happy meal). I know that marveling over one’s garden is cheesy. However, it’s simply expounding on the little pleasures in life…and right now growing my own food in spite of looming recession, housing crisis, and war is remarkably satisfying.

For some inexplicable reason I feel myself drawn to the Southcenter Nordstrom’s Rack. Maybe, it’s because I exchanged the Seven’s Josh gave me for an even better pair. Maybe it’s because they offer both the left and the right shoe to try on (unlike the downtown Rack which covets the left shoe). Perhaps it’s because the location is much closer to my home. But really it’s because I totally love Nordstrom’s Rack and I can’t seem to get away from it. I even started visiting the downtown Rack before performing over the weekend–both nights. It makes sense to get downtown early for parking and is a great time waster.

However, this still means that I have to contend with the latest poor choices in fashion:

It’s as if the fashion industry is punishing us. The obesity epidemic has spawned their wrath and the industry has made fat billowy clothes that look terrible on average individuals. In fact if you want to feel overweight (or look pregnant) just slip on any of these puffy little numbers in a dim fluorescent lit dressing room.

Everybody has that band, that special, special, band that summed up their adolescence, their angst, their heartbreaks. Some of you may think, for me, that would be Skiploader, the Portland based indie band I pursued with origami, or maybe you’re remembering when Courtney and I gave the lead singer of Guttermouth a ring to give to his girlfriend back home (he gave us tickets to his next show, backstage access, and beer in return). ‘Wait,’ some of you are saying, ‘weren’t you into really weird bands, like Big Daddy Meatstraw? Karen Black? Didn’t you see Tribe 8 before you really knew who they were?’ (Yes, and Lynn Breedlove really did perform shirtless, wearing a strap-on dildo). But none of those bands compare to The One:

Jawbreaker.

I love Jawbreaker. I was very lucky the first time my high school boyfriend leaned over and flicked on his cd player for some make out music, (specifically the terrifyingly sexy “Want” off of their first album, Unfun). Perhaps because of the make out association, the music of Blake Schawrzenbach became the narrative of my youth. It could have been anything, I suppose, Metallica, Sonic Youth, (Pearl Jam, according to Josh’s recollection of early make out music), but the language of Jawbreaker was so heartbreakingly well written that it stuck.

I had never been a ‘lyrics’ kind of person, preferring the poppy sounds of Erasure and Pet Shop Boys for their dancibility and maybe a little practical REM from time to time. With the introduction of a bad boy in my life, my music shifted specifically to his taste. Suddenly NOFX (which I embarrassingly pronounced Noff-ix), Bad Religion, and Screeching Weasel blared out of my station wagon. My bf moved to Japan for a stint in the navy and I was left with nothing but a bunch of cds; my loneliness made me reach for reminiscent music and the impact of Jawbreaker began. What better music to listen to on a rainy northwest afternoon wearing long underwear, doc martins, and a sundress? Jawbreaker remains the only band that I truly love inside and out to this day. From the popular “You’re not punk/and I’m telling everyone/save your breath/I never was one” to the obscure and painful “Beneath the neon sky/ Our moonlight/ Six a.m. the floor comes alive with lice/ The pan’s dried up so tight/ With hardened beans/ We’re hungry/ So I lean on you sometimes/ Just to see you’re still there/ Your feet can’t take the weight of one/ Much less two/ We hit concrete.”

I used to have every single song on every single Jawbreaker album memorized. Each song had special meaning to me, a special inner-narration, a deep reflection on my life at the time. I listened to Jawbreaker on the bus, on the train ride from Seattle to Portland, at home while wallowing in self-pity. It’s as if Blake Schwarzenbach reached inside and rewrote my inner brain dialog better then I could write it myself. I also thought it was incredibly sexy that he had a degree in Creative Writing. I actually found a guy in the English department who I dubbed the “Sensitive 70’s Shirt Wearing Guy” and lusted after him in a way a girl can only lust after a Creative Writing major. (He must be so in touch with his feelings! He must be so tortured and in need of my help! He must write in a journal! Every night!) I saw Jawbreaker twice in concert: once in 1995 (they opened for the brand new Foo Fighters) and again in 1996 (after Dear You, their major label release). The second time I was so distraught in my personal life that I cried during the entire concert.

So obsessed with this band, I would write down the lyrics to certain songs (Chesterfield King) and create crude illustrations for them, (later publishing them in my zine “Well, I Swan”).
If MySpace had been around or any sort of social networking device I’m sure I would have been all over Jawbreaker’s page. So impressed was I by the idea of a man being able to capture his feelings in such gorgeous text that I shared his music with anyone who would listen (when Courtney had her car broken into the first thing she told me was, “they even stole all my Jawbreaker cds”). I may have succeeded in getting the attention of the lead singer of Skiploader but I was never bold enough to even write a letter to my favorite song writer.

I thought my love for Jawbreaker was because I really loved Blake , (my high school boyfriend said his friend, Christina, claimed to love Blake so much she wanted to ‘marry him,’ a sentiment that I realized I shared and jealousy recall saying, ‘well, I want to marry him too’), but I could never get into his second band, Jets to Brazil. As much as I wanted to love this band, I found it lacking. Perhaps, like myself, Blake had grown from the angsty, heart-wrenching, writer to a more grounded individual…by the time Jets came around I was no longer a pioneering, single, twenty-something living in the U District on $500 a month. My high school boyfriend was long gone, having abandon me for hard drugs in 96,’ and subsequent guys couldn’t really match those feelings.

Sure, the lyrics of heartbreak, betrayal, and tragedy still helped narrate the harrowing events of my early 20’s. But as those difficult times dissipated, my clinging dependency on this band softened, and when they quit in 1996 I barely noticed. Sure, I still dragged out the old albums from time to time. Recently, I sat in front of Wikipedia and thought, “What is one my favorite things?” I pulled out an old favorite: Jawbreaker. I looked them up, reading anything I could find about the band, and found a picture of the lead singer. Oh my gosh! He’s aged! (All that sexy emo smoking) I found a link to a tribute album that came out in 2003 and purchased it off of Amazon. I’ve been driving all over Seattle with this cd in my car, listening to all of these classic Jawbreaker songs sung by other bands. “None of these other singers have the heart,” I thought to myself, “They can’t be TRUE fans, listen to how badly they’re singing ‘Boxcar.’” The remixed version of ‘Want’ is so terrible I have to skip it every time it plays. I went home and pulled out the originals, playing them, writing about them…(maybe channeled my high school boyfriend a tiny bit). Back then I didn’t have a real job, stayed out until 4am, and entertained dangerous men. Life was so exciting back then!

“I love you more/then I ever loved/anyone before/and anyone to come/someone said your name/I thought of you alone/I was just the same/twenty blocks away.”

Went to the dentist for a cleaning on Wed., came home with a crown. Well, part of a crown, the real crown is being made, what’s sitting on my whittled down tooth is a cap. The whole thing was very scary, what with the drilling and grinding away of what was once my bicuspid. The poor little guy was rittled with fillings, and the metal was starting to cause a whole lot of sensitivity, and I was unable to chew my favorite cereal, Kashi clusters, on that side. I had put off getting a crown for 8 months and when the dentist said, “Well, you need to do it, how about now?” I realized he was right, might as well get it over with. This is the same dentist, btw, I never found a new one due to the limited choices I have within my dental insurance network. I figure, get the crown done and then move on to someone else. After all, he’s not so bad, the dental hygienists are the problem. While I was having concrete poured into my mouth one hygienist was snipping to the other about how the receptionist makes a lot of money per hour despite not ‘really doing anything but filing, phone calls, and billing.’ I was half tempted to ask her to shut-up but instead started asking all sorts of distracting questions and redirecting her attention to me. She took her revenge by making me a cap that is way too short and looks like a gimpy baby tooth in my mouth.

The next day after cleaning out our attic, I took our cat to the vet. It had been long overdue and I took her to a fancy place in Seward Park. It’s the kind of place that offers coffee in the waiting room and acupuncture for animals. Despite the fanciness we were largely unimpressed at the handling of our cat. They were not expert or fast when giving her shots. Instead of removing her to draw blood they did the whole messy thing in front of us. I learned that my cat has little veins, making it very difficult for them to insert a needle. All of these vet techs were very young, tattooed, and pierced. One girl with purple hair actually gave up finding a vein and found another tech, one with pink hair, to do the job. The whole time Hobbes yowled and cried as she was pinned to the table; I almost cried myself. We learned that Hobbes has a broken tooth, which has caused a low-grade infection in her mouth. She appears fine, is still eating (too much they mentioned), but is probably pretty uncomfortable. She needs to have her teeth cleaned and several infected teeth removed. This will cost between $550-600. Because we were unimpressed with how she was handled I called around and found a vet hospital in Renton that is cheaper–and it’s 20% off pet dental month!

Thursday night my lungs hurt and I started declining rapidly. After a rough night of body aches, coughing, and snot I awoke with a fever at 5:30 am. I started making phone calls. I called the dance studio where I have a 9am class and canceled-regrettably, it’s always tough doing that to a studio with no sub. I had to also cancel an interview for another teaching gig at the Jewish center on Mercer Island. No Thalia performance for me that night. I also had to arrange a sub for a rather high paying teaching gig on Saturday night–thanks SAM–and settled into one of the worst illnesses I’ve had in a while.

After learning I had cleaned out the attic, my sister-in-law suggested I might have Hantavirus. This is a rare deadly virus one can get from rat droppings. Always one to be susceptible to neurosis, I suddenly became worried that I had contracted this horrible respiratory condition and was going to die in a few days. We found a tiny doctor’s office in Renton that was open on a Saturday, a rough around the edges sort of place with cracked chairs and no lids on their urine sample jars. They took our insurance, though, and I was in bad shape. The doctor spoke with a thick accent as he tested me for influenza, sticking a long piece of plastic up my nose and into my sinuses. It was terribly uncomfortable and I responded by kicking my feet around and flailing on the bed. It felt like he was poking part of my brain and when I closed my eyes I saw yellow.

It turns out I have Type A Influenza. This concludes my experiment “Don’t Get A Flu Shot This Year And See What Happens.” I didn’t get one because I hate how sick I feel for 48 hours afterward. Beside, I’m pretty hearty, I figured I would be fine. Turns out, I really, really should have gotten one because then I would have likely avoided this. I’ve been totally incapacitated, unable to sit up for long periods of time, shivering one minute and in a cold sweat the next, plagued by headaches, the works. I’m in the difficult position of having to cancel or find subs for tomorrow’s classes. This always generates ill-feelings from education directors…and I’m not looking forward to this task.

Update: This is the first time in about six consecutive years where I opted against a flu shot. I started getting them in college and consistently got them when I started teaching dance in 01′. Despite the shots, I had still fallen ill with ear infections, viruses, strep throat, etc. so I was questioning the validity of the flu shot. However, the last time I can remember being this sick with these types of symptoms would have been in 00′, the year I did not get a flu shot. For me, personally, I’ve seen enough evidence to see the benefit and will never go without a flu shot again.

I also have to sing the praises of cough syrup laced with codeine.

Because the days are long and dreary I’ve been consuming book with a vengence. I recently read two ‘celebrity books’ just for fun and bubbles.
Traci Lords: Underneath it All was incredibly disappointing. It was badly written, over-edited, and full of holes. Lords, in case you don’t know, broke into the porn business at the ripe age of 15 (courtesy of a fake i.d and her Mom’s ex-boyfriend who posed as her step-father). She had a hideous upbringing, claimed to be on drugs during her entire porn career, and rose above it all to become a model/movie/techno/tv star. Surprisingly, given all these circumstances this memoir was without juice. Titillating photos from her modeling career (all rated very PG) are sprinkled throughout the book and yet she condemns the entire industry from hence she came. When the government stepped in and investigated her underage porno career, we get very few details–only that undecover agents followed and harassed her for years and drove her into therapy. And ok, she had a bad start in life, but Lords is a beautiful woman who was given a lot of opportunity due to the fact that hot women tend to get a lot of stuff handed to them–good and bad. The book was so badly written (and it’s evident she did not have a co-author) that I had to skim through most of it, realizing that, unless you’re a huge Lords fan, there isn’t much to this self indulgent, ego-stroking, memoir. (It did make me put the John Water’s movie, Cry-Baby, on my Netflix list).

The flip side was the fairly well written book, Just A Geek, by Wil Wheaton. My grandma was a huge Star Trek: Next Generation fan–she had a huge crush on Patrick Stewart–and I used to watch the series with her. I loved Wesley Crusher because he was a kid on an adult show, driving space ships around and holding his own. I remember reading up on Wil Wheaton in Tiger Beat and learning that his real name is Willow, Stand by Me was what made him a star, and that he was five years older then me. What I didn’t know is that Wil left Star Trek to pursue a movie career when he was 18 and his career never took off. His response to this is emotionally, bitterly, and thoughtfully documented in the blog he started in 2001 (when weblogs were fairly novel). Just A Geek is a compilation of many of his earlier blog entries mixed with commentary about what was going on his life at the time. There’s a lot of failed auditions, comic-cons, and angst over the fact that leaving Star Trek in hindsite was a terrible idea. It’s also apparent that the producers slighted him at every turn and omitted him from everything from the Next Generation movies to recognition events with the cast. But it’s also evident that without Star Trek and the fan base he developed Wil would not have the writing career he is currently enjoying. In fact, it was bittersweet for me to read about another actor’s struggle for recognition, career advancement, and financial success only to realize that he was a writer all along. I can certainly relate to this, although I think much of celebrity success comes with luck and not necessarily talent. Many times I’ve thought about throwing in the acting towel and declaring myself A Writer–although I don’t have the funds to start my own publishing company in order to self-publish. I also wonder if it is still possible to launch a writing career from a blog…I certainly fantasize about doing so. (If anybody knows how to go about this please let me know).

I’ve realized that my husband’s approach to grocery shopping is a great commentary on how we individually approach food. Sure, there is the guise of responsibility: the milk is organic, the cereal is whole wheat, and the weird swiss cheese triangles he found are billed as having 30% less fat. But the naughty stuff has still been slipped in: Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup cereal, Oreos, and chips. Even when Josh accompanies me to Trader Joe’s the organic Pop Tarts still make it into the basket. It used to be in CO our only option was Safeway…now that we live in Seattle a whole array of food stores are available–from the hippie grocery store a mile from our house to the much beloved Trader Joe’s.

Now Safeway is convenient, a mere five blocks from our house and boasts a newly remodeled produce section, huge sprawling aisles, and the most dangerous parking lot in Seattle. The last time I was there commercials screamed at me half the time I was shopping–which I found deeply offensive. I’m already supporting your store, the last thing I need to hear is tinny advertisements over the loud speakers while I shop. Therefore when I must resort to Safeway I usually send Josh.

This is risky…usually I try and tell him to shop conservatively–I’ll be going to TJ’s later that week–but inevitably Josh makes up for lost shopping opportunities by buying freely. He strays from the list, supplementing the bananas with waxy, non-organic, Argentinian apples. He buys in large quantities because once he finds something he loves, Josh does not want to risk being out of it–therefore we now have six boxes of whole wheat crackers (which incidentally contain the same amount of saturated fat as Oreos). Cans of soup in abundance arrive in our cupboard for those late nights when I’m not home and Josh needs dinner. Ice cream shows up, a pint of whole milk, and six boxes of cereal (from Special K to Cocoa Puffs).

Bless his heart, in reaction to my uptight approach towards food, he’s gotten better. We both read labels and have been known to stand side by side in an aisle looking at the ingredient list of two different boxes of mac and cheese. (“I’ve got 200 mml of sodium, how about you?” “250 mml!” “No way, how big is you serving size?”) But his attempts, while with the best of intentions, are no where near to what I might actually buy. How can I tell him that, while Special K does have some fiber in it, the amount of sugar and over-processed bullshit about weight loss on the package discount the minimal health benefits? I prefer the off brands, specifically Trader Joe’s minimally packaged cold cereal with their unassuming list of ingredients and high fiber count. I’ve ruled out corn syrup for the unassuming cane juice, swapped fluffy rice cereals for the stomach-filling sticks and twigs, and made the switch to non-fat milk 2 years ago. Sure, I get made fun of when I truck home the shredded wheat (“You’re becoming just like your Dad!”) but I’ve steered clear from puffed rice and anything that has zero sugar (Styrofoam cereal we used to refer to it as a kid). Some of this was in reaction to my high cholesterol reading last year–all the research pointed to a hearty fiber diet as a way to clean out your arteries (and your gullet). Part of it is that as I grow older, I find that I can’t stand the extremely sweet or the over salted. My sister actually commented on my under salted cooking when she lived with me. I always figure people can just salt to taste and, while the salt shaker still stands dutifully next to the stove, I’ve found myself turned off by super salty dishes (specifically in restaurants and even more specifically: the soup).

Do I steer away from the center aisles? Hell no. I love packaged and processed food as much as the next red blooded American. I revel in frozen pizza (fire pit baked, shipped from Italy to Trader Joe’s), boxed mac and cheese (no preservatives, 5 ingredients, supplemented with boiled broccoli), and ice cream (1/3 less fat, custard style, from Breyers). And while this post may seem to tease my husband, I’m actually making fun of myself a little bit….seriously.

I have lost my job.
Well, I guess I didn’t LOSE it, like ‘oops where did my job go?” but rather they are down-sizing, shifting gears in a new direction, changing the focus, and I wasn’t factored into the future equation. Part of this is the fact that I was simply unable to mask my genuine dislike about where the company was headed. I was no longer able to act my way out. I can’t really claim unemployment because I was asked point blank when I was leaving (since it was obvious to the owner I wasn’t comfortable working there anymore). She wouldn’t let me leave the meeting until I gave her a date…so I picked one: December 21.

A year ago I went in for my obligatory annual and I decided that, since I was about to reach the thirty mark, I should get my cholesterol checked. It came back at 210…which, according to the American Heart Association was just enough be concerned:
Total Cholesterol Level:
Less than 200 = Desirable
200–239 = Borderline high
240 = High
Even though many people would brush this off as ‘no problem’ I went through the 5 stages of grief: Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Although to be honest with you, I never reached acceptance. I simply couldn’t believe that I had actively obsessed about my weight, diet and life-style all my adult life to ultimately receive a ‘borderline high’ cholesterol mark. I was devastated. It didn’t help that Josh had had his own cholesterol checked and he ‘passed’ with flying colors (I couldn’t tell you what his number was but it was certainly desirable). I was outraged that Josh could eat mac and cheese out of a box and Tottino’s pizzas and have a better cholesterol reading then me. So I fasted and took the test again (meaning I was poked with yet another needle) and my cholesterol came back even higher: 212.

They did a full lipid panel the second time, which broke down all the different cholesterol readings, (LDL, HDL, etc) and is far too boring and inconsequential to go into detail here. The results of the blood work actually revealed something far more worrisome then a “higher then would be expected” cholesterol number–my white blood cell count was low. After getting poked in the arm every Friday for the month of December (resulting in a very impressive vein that popped out on command in my right arm) they determined that I did not have a serious disease (i.e. cancer) but a low grade infection that needed extra white blood cells. I was also on a considerable amount of medication at the time for an unrelated health problem I won’t go into and one of the side effects was quite possibly strange blood readings. This was after they had sent me to a Hematologist at Fred Hutch Cancer Research Center and I sat in a waiting room with seriously ill people who were there with the simple hope of hearing news of their rising (or falling) blood cell counts. I did not have cancer. In fact the Hematologist seemed amused at my worry since my blood test came back with flying colors–all counts high–and I’m sure I was the easiest patient he’d had all year.

The white blood cell count was freaky enough to distract me momentarily about my unfortunate cholesterol reading. However, when I wasn’t trucking over to get my blood drawn every week I was agonizing over my ‘borderline high’ cholesterol number. How could this happen? I ate cereal every morning with a fiber count of 5g or more, I started eating a handful of almonds every day (which has developed into a much better habit then eating a granola bar for snack), I tried hard to avoid Christmas treats, and vowed to only eat dessert that I had made in my own kitchen (no store bought goodies laden with trans fat). I remember the pain of buying the special Trader Joe’s peppermint sandwich cookies that only come out for Christmas and guiltily nibbling two after dinner.

This was when I crossed over to the Anger side of the 5 stages. “Screw you, test results!” I thought. “It must be the medication, there is NO WAY I have anything but a stellar body.” I might be obsessive about my health but I have yet to remove dessert from my daily diet….I just can’t. Oh sure, I’ve entertained the idea of how I could be even thinner if I just stopped buying dark chocolate. As it is, I’m sure my activity level just barely balances out my desire for a daily treat. It didn’t help that this was also Christmas time and my anger turned into spite: I’m going to eat whatever I want! Screw you, doctors, I’m having three pieces of fudge. The spirit of “it’s Christmas” evoked a very bad attitude in my eating. It’s as if all the focus, all the pamphlets they sent me about how to improve my cholesterol, provoked me to rebel.

I consulted a nutritionist, read the pamphlets, talked to my father (the family health expert), looked up everything on the web, and came to the conclusion that with the exception of my Christmas binge I was doing everything right. I don’t eat scones, I eat bread made out of cracked whole wheat, I don’t eat eggs every day, I don’t eat huge amounts of meat, I don’t smoke (and this was when I was on my year long alcohol fast), and I was trying to be good and do this ridiculous pilates work out dvd every day. I slowly put my cholesterol behind me, although it always lingered in the back of my mind: “Oh yeah, I have high cholesterol” (which I didn’t but you know how I always exaggerate). However, I moved on…

A few weeks ago I dutifully fasted and had my blood drawn for another cholesterol test. My results were shocking: everything had dropped. My new cholesterol reading was 172. I did a little dance when I found out. The nurse somehow felt that she was still obligated to lecture me about proper health and diet. “You’re thirty now and you need to be very conscious of your health–what with the huge rate of heart disease in women.” I told her that I was healthy, a dancer in fact, and that I was obsessive about my health. I asked her for the numbers, comparing last year with this year, and she said, “Well your number last year was 212 and it’s appearant that your life style changes helped decrease that number.”
I couldn’t help but say, “Life style changes? I haven’t made ANY changes…I’m just no longer on any crazy drugs.” The nurse seemed skeptical that I hadn’t abandoned a lifestyle of donuts but agreed that perhaps it was the medication.

I’m not sure what the point of this post is. Go get your cholesterol checked? Always take your test results with a grain of salt? Recognize that no matter how hard you try you might get a health curve ball? Or maybe, all of above…I’m just happy I can tick on thing off the worry list.