During my mid to late 80s reign as community college queen of both North Central Texas and Northern Virginia (I am doing my twist at the elbow wave to the masses), I took some photography classes. Now, I know there are lots of photographers in this world, especially in these modern days. I mean you no disservice. Your work is gorgeous. I cannot duplicate your results. You have to admit, however, the photography game is drastically different in this digital world. For instance, I cannot manage these complicated edits with their preset lighting downloads and their photoshopping elements. My daughter-in-law’s favorite local photographer, for example, was able to photoshop my then 2-year-old grandson’s one pic of a smiling noggin in place of approximately 722 other photos where he was in hard core scream face mode. That is talent. You could not tell there were actual boogers dripping down into his mouth as he was holding his great-grandmother’s hand while standing in a pasture. But, photography in the 80s had a different set of difficulties that photogs today don’t have to navigate. The loading of the film cartridge is a whole column unto itself. Unless you forced that narrow, tabbed end into that little slit in the winder upper thingy just perfectly, the entire 200 yards of glossy brown film would recoil like a measuring tape full of memories. You dared not remove the film unless you were in complete and total darkness, either. I recall studying apertures and lens combinations and flash mechanisms and exposures. THERE WAS MATH INVOLVED, so much math. The only part I excelled at was the development piece, probably because I was an only child, hence solo work in a dark room was my jam. I tell you about these photography elements because, as often happens in life, a word bounced across my phone the other day, eliciting a guttural response of floods of memories. The word was macro. As if I were again 18 and sitting in a classroom, I blurted out, “Oh, there’s a lens setting for that!” Nope.
As a 55-year-old postmenopausal woman void of most hormones, I struggle with many things. I struggle with sleep, as one cannot close one’s eyes when the room is 5,000 degrees. I wrestle with joint pain. Mainly, I just have trouble maintaining my weight. Last year, I lost 30 lbs. It got scary. Sure, I was eating clean and working out, but I’d been doing that for years with zero results. Why was success only finding me now? Turns out, I was in the throes of a diverticulitis episode that is blessedly under control these days. I cannot deny, however, that standing by and watching some of those pounds return to me is depressing. We women are always our worst critics. My appearance is a downer. My energy level, or lack thereof, is a double downer. My lack of motivation is the downest of all the downers. Yet, as a proud, card carrying possibilitarian, I decided to embrace the “what if” theory. What if it all works out? What if I just refuse to give up? What if I am victorious? So, as I do most every year, I set out on a new diet and fitness journey. Give me the velvet edge of Hanlon’s razor, I beg of you. “Never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity.” Don’t begrudge me. Just tell me to bless my heart. Because, it’s so difficult in this age.
Whether through social media influencers, YouTube fitness channels, my own children, or even my friends, the list of things I should do vs things I should not do is confusing and often contradictory. Fasted cardio is the only way to go. You should eliminate cardio all together. Strength training is the only thing that will help you. Strength training will kill your knees. Just run. It’s the best for mental clarity. Never run. It’s too hard on your joints. Yoga is good, but only for relaxing. Yoga is the only thing you need in life. Ugh. And, that is only the movement piece. Just this morning, I was trying to figure out what to eat before I attempted my 2-mile snurtle (slower than a turtle/faster than a snail). This info was helpful (wink). DON’T EAT. Eat oatmeal so the carbs keep you from passing out while snurtling. Eat, but not until you get home. Fast until noon. Fast until 2 pm. Eat only meat. Eat only grass-fed beef. Eat meat, but concentrate on organs, raw cheese, honey, and fruit. Never eat fruit under any circumstances. Eat only veggies. Vegetables secrete defense chemicals that will injure your gut. Cut out sugar. Cut out all carbs. Fish is healthy. Fish will kill you because of all the medications found in our water systems. Coffee helps. Coffee hurts. Only drink bottled water. Never drink bottled water. Charcoal filters in water pitchers are the only way to go. Charcoal is the devil. Tap water never killed anyone. Tap water killed my grandma. Drink a gallon of water a day. That’s not enough. That’s too much. And then, as if all of this info spinning in my brain wasn’t about to cause a complete mental breakdown, I read these words. “Just count your macros.” I’m sorry? Like, I am now taking pictures of my food with the macro lens setting instead of eating the food? What is this, a diet of air? Turns out, I should be tabulating my macronutrients. Then again, who wants to live a life full of desiccated organ meats and notebooks full of nutrient numbers? Besides, where do you get raw cheese? Gag me with a spoon. I miss the 80s, when community college was cheap, and my metabolism was totally gnarly.
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