The Roman Skyline from the Genicolo
We have been binge-re-watching The Sopranos and I feel like the violence and chaos on the daily news makes that show from twenty years ago seem almost tame. Also, the show makes me nostalgic for my years living in Rome and traveling to Naples, Sicily and other parts south, not to mention the food! In addition, we are watching the Bronx Bombers bomb their way into being low in the rankings for the series and now I can scream at the TV using the Italian obscenities that somehow always seem less offensive than the same colorful phrases in English. Marone! He struck out!, A fa Nabila! That ump is blind!
The Yankees have become almost a religion over the past four years; we even went to Tampa to watch a Spring Training Game at the Steinbrenner Field. I know all the players’ stats and other trivia, favoring the older Brett Gardner, whom I have given the nickname “The Cockrell” or “Bantam Brett” for his stance and posture. Also, rooting for the much-maligned catcher, Gary Sanchez, who has recently upped his game with number of homeruns and brilliant defensive plays to earn the adjective “sizzling-hot”. He had me with his sad, deep eyes. Che figo!
And just when I thought 2020 was done messing with me, on January 5th I was diagnosed with breast cancer! So from February 15th (the irony of it being the day after Valentine’s Day was not lost on me) I joined the brave sisterhood of women who have had a breast removed; I have become conversant in the language of cancer: diagnosis, treatment options, outcomes. I have researched and found the best prostheses, (a set of two for only $10 from Athleta,) and even made my own fake breast out of a deconstructed bath scrunchie found at the Dollar Store, to put into the pocket of my mastectomy swimming suit. Necessity is certainly the mother of invention in this regard. I am an optimistic fatalist and feeling well and strong. Plus, whaddaya gonna do?
The amazing thing I have learned, as we have slowly unmitigated ourselves and ventured back out into society, is that a shocking number of women just in our own small community have also been through this ordeal. It was shocking, but also, in an odd way, reassuring to me. Most of these women are far more active than I am and also they look great! So I can allow myself to be, if not complacent, at least hopeful that I have overcome the Big C.
However, I still recognize my many limitations and these were brought very much to the fore by my new Primary Care Physician who answered most of my queries in my annual checkup with, “Well, you are getting old and that is to be expected.” Or, “Since you have passed menopause you will have to accept that you will not lose weight easily.” HUH?! Then why did I spend all that money on a rowing machine when the pandemic made the gym a no-go area, and why did I deny myself bread, sugar and other carbs for the past year?!
So, I guess visions of me fitting back into that closet full of stylish outfits in size 10 are a mirage. I had already relegated those adorable size 8 clothes to the charity box. And here I had been blaming my steadily rising increments of poundage on the pandemic, when all along it was a foregone conclusion that “women tend to hold weight in their midsection and upper arms,” said the sage doctor, barely gazing in my direction, almost loathe to lay hands on me to check for what I was convinced was a watermelon-sized mass in my abdomen. I mean what else could that huge lump be? Oh, now I understand. It is FAT!
The doc explained that I could trundle away on that rowing machine for three hours and still only expect to lose one pound. What I needed to do was “control my caloric intake” until I tricked my body into thinking I was starving. “You have to limit yourself to 800 calories per day and go into starvation mode. You can expect to lose a pound a week,” he calmly recommended. Yikes! So now, in addition to counting carbohydrates, I needed to monitor calories. Oh why didn’t I pay more attention in math class! The sheer magnitude of tracking all those numbers was causing my mind to spin. I did take pride in my very good blood pressure score falling into the low range, and I mentioned that I loved salt. “Well, at your age your taste buds have begun to die. Craving more intense flavors is expected,” he said without looking up from his computer screen. “By the way, according to your BMI you do fall into the range of Obese.” I thought my brain would explode! Porca miseria! It was too much to process. If I had held onto the shred of hope with being merely Overweight, that fantasy was shattered.
So, once home I tried to ignore the fact that I was going out for a Date Night with my husband and was probably going to have to forgo more than just the carbs that I had thought were the main culprit and focus on calories. In my mind I tried to remember the menu at Burlingame’s. Let’s see, raw oysters have to be lo-cal and certainly a vodka martini would not “break the bank” calorie-wise. If I did order the Steak frites, I could easily eat around the frites, right? Oh, the pecan pie a la mode! Well, we could share and that would cut down the caloric intake a bit, but the sugar? the carbs? I was whipsawed between the diet options I had relied on, and the suggestions of the learned physician.
Then it dawned on me: fuhgeddaboudit! Stay aware of the calories and cut down on portions, use the rowing machine each day as I had been for about 40 minutes and be sensible, follow your gut! Well, following my gut wasn’t the hard part, fitting it into what I hoped to wear on my Date Night, was a whole other problem! Mannagia!
The Big Game!
