The 34% Solution

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

Three days before Christmas I went to see my GP for my annual check up. He was pleased to see me, mostly because I’d dropped over 20 pounds since I’d seen him last year and because I was bearing a rather large box of Christmas cookies from Isgro’s Bakery. But that warm glow was short lived.

As we began discussing aging and health, I complained that although I had dropped in sizes, and the shape of my body had changed dramatically, I had hit a wall and even adding extra cardio to my five days at the gym, hadn’t shifted the scale in months.

“Wah, ya wanna be Nicole Ritchie?”
“Heck no,” I countered. “If I was that thin, my face would drop off.”

Of course that discussion quickly degenerated into a discussion regarding the doc’s 47th birthday, which was set to traumatize him in 24 hours. We then discussed his interest in learning how to inject Botox, if only to be able to zap his own wrinkles. When I did get him back round to the topic of me, he mentioned that he has a nutritionist that comes into the office once a month and that I could get an appointment with her that afternoon if I could come back to the office at 1 pm.

Since I like the truth, however brutal it may be, I agreed, and returned a few hours later to see her. After preliminary intake, she gave me a Body Cell Index test. More exact than a Body Mass Index, this test, shoots an electromagnetic current through your body to determine in pounds how much muscle, fluid, and fat your body contains. What I got was a real shock, not electrical, but emotional.

While I had an amazing amount of muscle mass (of the 48 pound of recommended muscle for my height and weight and fitness level, I had 47.9) but I also had a scary body fat percentage of 57.3 pounds or 34%.

I could have cried. That’s like the fat percentage of those who are over 200 pounds and think walking to the corner constitutes a work out. Rosie Bloody O'Donnell is 31%. What the hell was going on? Even my trainer was skeptical of the results, but after a temporary freak out, I decided I couldn’t argue with science. (Well I could, but that would be called denial.)

The conclusion was obvious, at least to Nicki the Nutritionist. I needed a 9 pound loss of body fat just to get me in what she determined “healthy range” so on top of working a full time job, manning the homestead and trying to get my jewelry design website off the ground, I had to manage that, while exercising even more, eating less and eschewing (sigh) champagne.

So I did what any woman who's about to capitulate would dom I drank enough sparkling wine and Piper Heidsieck to float the QEII between December 23rd and December 31st when at 8 pm I decided enough was enough and it was time to work on a solution for the 34%.

So three days into the new year I’m keeping a food diary, drinking nothing but water, and green tea, both hot and iced, and wishing that my stomach, would stop embarrassing me with it’s loud demands for food.

Even when our mate Jimmy joined us for dinner last night, I virtuously refused to indulge in a gorgeous bottle of red wine presented to us, because unless my heavily pregnant nutritionist plops out progeny prior to her due date, I’ve got a follow up appointment on January 25th.

I’ve cleared out the cupboards and set myself up for success and even posted last January 2005 and 2006’s weights and measurements to keep me motivated, but it will be tough, especially in light of Chelsea’s recent matches. Because if the Blues keep playing as poorly as they did against Aston Villa it may be enough to drive me to drink.