killing me softly

Yesterday may have been an "if-it-isn't-one-thing-it's-another" day (gandhi smiles). But today was its first cousin once removed: a "one-thing-leads-to another" day.

Some time ago (the earth's crust was cooling at the time, if my memory serves me well), I decided I was going to grab ahold of my health with both hands and a sturdy shillelagh. My diet, though high in aesthetic appeal, was a nutritionist's nightmare. I was sorely overweight. And I had several medical conditions that needed tending to.

So, I did what my obsessive self is prone to do. I threw myself into a diet and exercise program that would have made Torquemada's day.

I religiously walked 15 miles (or more) each day. I stripped out as many carbohydrates from my plate as I could. (That was a bit difficult because the low-lying fruit had already been picked. I do not care for most fruit and I am not a user of alcohol.)

Nancy Dardarian over at Countdown to Mexico convinced me to try intermittent fasting. I ate only two meals a day at 2 and 6 in the afternoon. The result was that within 6 months I had carved off 50 to 60 pounds from my Falstaffian body. 

And then one day, for no apparent reason, I stopped the whole process. Just stopped. And I am not certain why. No more walking -- and, worse smashed potatoes and bread returned to my plate. And no more daily blood tests -- for over two years now.

I have some theories. The first is that my Mexican neighbors started talking to me in hushed tones asking if I had cancer. When they did not suspect cancer, my friends were kind enough to point out that I looked horrible. The most common comment was that I looked 20 years older. And I felt it. Losing the weight left me fatigued. I did not particularly like the look of the guy I had become.

But that was all vanity. I think I just got tired of sounding like one of those people you dread will sit next to you at a dinner party whose depth of conversation is solely Their Health Numbers. You know those moments: when you wish that Western Civilization held seppuku in higher regard. Perhaps that is why butter knives are so dull.

That is why I was a bit shocked when I suggested (to myself) it was once again time to put some discipline back into my diet and exercise. As of Sunday, intermittent fasting has reappeared and walking is back on the schedule -- with a personal restriction of no more than 10 miles each day. I am trying a bit of moderation.

Because of the summer heat here in the afternoon, I decided to take most of my steps on the upper terrace. It is a perfect walking track. One circuit of the square (what I call "circling the square" just to raise the eyebrows of mathematicians) is 1/20th of a mile. You can do the easy arithmetic from there.

Well, it was not so perfect on my first circuit. Two fronds of  a Queen Anne palm hit my head as I walked under them. There must have been an arachnid convention in session on one of the fronds because I was showered with multiple spiders and scorpions. (The land crabs must have been caucusing elsewhere.)

When palm fronds sprout from the palm's trunk, they are a perky lot. But age and gravity, as we now know from Gillian Anderson, will affect both homo sapiens and palm fronds. The fronds needed to be trimmed -- or I was going to be forced to play George of the Jungle on each lap.

I put my walk on hold and went downstairs to the bodega where I retrieved two limb loppers. In less than two minutes the Ho Chi Me trail was back in operation.

Then, I saw some loose pieces on the palm trunk and used the pole-topped lopper to pull them off. Then another. Then another. Two minutes stretched close to two hours.

On Sunday I was eating a tuna salad sandwich in the swimming pool and dropped a tiny piece of fish on the pool apron. Because this is the tropics, a line of ants appeared almost immediately, and carried the tuna across the patio and up the same tree I was lopping. I suspect it was the equivalent of a human (with the help of some friends) carrying a grand piano from Portland to Seattle. I was impressed.

But, while clearing off the base portions of the dead fronds, I discovered where the ants were homesteading. In my cleanup process, I broke open their nests. They frantically rushed around trying to save as many eggs as possible, including up my arms and legs.

Within minutes they were organized enough to carry off their young to better homes. I suspect we humans could learn some lessons from them.

All of the dead fronds are now collected in seven large garbage bags for tomorrow's garbage pickup (despite the creative suggestion of a Mexican friend who suggested I should just pull them out into the middle of our dirt road in front of the house, and set them on fire). I will need to give the garbage men a sizeable tip. They usually refuse to pick up yard debris due to the limited space in the truck.

My walking track is cleared and the patio is tidied up -- and I am now eating in my four-hour envelope.

Despite what I said about lifestyle changes yesterday, this is one that will need to be permanent.