How I (Finally!) Got in Shape
By Michelle Burford Every January for 15 years, I committed to a different weight loss scheme—from a cabbage soup diet to a carb-restriction plan, from fitness boot camp to a personal trainer. And sure, I could drop ten pounds at the start, but by February 7, my promise to begin each day with a healthy breakfast and a 60-minute workout was replaced by a hot new relationship with my snooze button.
My wake-up call came one year ago, courtesy of my doctor, who told me bluntly, "You will get diabetes." I had the family history, the extra weight around my waist, the high blood pressure, the high cholesterol. Plus, I'm African-American (we're diabetes magnets). That evening I had a sudden realization: If I wanted my changes to last, they had to be doable, not daunting. So I sketched out a strategy for taking back my health. I call it the If-I-do-just-two-things-this-year list, and it includes only itty-bitty baby steps toward wellness. Last year, step one was completing five jumping jacks every day. Not only do jumping jacks feel more like play than exercise, but doing a set immediately revs my energy and lifts my mood. Step two: one tablespoon of ground flaxseed every 24 hours. No matter how I take it—hidden in my breakfast cereal or mixed with the mustard on my sandwich—it makes me feel full (it's loaded with fiber), plus it may lower my cholesterol and ward off heart disease and, bingo, diabetes.
By last June, six months of sticking to my two-step program had given me the confidence to take a bigger leap: speed walking. Instead of—yawn—committing hours to a treadmill, I began power-striding my way through Manhattan. I walk to the dry cleaner (around the corner), my favorite tea shop (one mile), Saturday brunch with friends (three miles). I've not only cut my transportation costs in half; I've lost 40 pounds and five inches from my midsection, and my blood pressure and cholesterol numbers are now normal. Yes, there are days when I veer off-track and swap a stroll for a hot fudge sundae. And that's when I cling to the Japanese proverb taped to my mirror: "Fall down seven times—get up eight."
How I Came to Terms With My Mother
By Kelly Corrigan It came to me in parts, how cold and unforgiving I'd been to her all those years. Part one: grad school. A literary critic named Edward Said is assigned. His work calls out the idea of the "Other"—namely, people who seem so foreign in some essential way that we consider them utterly alien. Part two: My mother-in-law visits. My husband, her son, never picks at her or rolls his eyes or sighs with irritation. Not when she's with us, and not after she goes. Part three: My 6-year-old is squeezed out of a playdate, and every consolation I offer puts another inch between us. I "don't get it." I'll "never understand." I'm "not listening." It is the first time I've ever been useless to her. No, it's worse than that. I am compounding her pain. Explaining to me is "not worth the trouble." Eventually, she gives up. I am told, in a tone I've never heard before, to "forget it." But actually I have heard that tone before. Where have I heard that tone? Then she's storming upstairs, saying "I'll talk to Dad." I want to be sturdy but it feels like I've been slammed against a wall. And while she's in her room (I guess), writing in her journal (I'll bet), I sit at the table wondering how it is that I have become so Other and if we'll ever have the easy camaraderie my husband shares with his mom, and remembering where I know that voice from: 1980 to 1985, suburban Philadelphia. Mom, I think as I slump over my tea. Oh Mom, I'm so sorry.