Taxed

It's that time of year again.

Taxes.

I hate the IRS. Vehemently.

But, having the privilege of living in this country necessitates the paying of taxes. I get it. I'm Canadian. I was born understanding that the government would take at least thirty cents of every dollar I made.

And I do believe in paying taxes. (And socialized medicine.)

I endorse the idea that those that have should help to take care of those that don't. Absolutely. Of course, that is a broad statement and inside of it, there are many, many layers of circumstance that cause me to scratch my head.

For instance, the other day, I learned a little something while doing manchild's taxes. He didn't earn much, which is understandable considering he's young, barely out of high school and in the restaurant business. Consequently, he didn't pay much in taxes, which was reasonable in my mind. Then, things got a bit murky.

As the tax code is currently written, he was entitled to a refund of every single penny he had paid into the system. This didn't bother me because he wasn't tapping into any social service program and he was quite willing to work and contribute his share to society. What chapped my ass was that not only did he get a refund of the taxes he paid but he got an additional $300. For what? Reward for going to work every day?

I know that there are arguments to be made on both sides of this issue, obviously, because our country is a diverse nation, full of people, each of whom have a story to tell. But if my step son is only one of millions being refunded beyond their contributions, we can only imagine what a huge chunk of change this is.

The term, "fair" is subjective, at best. My idea of what is balanced and reasonable is likely to be very different from the single mother trying to put food on the table for her kids. That extra $300 could be life-altering for some. I do realize this. I'm just conflicted with the knowledge that there is zero accountability for the extra funds. It could be spent on food or it could just as easily prop up a drug habit. Who knows?

I think I'd feel better about it if that $300 found its way into a program that created jobs or provided medical care or counseled young people about credit. Something. Anything. That way, as I fork over my "fair" share every month, I can still find a way to sleep at night without being burdened by festering resentment.

Namaste and All That Crap

So now that I'm all middle aged crazy and obsessed with health and fitness, I had a few moments of panic this weekend wondering how I was going to fare with all the readily available chocolate and limited gym hours.

Saturday morning, I told Dallas that I wanted to participate in an 8:00am power yoga class and did he want to come.

"NO." Emphatic.

I pressed him.

"Why not? You said you wanted to work at becoming more flexible. This is the perfect opportunity."

"No." Emphatic, calm and accompanied by shaking head and matter-of-fact countenance.

When I opened my mouth to protest further, he said, "There is no way in hell that I am going to try to twist my body in front of a group of people. You don't understand. I am as stiff as a four by two. I'm not doing it."

And that was that. He got on the treadmill and I walked into the studio. Let me just say right now that Dallas was the smart one.

The class was called "Power Yoga" which, had I truly pondered things for one second, should have been a giant red flag. At the time, I kind of thought that power and yoga in the same headline was really just an oxymoron or a way to assuage the insecurities of the instructor who probably wished she was teaching something more challenging like Body Pump. Really, how bloody powerful could yoga be? Oooohhhh, I really stretched that one......right?

So, so wrong. Horribly, painfully wrong.

The teacher arrived and like most who practice yoga, she had a body that can only be described as supple. She was as graceful as a ballerina and she emanated good will. I was so excited to be trying something new. That joy lasted exactly six minutes.

I was a warrior 1, warrior 2, warrior 3, and an upward warrior and let me tell you: I have no interest in being any kind of warrior again. Ever.

I was a chair, a downward facing dog, a bridge, a triangle, a pigeon, a plough, a half revolved belly and a freaking king dancer. There were plank poses and push ups and lunges called something pretty and deceiving instead of just telling us outright that we would be in hell for the next five minutes. For an hour and a half, I struggled through pose after pose. Sweat poured off me and I swear I could smell the Ouzo I'd consumed a week before.

At the end, the instructor went around the class and placed lavender scented cloths on our faces as we lay on our backs recovering. Every muscle in my body quivered unpleasantly. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that it was WORSE THAN CHILDBIRTH.

So, I'll be back again next Saturday because I'll be damned if I admit to people that a YOGA class kicked my ass.

Medicinal Ouzo

Last week, Dallas and I traveled to Florida to attend a trade show where one of my clients was exhibiting. Now that we are all about eating clean, we had pretty serious food issues.

"My God, what will we eat?" I asked, "How will we get enough fiber?"

See, here's the thing. I have obsessive/compulsive tendencies. Oh, I know...shocking, right?

But this eating lifestyle had proven to be so successful for the two of us that I was coming out of my skin fretting about how we were going to maintain things when we were looking at having every single meal, for FOUR days, out at a restaurant. So, I came up with this great plan to take a bunch of food with us.

And this is why my husband is a saint.

Because, instead of telling me that my head was on fire, he simply asked what he could do to help me prepare. He's emotionally intelligent like that.

So, we filled a cooler full of fruit, vegetables, organic bread and all the trimmings for sandwiches, organic plain oatmeal, ground flax meal, wheat germ and protein powder. As it turned out, we ate every breakfast and most lunches from our chilly bin. Dinners were a different story.

Oh boy.

On Friday night, we went out with my customers to this noisy Greek place called "Opa". We started the evening off with shots of Greek liqueur and I can tell you first hand, that nothing good comes from mass quantities of Ouzo.

Dallas and one of my clients had lamb for dinner. They were so excited about this because lamb is one of those foods that you either love or hate and it is firmly in my gag category. I loathe it, which is problematic for my Kiwi husband considering lamb is one of New Zealand's national treasures. Consequently, the only time Dallas gets a sniff of it is when we are out. Just seeing the grease on his lips after he polished off a chop was enough to cause a rise in my gorge so, I drank more to settle my belly.

See there? What did I tell you?

That is my husband.

On a table.

With a belly dancer.

Do you think he's looking at her boobs?

Hmmm....

So this is how the evening went and eventually, we all ended up on the tables dancing because Ouzo takes every last drop of self consciousness and flushes it down the toilet.

The next morning, we dragged our sorry behinds to the gym and as I started running on the treadmill, I experienced a searing pain in my right toe. Cramp? Spider bite? Gout?

None of the above.

I stripped off my running shoe and sock, turned my foot over to have a look and extracted a sliver of porcelain roughly the size of Texas out of my toe.

Word to the wise: when dancing on tables, it is best to leave ones shoes on.

Eat Clean

I'm down a pant size.

This makes me happier than you can imagine especially considering the fact that the scale doesn't seem to know that my arse is a size smaller. But who cares what the scale says, right?

I do.

But I'm not going to dwell. I am just going to revel in the fact that I had to clean the DUST from my pants this morning before I wore them. They'd been hanging in my closet that long.

And it's all because we now Eat Clean. Click on the link and give the site a visit.

I know that it uses that filthy four letter word beginning with "d" but don't worry. It's not some calorie-restricting horse pucky nonsense that will mess with your body's survival instincts. It's a lifestyle and a fairly easy one to adopt.

Again, the author did not reinvent the wheel. The principles of this lifestyle are pretty simple.

• Eat lots of organic fruit and vegetables, preferably grown by farmers in your local area
  
• Eat lean protein from pasture raised animals, wild caught fish, beans and legumes.
  
• Eat six small meals a day
  
• Eat a fistful of complex carbohydrates from sources like buckwheat, millet, quinoa, brown rice and whole grain pasta with at least three meals
• Don't eat anything that contains ingredients that you either can't pronounce or can't identify
• High fructose corn syrup, trans fat, artificial sweetners and anything "enriched" is a no-no.
  
• Avoid processed food like the plague
• Cook
• Exercise

I bought both her book and her cookbook. It has made all of the difference in the world and I feel good preparing this stuff for my kids. Neither one of them will eat from the school cafeteria anymore (thank God).

There are a couple of drawbacks, though.

This lifestyle requires lots of planning. There's really no room for a spur of the moment pizza from Dominoes if you forget to defrost the chicken. Generally, I have a pretty good idea about what we are going to have for every one of our meals and prepare accordingly. It's work, for sure, but it's worth it.

It's also challenging to travel and try to adhere to eating clean. More about that in a post tomorrow.

And let me tell you, buying all organic product is a kick in the wallet so I don't tolerate waste especially well. I've been know to chase my children with a half eaten apple demanding that it be finished because it cost us an arm and a leg. But, when I measure the cost against the health benefits, the environmental pluses and the humane treatment of animals, there's no real contest. Eat Clean doesn't say much beyond the recommendation to know thy farmer but after reading other stuff on the subject, I will never again purchase meat from animals that have been grown at concentrated animal feed operations or eggs from battery caged hens. EVER. EVER. EVER.

Did I mention that the body reacts to the increase in fiber, veggies and beans? Oh yes. We have become a flatulent bunch. Wickedly so. Apparently, as the body adjusts, the gas will pass (pun completely intended) but I couldn't wait for that indefinite time in the future and thus, found myself at the health food store using all kinds of euphemisms (windy, bloated, ripping) to try to explain my predicament to the sales girl. I came away with a $30 bottle of digestive enzymes which I am happy to report, seem to be helping.

Regardless of the few inconveniences, eating clean suits me. I can't imagine going back to dieting or processed food or low carb or any of the other excesses that used to be a part of my life.

Now, excuse me while I go hug a tree, in my Birkenstocks, whilst munching on my granola.

I Hate My Bathroom Scale

Yesterday, once I had the opportunity to wear the thrill of holiday-ness for a few hours, I did something really stupid. (Imagine that)

I stepped on the scale and found myself up by a pound.

Man, I just never learn.

I really don't have a clear handle on why the scale has become such an obsession. For years, I didn't own one and I behaved like an emotionally well-adjusted person and gauged the success of my lifestyle by how my pants fit. Those were the good old days back in San Diego where the weather was perfect, the air tasted of salt and I could shed a hangover AND five pounds with a Bloody Mary and a greasy breakfast. I had abs back then.

I fondly refer to that time as B.C.(before children) because once the babies came, the loins were never the same again. And then I turned 40, had myself a mini midlife crisis and quit smoking. Kicking the habit was the best thing I've ever done for myself but years of all that oral/hand stuff (I know that sounds dirty) had to be replaced and unconsciously, I chose food. What I failed to realize until it was too late was that along with the bifocals, the ongoing battle with gravity and an irrational Aunt Flo, midlife took my metabolism and sent it to Mexico where I'm sure it is now enjoying an umbrella drink.

So, for the past three years, I have been waging a war on flab.

And mostly failing, which has gotten on my very last nerve.

Recently, I learned that the secret to permanent weight loss has very little to do with the exercise and everything to do with nutrition. Yesterday, I learned that the body can be tricked for about three days before it will begin to react to a deficit in calories. Then, thinking there might be a prolonged famine, it slows the metabolic furnace down to a flicker.

And the scale creeps up.

So, chronic dieters like me slash calories even further, which only makes the problem worse. Eventually, all that exertion in the gym and deprivation in the kitchen takes its toll and inevitably, the dieter will find herself staring out at the world from the bottom of a Girl Scout cookie box.

The solution? Eat more, more often and some days, eat less.

Counter-intuitive but true.

I hope.