A Diet of Choice

The last thing I need is another blog. I have two of them already, The Buddha Diaries and Accidental Dharma. Not to mention these entries at The Huffington Post. But this one will be a little different. It will require less thought and writing... but more real-life attention. It will be called "A Diet of Choice."

Here's the thing. I woke up yesterday morning and stepped on the bathroom scale. I was not pleased with what it had to tell me. It's not that I'm obese, just a few pounds overweight for my age and height, ten pounds maybe. Well, maybe fifteen. And it's not just what the scale tells me, it's how I feel. I'm uncomfortable with the extra weight. It weighs on me, like a winter coat. My clothes feel uncomfortable.

I look at others who lack the bulge above the midriff that I have, and I realize that they are healthier than I and, yes, that they do look better. Not that it's about cultural imperatives or aesthetics. No, it's truly about how I feel about myself, and about the realization that this is an area in my life where I am still being driven by reactive patterns rather than by consciously-made choices.

I'm reminded of my battle with cigarettes, years ago. I started smoking at the age of thirteen. By the time I was forty, I was hopelessly addicted to the filthy weed. I was all too aware of the consequences to my health, and had plenty of aggravating reminders from my wife and daughter -- which made it all the harder to give up: I didn't want anyone telling me what was good for me and what wasn't. So I started "trying" to give up.

I tried everything, from will power to nicotine patches to phony cigarettes to... well, everything. Nothing worked. I would manage to "cut down" or even stop altogether for a few days, but then I'd be back again, sneaking cigarettes like a teenager when I thought no one would know and disguising the results with breath mints and mouthwashes. I would stop buying cigarettes -- and start bumming them from fellow smokers. I kept telling myself no, no, musn't, shouldn't, can't... And nothing worked.

Nothing worked, until the day a reformed smoker suggested making it a matter of choice. Give yourself permission to smoke, he said. Carry cigarettes wherever you go. Stop saying No and Mustn't. Try saying, instead, I can, I give myself full permission to light up... but I choose not to. I choose, instead, the positive things: no smelly clothes, going to sleep at night without a pounding heart, walking up a few steps without losing my breath. Perhaps, even, a longer life.

Then it worked. I don't know about others, but it worked for me.

So I hereby give myself permission to eat and drink as much and as often as I want to, but undertake to be conscious of the choices I make and aware of their consequences. And this will be the place where I hold myself accountable. The blog...

I understand that this particular journey might be of little interest to anyone else. In my other blogs, I try to talk about things that will have some meaning and resonance for others. Here, it's about me. It's about my choices. But of course in a broader context it's also about practice and consciousness. If anyone chooses to check up on me, I welcome their kindness. I'll welcome their comments and support. If not, not. I simply choose to check up on myself in this way.

Here's the kind of thing I plan to include, a notation of what I chose to allow into my mouth yesterday: at 7:30 AM, multi-vitamins with half a glass of cranberry-apple juice and a small bowl of cereal, with half a banana, half a dozen grapes, a scatter of raisins and a little milk -- with just a splash of half and half which happened, unusually, to be in the refrigerator. Oh, and I forgot my cup of morning tea. All these were, thus far, my choices.

After gym, at 11AM, I made myself a Canadian bacon sandwich with an English muffin spread with butter. Delicious. And a cup of instant coffee with milk and sweetener. On our return to Los Angeles, I chose to eat a bowl of leftover spicy couscous with chick peas and red peppers, PLUS a small melted cheese tortilla AND half an apple. Too much. More than I needed.

Then, at dinner, a small bowl of Ellie's delicious home-made squash soup with two crackers and a green salad. Better. And a glass of white wine.

I swear I will not bore readers of The Huffington Post with such details again. Those interested are invited to follow me to "A Diet of Choice."