Pandemic Pudge
The joke is that everyone will emerge from the pandemic as either a hunk, a chunk, or a drunk. I’m working on two of the three like I’m on a mission from God. I wish I could blame my weight gain on that witch Corona, but it’s not her fault. The truth is the pounds have crept on slowly over the past two years since my mother’s death. And once the pandemic hit, I had even more reasons to overindulge.
As a fan of post-apocalyptic movies, I recognized the signs; a global pandemic, bumbling government seemingly bent on ignoring science; there were even Nazis. Once the monoliths and murder hornets arrived, I figured the zombies weren’t far behind.
If this was the end of days, I had permission to consume large quantities of chocolate and wine, right? I couldn’t buy toilet paper or disinfectant, but booze and HoHo’s were readily available, so what the heck? While others hoarded TP, this chick was stocking up on Tito’s and Twinkies. Who wants to face a toilet paperless life skinny and sober?
As the weeks in lockdown turned to months, the news became increasingly grim. Every bleak news story, every rage tweet sent me racing back to the pantry where I double-fisted M&M’s until the blessed dopamine rush washed away my anxiety along with my waistline. I was probably one bag of Skittles away from type 2 diabetes. I’d never eaten my feelings before, but it turns out I’m really good at it. I’ll put it this way; in the snack food Olympics, I’d take the bronze.
Hiding out in my home during the pandemic, I was able to conceal my growing girth under loose-fitting athleisure wear. I wasn’t alone in this; for most, the quarantine had rendered street clothes unnecessary. Suits, dresses, heels, even my good jeans now seemed overkill for a day scooping dog poop and making dinner, the highlights of my day in quarantine.
All that stretchy clothing greased the wheels to Chubtown. Eventually, my Lululemons were so tight I looked like an over-boiled summer sausage that had burst from its casing. It was time to roll up my sleeves and shed some pounds.
If I wanted to lose weight, I’d have to stop buying sugary treats and high-calorie snacks for my kids. Although my kids rarely saw those goodies. I’d stash them on the top shelf of the pantry only to emerge later with chocolate smudged across my face. A not-so-subtle betrayal of my deception. Eating, who me? Nooo, I’m just organizing the pantry (again). As for the pantry, or as I call it, my happy place, I’d need to stop spending so much time in there. Maybe it was a bad idea to install the mood lighting and club chairs — who’s to say?
I knew I had to lose weight, but the question was, why? No one could see me in quarantine, and everyone was too busy trying not to die to get judgy. Besides, any day now, Dr. Fauci might announce that sporting a layer of chub could help ward off the virus — stranger things have been said. I needed more motivation.
The last thing I wanted to do was diet. I’ll explain, but first, drop the Krispy Kreme and pop a cork in that merlot because I’m about to share a moment of epiphany realness. Diets don’t work for me because it’s a temporary solution to a “growing” problem. As soon as a diet ends, the weight comes right back and then some! I needed more skin in the game — a reason more compelling than looking good for my Insta pics. In my case, the journey couldn’t solely be about losing weight; it had to be about gaining health.
To find my motivation, I looked to the future. At 58, I could already feel the cold tentacles of old age reaching out for me. What did my sunset years hold? Would I be a grandmother one day? And what kind of grandmother would I be — a doughy dowager, knitting tea cozies in the corner? (Don’t get me wrong, tea cozies are hella cool, just not my thing.) No knitting circle for me; I wanted to be Super Granny! Able to climb, hike, kayak, and run on the beach with my grandkids. I wanted to be a geezer on the go, full of energy and vitality.
My husband felt an even greater sense of urgency about his health. Like many people our age, he’d been diagnosed with prediabetes and high blood pressure and wanted to flip the script on that diagnosis. With our health at risk and our future in question, we now had the proper motivation. We had the why; now we needed the how. Our strategy would come from an unlikely source; The Terminator himself, Arnold Schwarzenegger.
When a neighbor suggested I watch the Netflix documentary The Game Changers about plant-based eating, I wasn’t sure what to expect. My neighbor, a svelte 5'9" red-headed dynamo, had experienced startling results after switching to a whole foods/plant-based diet. Not only had she dropped pounds and inches, but she’d also increased energy, stamina and felt better than she had in decades.
A lifelong omnivore, I was dubious about ditching meat and dairy, but after watching The Game Changers, there was no question it was the right path to take. Produced by James Cameron, Jackie Chan, and Arnold Schwarzenegger, The Game Changers examines a plant-based diet’s health benefits while shattering outdated vegan stereotypes.
Watching The Game Changers, I felt a personal connection to Schwarzenegger, whose movies and career I’d followed my entire life. It felt as if the Terminator himself were reaching through the TV screen saying, “Come with me if you want to live.” I want to live Arnold, I really DO! If the Terminator wanted me to eat plants, I was ready to grab a fistful of collard greens and munch!
Coronavirus, zombie apocalypse, and murder hornets be damned. I didn’t need Tito’s and Twinkies to weather the pandemic. I was finally ready to embark on my plant-based journey. And who knows, with the Terminator on my side, I might even say hasta la vista to my happy place pantry.
