Radio silence around here for a bit, but I've been busy gestating.

That's right. We're having a kid -- sometime on or around early June. And it's a ride all of its own.

I may be back here in the future. But for now, feel free to redirect your browsers to: oldfatknockedup.blogspot.com

Something's Got to Give

Roll your eyes, Miss Marilyn. It's that sort of post.

Barre class last night. A tough class -- and I'm playing catch-up thanks to my two-week exercise freeze. It's amazing how fast muscles regress. I'm certainly paying for this nugget of knowledge.

I managed to stay fairly upright on the physio ball. But then a lunge sequence started. And within two moves, I fell flat on the floor. Luckily in the back of the room (and -- more luckily -- only my ego was bruised), but that moment brought me as close to a physical meltdown as I've ever had in public.

(I come from a family of cryers -- for happy and sad things. Different from my kin, however, is my personal challenge of crying at frustrating/anger-inducing things. I've come to accept this personal weakness and have coping mechanisms to keep the tears in check when they're not appropriate. But let me tell you, anger tears are the worst -- and absolutely the most difficult to control.)

You see, sustaining a lunge when your lower stomach gets in the way of a full stretch and balance -- even though you could do it if the physical barrier wasn't there -- is beyond difficult. Forget about knee and joint issues; we're talking actual inability to reach around, brace on the floor, and hold position.

People think overweight folks don't exercise because they are lazy. And sure, there may be truth in that -- but no more so than the regular lazy population. What gets me is not that workouts are challenging or sweaty or gasp-inducing (they should be), but the sheer ignorance of what is physically possible by many people.

Imagine going to any given workout knowing there will be a moment where you outright fail. That's what I have to overcome mentally. Every. Single. Time.

I've had instructors stare blankly in my face when I've asked for props or modifications to work around my stomach (yet they'll always help a pregnant woman -- I'm at a loss on this one). I've suffered through rashes and broken skin in places you don't want to consider. I'm motivated to make this work because I am ridiculously stubborn. But there are times you want to give in because the mental stress of it all is just too much.

My new buddy Karen reached out to me in the silliness of the last couple weeks to share a few links and ideas of why my body refuses to let go, despite eating lower-carb (30-40g/day) AND low calorie (1600-1800/day). Pick your nutritional theory -- I'm doing it.

Some of the ideas -- such as sleeping in a totally dark room (we do...until the sun comes up and then it's HELLO, SUNSHINE!) and eliminating dairy for possible autoimmune/inflammation issues -- seem test-worthy. But then she sent me this:

"We've seen people eating an anti-inflammatory paleo diet for upwards of a year with little change in scale weight. They feel better, but weight is slow to budge. Then suddenly, 'something' changes and weight loss is rapid and easy." (boldface mine)

And really, you have to ask yourself: When do you say "enough is enough?" When do you stop believing that it's all going to come together? And -- personal irritation here -- why in HELL is it always people who have never had a weight problem (or alternatively men who lost 80+ pounds in a month -- don't get me started on that) who are telling us to just keep going, trust in the system, it'll all be fine. There are many days where it doesn't feel fine. There's a LOT more mental anguish and -- for the first time in my life -- sheer body hatred going on over here.

You should know I'm doing this not because of vanity or fashion or any of the usual self-involved reasons, but to avoid my family's diabetic and cancer-riddled fate. And, hopefully, in order to reduce my chances of a complicated pregnancy sometime in the next year. These are my goals. This is why the number on the scale -- and its refusal to change -- is so devastating to me.

I'm not giving up. I do feel more alert, less sluggish, and have far less cravings eating the way I do now than I did before. But I don't know that I can give any more. I'm being asked to have faith where science should provide. And, try as I might to find what I'm doing wrong, I know (and The Brit has assured me) that I'm not doing anything wrong. I've been failed -- by the system, by biology, by experts, by expectations.

When do you wave the white flag? Because I'll tell you -- I've got a pile full of Kleenex sitting here that, though soggy, can be waved at any time.

Feeding the Soul

The Mean Reds. Boy, did I ever have a case of them this week. And I assure you, my hair wasn't nearly as coiffed as Our Audrey is displaying here.

In case you haven't seen Breakfast at Tiffany's (which is a wrong that should be immediately corrected, by the way): "The Mean Reds are horrible. It's when you're afraid, and you don't know what you're afraid of."

It doesn't happen to me often -- thank goodness -- but each experience with the Mean Reds is different. This one manifested as an almost total personal paralysis. I managed to continue business as usual, but outside of my home office I was an intolerable mess. Non-communicative; desperate for sleep, yet reverting to a third shift schedule (never a good sign); completely unable to do more than the bare minimum. How I managed to stick to eating lower-carb is beyond me, but I did. Small victories.

Sometime Friday afternoon, after hours of copyediting for a client, I noticed a shift. As inexplicably as the Mean Reds hit, they left within an hour. I finished work, took a swim, listened to preseason football, and managed to get out the door for dinner with friends. A glass of wine and some olives later, it was as if this horrible, awful, no-good week never happened.

Yesterday, The Brit and I slept in, leisurely lunched, and did a little antique hunting. Happy hour with friends turned into many hours, a dissertation of the pros and cons of dating a sea captain, late supper, and merriment into the wee hours. Today, we headed north to the Musical Instrument Museum and barely scratched the surface of their amazing collection. And I realized something, somewhere around Mozambique...

Perhaps this new way of living -- this diet or lifestyle or what-have-you -- is more than simple numbers and calculations. Perhaps the bigger part of it is also evaluating what is critical to invigorating your life force and what is, literally and figuratively, dead weight. Good people and a sense of community are as essential to me as water and breathing. As is music, some of which can stir me at such a base, primal level that I (shockingly!) can't put the feeling into words. I just know it's right and incredibly vital to who I am.

This weekend reminded me what I crucially need. And suddenly, part of that need is to get back to dance classes and movement. I'm hopefully saying goodbye to the Mean Reds for quite some time now, but I'm grateful for what this bout taught me. And for the good sense to know that everything -- even mental states -- balance out in the end.

Good Eats: The Brit's Famous Chicken

Last year, a small portion (about 20 -- yes, that's small) of my family descended on Phoenix for cousins' graduations. Inevitably, I invited the whole bunch over for "an evening catered by Grill Master Steven."

Minutes later, The Brit ran into my office, panicking. "Grill Master Steven?!! We just got the grill! I barely know how to turn it on!!"

I assured him it would be fine. Just steaks and chicken. Maybe some grilled vegetables. And then I immediately skedaddled for a few work days in New York.

While I was gone, The Brit grilled "test steaks" every night (to my and many NYC friends' hooting delight as he sent photos and reviews). And fiddled with "some way to make chicken interesting."

We laughed then, but let me tell you: My Man Make Fire very, very well. In a year, he has indeed turned into a Grill Master -- everything from steaks to ribs to fruit and vegetables and back again.

But the chicken. The chicken has a reputation all its own. It's made ridiculously picky eaters and true gourmands swoon. And the funny thing is: it's so simple.

We use boneless, skinless chicken breasts because they're easy, but you can use any chicken part (or heck -- poultry or maybe even firm fish?) that you like. Consider doubling or tripling the recipe -- it's great the next day and makes an unbeatable chicken salad with just a little mayonnaise, mustard, and a chopped celery stalk and/or scallion. Or you can dice up leftovers and sprinkle on many different soups.

The Brit's Famous Chicken

Serves 2-4, depending on how hungry you are

2 chicken breasts

1 cup mix of chopped fresh herbs, particularly parsley, marjoram, basil, tarragon -- "but whatever's available is OK"

1 whole lemon's rind, grated

Juice of the same lemon -- "pulp is good for extra lemonyness"

Equal amount of olive oil to lemon juice

About 1 tbsp. of mustard -- "dijon works, but a mix of brown and English is better"

Pinch of kosher salt

A few good grinds of pepper

Place everything except the chicken into a snap-top container. Shake well to combine. Add chicken breasts "and stab them with a fork several times on both sides." Shake again. Allow to marinate for at least 30 minutes "but an hour is better." Preheat grill during last 15 minutes of marinating.

Grill on medium-high direct heat about 6-7 minutes per side or until meat registers 155-160 degrees F. Pour any remaining marinade over chicken before flipping to second side to keep it moist.

When done, remove to clean plate and allow chicken to rest 10 minutes before serving.

Try this with:

• Roasted cauliflower: break head into florets and scatter on baking sheet; toss with 2-3 tbsp. olive oil, salt, pepper, and 3 good dashes cumin; roast for 20-25 minutes at 400 degrees, stirring once midway through roasting
• Grilled zucchini, garnished with a little parmesan cheese
• A simple salad or sauteed kale