Dieting: The New "Don't"

By now you may have heard the news: Diets don’t work. It's been confirmed.

Researchers at UCLA pored over 31 long-term weight-loss studies and found that long-term dieting does not keep the pounds off. Individuals may lose weight initially, but like the old saying goes, it comes back...and then some.

The study, published in the April issue of American Psychologist, did not look at fad diets or organized weight-loss programs like Weight Watchers. What researchers discovered was that individuals who diet typically lose 5 to 10 percent of their starting weight in the first six months. However, at least one-third to two-thirds of people on diets regain even more weight than they lost within four or five years. Even worse, the true number may be significantly higher. Essentially, dieting may be a predictor of future weight gain rather than a way to stave it off.

Why do diets fail? They can be boring and tedious; temptation rears its ugly, calorie-laden head; plateaus can be discouraging; and sometimes people lose too much, too soon.

So what works? It's that one special word we hear over and over: Mod-er-a-tion.

So I guess it's a good thing I got rid of my tub of chocolate-covered raisins.

Exercise is also key, which I think we all know. Also, according to the National Weight Control Registry, people who have been able to keep their weight off share some common habits, including: eating breakfast daily; enjoying a moderately low-fat, high-carbohydrate diet; keeping track of progress through weigh-ins and food diaries; and exercising 60 to 90 minutes daily. (This sounds like a lot to me, but I’m hoping you can count things like taking the stairs, walking to lunch, and singing out loud to Beyonce in your car.)

I guess this study just confirms what we all know - dieting doesn’t work. But it can be so easy to eat something fattening and follow it up with the standard, "My diet starts tomorrow." I definitely think the moderation element is so important, especially when it comes to weight loss, which impacts not only our everyday activities, but our long-term health and emotional well-being. How about you - has your experience been that dieting does not, in fact, work? Is moderation just a four-syllable word? Share your experiences so others can learn from your successes and bloopers.

Sticks and stones

A friend of mine - a gymnastics coach - emailed me a while back with the following message:

"I'm judging a gymnastic meet right now and I'll have you know some coach has called her gymnast 'chunky butt' five times in a row...loudly. The gymnast doesn't seem to mind that much...or at least as much as I did when a coach told me yesterday I needed to lose weight (my friend was just starting to walk after having had a broken leg in a cast for six months, mind you)...but seriously...chunky butt?! I've been involved in this sport for 22 years...and my God, my children will never, ever, ever, be even recreational gymnasts!!!"

I saved this email because it made me so sad and reminded me of the impact that an even seemingly innocuous comment (let alone CHUNKY BUTT) about our bodies can have on us, particularly at a young age. In the fourth grade, a scrawny young boy in the popular crowd who shall remain nameless (OK, it was Matt) called me a cow in front of a group of boys and girls and will forever be burned into my memory. I also remember going to see the doctor in the fifth grade because I wanted to lose some weight...I was hypothyroid at the time but didn’t know it...and all I secretly hoped was that the doctor would just look at me and say, "Leslie, you’re beautiful and healthy and don't you even worry about losing a single ounce." Instead, he pinched the roll of baby fat around my middle and said, "Eh, you could get rid of about 10 pounds." I was shattered. Not only detail of that moment has faded from my memory - I remember the all-denim skirt-and-shirt outfit I was wearing, the cliché desert landscape painting that hung on the wall, the reflection of my stomach in his thick eyeglasses as he peered down at me.

Comments sting. Sticks and stones DO break bones. I'd imagine being called, oh, "a rude, thoughtless little pig" by a parent (and then having it broadcast over every media channel in the country) is pretty rough on the self-esteem. Similarly, wonderful, positive compliments - which need not be looks-based, but can be as simple as telling a child, "That was such a kind thing you just did by holding the door open," or "Great job on your math test!" - can do a world of good.

That's my rant for the day. I love all of my smart, sassy, insightful readers! And I would never, EVER pinch anybody's waists :-) They are all beautiful as they are, I am sure.

Love,
Leslie

Blonde(r) and havin' more fun

Why do I let myself go so long between highlights? I love the way I feel walking out of the salon - somehow lighter, bouncier, more confident - and each time I vow to not let three months whiz by before I return.

And yet.

Life goes on. I write, I workout, I've got family gatherings and girls' nights out and tours and interviews and before I know it, my sunshine-colored strands have faded to earthy brown. My face, framed by my natural roots, looks pale and dull. Zits pop out from nowhere; the circles under my eyes go full-moon.

But once my stylist Molly works her magic, painting on the violet-colored cream and wrapping my locks up in foil, I am like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon of dull hair. I am (blonde) woman, hear me roar!

Now, before this turns into a blog version of that admittedly fabulous Hairapy commercial that plots blondes against brunettes, know this: It is not my intent to say blonde is better than brunette or redhead for that matter. My parents have brown hair. Some of my best friends are brunette...really! And it was a spicy redhead who introduced me to thong underwear and Fresca, for which I will forever be grateful. I simply like the way I look and feel with goldilocks.

How 'bout you? What's your favorite hue and why? Ever do anything super fun and crazy, like pink streaks?

Buying in bulk: BEWARE!

Purchasing the 3.375-lb. bulk canister of chocolate-covered raisins seemed like good idea at the time.

"Oh, I'll just have a few at a time," I deluded myself into thinking. "A quick choco fix for when I'm stressed or PMSing." What was I smoking? The first night they were in the house, I rushed home from dinner with a girlfriend and flung off the frisbee-sized lid, proceeding to furiously feed the chewy gems into my mouth one after the other like a lil old lady plugging quarters into an Atlantic City slot machine. Twelve hours later, after breakfast (fine, during breakfast), I downed a handful more. It was like they had crack in them or something. This was sick and wrong. Why was I busting my butt working out and eating fruit and salmon and salad if I was going to undo all my healthy efforts loading an arsenal of calorie and fat bombs down the hatch? Don't get me wrong -there's nothing wrong with enjoying treats...in moderation. But moderation is about as much a part of my vocabulary as the word cooking.

Which is why I had to ask my husband to hide the chocolate-covered raisins.

I was double-fisting the suckers before an afternoon run when I plopped the canister next to him and begged him to bury them somewhere deep and far away. Out of sight, out of mind, I figured. He obliged, promising not to tell me where they were for two days. Man, he's good. The first day my plan worked to my advantage but the next, I found myself practically shaking with cravings and, I'm ashamed to say, started looking around for his secret hiding place. I checked under the bed, in the laundry room and even in the oven (like I said, a cook, I am not.) Finally, I broke down and called him at a Cubs game.

"I need my raisins," I whined. "Are you sure you want me to tell you?" he asked. In the background I heard a ball crack and the crowd roar. My poor husband - this is what he was dealing with as the Cubs played St. Louis. "YES!"

"They're in your closet, on the floor under your tank tops." Oh...he's good. I flung the phone down and dove into my closet, finding my sweet little babies, safely hidden by my sweet little baby. I only hope he can come up with another good secret spot, because I had to ask him to squire them away a second time. Wish me luck.

Lesson learned: Don't enter warehouse grocery stores immediately post-workout while hunger pangs are beginning to rattle around and do not, under any circumstances, delude yourself into thinking a bulk container of chocolate-covered ANYTHING can be slowly rationed out unless you have the willpower of Jenny Craig herself. In that case, by all means, go for it. Otherwise, learn from my mistake.

And tell me...have you ever had to hide food to keep yourself from over-indulging/triple-dipping/going crazy? Tell me I'm not alone!

Ta-ta!

Well, everyone seems to think this story is really funny and weird (and, yes, funny, weird things tend to find their way into my everyday life), but I personally don't find it all that bizarre so I'm going to share it with you in the hopes that you can offer some clarification. Plus, it's body-related (breasts, of course - always the boobs with me) so it fits in here.

So...I'm on the receiving end of a wonderfully indulgent body spa treatment - a body wrap - and I'm loving every minute. The aesthetician is rubbing my limbs with warm, citrus-infused oil in preparation for a burrito-like foil envelopment. The lights are low, soft music is playing. I'm on my stomach and she moves from left leg to left arm, right leg to right arm, then my back, always taking care to cover my tush and other body parts not being tended to. In fact, she is so careful of respecting my level of modesty (which, granted, she does not know is zero), that when it's time for me to flip over onto my back, she actually holds a towel in front of her face.

"No, really, it's OK," I assure her. "I'm totally comfortable with you seeing me naked." After all, I wrote a book while practically in the buff in my locker room and besides, she sees this stuff all the time.

On my back, she massages each leg - glad I shaved! - and then she asks, in the most non-threatening of voices, "Do you want me to do your tummy and breasts?"

Hmmm.

Angel on my left shoulder: "Leslie, no! Maintain some decency, for goodness sake! You can't just go around having anyone in a white coat rub your boobs!" Devil on my right shoulder: "Do it, babe! The twins need some lovin', too! Plus, this will make a great Penthouse Forum-Hell edition letter for me to write."

The devil won.

"Sure!" I chirped, perhaps a bit too loudly. And away she went.

It wasn't like she was massaging or kneading my chest. More of a light, feathery stroking, making sure the oil got where it needed to go. It wasn’t erotic, or a turn-on. Then again, it wasn’t as sterile and clinical as going to the ob/gyn. It was kind of like finding an old rerun of A Different World on TV - a brief, guilty pleasure, mildly amusing and quickly forgotten.

Except when I got home and exclaimed to my husband, "Raise your hands if you just had your boobs massaged with hot oil by another woman!" (my hands were raised), a look of shock and disbelief crept across his face. "I don't think they're allowed to do that!" he said. "Ask your friends."

Two of my galpals were a bit stunned; one thought it was no biggie. I agree with the latter - the aesthetican is a professional, she asked me if I was comfortable, and I said yes. It lasted a minute and I could have stopped it at any time. Besides, is there really so much wrong with having a little attention paid to a beautiful part of the body that is otherwise solely treated by society as either a sexual beacon or a method of feeding children?

I’m curious to hear your thoughts. What would you have done?

Watch your garden grow

OK, so I am loving this new study out of Saint Louis University, which suggests that a good way to encourage children to eat their fruits and veggies is to plant a backyard garden. Researchers found that rural preschoolers are more likely to scarf down produce when it's homegrown (this is totally bringing back memories of growing up and my dad bringing in sun-warmed sugar snap peas and baby tomatoes from behind the house. Yum!)

In fact, kids who were almost always served homegrown fruits and vegetables were more than twice as likely to eat five-plus servings a day than those who rarely or never ate the homespun stuff. The children interviewed by SLU researchers said they like they way the freshly-unearthed foods tasted better than others. This is especially good news, considering the American Dietetic Association recommends all of us, kids and adults, take in 5 - 13 servings of fruits and vegetables a day. French fries and ketchup don't count, despite what the kidlets might have us believe.

So, what to do if you don’t have a sprawling backyard (or kids, for that matter?) Well, I have neither, so I'm right there with you. I still think we can use this info to our advantage. Summer is coming - maybe it's time to buy a potted tomato plant for the back patio. We can just pick a handful of juicy gems at night, wash and toss in our dinner salad. If you live somewhere sunny like LA, get a lemon tree and slice those babies up to make your water fancy and spa-like (bonus: you won't get scurvy.) And if you do have children and/or a backyard, take advantage of these results and start a new tradition. Plant some apple seeds. Watch grapevines creep up along the house. Grow watermelons!! It's a tradition your children will absolutely remember and their bodies will thank you for in the long run.

Have a healthy weekend everyone!

XO,
Leslie

New Year's Resolution in April

My knees hurt and I have nobody to blame but myself.

It started last year when I was training for the MS 3-Day Walk. Sure, 50 miles is a long distance, but I figured, hey, I've been running/stairclimbing/step-aerobicizing for years without an injury. How much damage could walking possibly do?

A lot, it turns out. Besides the monstrous blisters that required socks made of duct-tape, the excursion kicked off a chain reaction of events inside my knees that left walking down stairs hurt. I mimicked an expectant mother as I eased into chairs; crouching in a catcher's position was out of the question.

So, after a P.T. diagnosed me with "the tightest kneecaps ever" (a result of years of treating stretching like telemarketers--something to avoid at all costs), she taught me exercises which helped loosen my knees and ease the pain. Which brings me to this post. I was doing my stretches pretty regularly but, like so many things in life, once the pain started to ease up, so did my hard work. I took advantage of my knees over the winter, working out sans stretching, and now my laziness is biting me in the butt. I woke up this a.m. and my kneesies were crying out in pain as I tried to rise and shine. A few ibuprofen helped and tonight, I spent a good 20 minutes stretching at the gym.

The takeaway message in all of this? It's easy to take things for granted...whether it's a healthy relationship, an awesome job, or, in my case, working knees. We (OK, I) often get so wrapped up in the everyday stress of life that we let things we deem not-so-crucial fall by the wayside. So I'm making a New Year's resolution this April: to start stretching my knees everyday. It's never too late to commit to something, especially when our well-being depends on it. Does anyone want to join me? Is there a habit you've been trying to break but need a push? Or a move to better your health or family that you've been putting off? Maybe if we put it out here for everyone to read, we'll be more committed. Feel free to check in on me!

A Raw Deal

I'm pretty much down to try new things, especially when it means I might be able to write about them (I've swallowed a pill-sized camera that took pics of my insides for a story, and laid myself bare for a article on colonics.) So when an editor of mine recently suggested we meet at a popular vegan raw food cafe for lunch, I was in. After all, I like fruit. Fruit is a raw food. I like veggies. They're raw, too. I'd be fine. Plus, the menu was posted online and, with its delicious-sounding descriptions of the painstakingly prepared meals (Basil Scented Ravioli filled with a Macademia Whipped Creme - the "ravioli" is actually made from thinly-sliced turnips), I thought this could be a new culinary adventure.

It turns out, I am not the adventuresome type.

The meal began innocently enough - the space was beautiful, our water infused with cucumbers and lemons. The owner, who has been able to reverse the signs of aging with her meticulously planned raw diet, enzyme shots, colonic routine and more, making her look - I swear - a good 25 years younger than she is, greeted us with a plate of what looked like crackers and spread. Easy enough, right? But remember, in the raw food plan, foods are not cooked, or at least not heated above a certain temp. The crackers were actually sprouted, dehydrated wheatberry and I never knew a piece a flatbread could be, well, so disturbingly tangy. It was shocking. I couldn't take it. Even with a nibble of the chopped almond pate, I had to gulp back my veggie water and wait for my entree. But I was still hopeful.

The yellow pepper arrived, filled with exotic herbs, rice, mushrooms, avocado and "100 year old balsamico." The filling was tasty, with a nice texture, but as I ate, a strange feeling of fullness quicky took over my stomach and an acidic taste filled my mouth. After four or five bites, I was satiated physically, but my mind seemed to be telling me something was wrong. Something did not belong. I had gotten a raw deal. (My friend T. would later joke that perhaps I should avoid foods that have been hanging around for 100 years, as they tend to get a bit "hairy." Good advice.)

My group had been talking about the delicious non-dairy, avocado-based ice cream but we wrapped up the meeting (which had actually be very pleasant, convo-wise) and I jumped in my car, high-tailing it home. I could not make it to my bathroom fast enough. I plowed through the front door and threw my jacket at my husband, who would later tell me I had the exact same forlorn, pale look on my face as I did when I return from my colonic, and ran to la toilette. My meal made a grand exit and I felt a bit better. I sipped some diet root beer (toxic, I know, but what can you do?) and proceeded to fall asleep in a patch of sunlight like a dog for 90 minutes. I thought this was supposed to leave me feeling energized! Rejuvenated! Full of life! Instead I was sapped and only able to eat a banana and dry cereal the rest of the day.

Now, I know many people have benefitted from raw food diets. Some have lost weight; others found their skin cleared up or their illnesses dissappeared. And granted, this was a one-time thing for me. But I have to admit, eschewing all dairy and sugar, soaking raw almonds and pureeing them to get milk, downing shots of enzymes and giving up my Swedish Fish and sushi - it all seems a bit extreme. Tell me - am I wrong? Any raw foodies out there? Has it worked for you? Or have you ever found yourself on an extreme diet (hot water, lemon and cayenne pepper, anyone?) What were you searching for? Did you achieve it? Enlighten me.

In the meantime, I'm going to go cook up some oatmeal.

Love,
Leslie

What's your secret?

I was flipping through the current issue of Redbook - the one with Jada Pinkett Smith on the cover - and found a great spread about loving our body in and out and silencing those mental critics that dwell inside our minds. One of my favorite parts was a Top 10 Instant Body-Love Boosters, particularly because they didn't all have to do with, say, step aerobics, wearing control-top hose or choosing the sorbet over the Death by Chocolate (...not that there's anything wrong with that!) Some examples:

* Paint your toenails a bold color.

* Stand up straight, like you mean business.

* Have your favorite inspirational quote printed on your morning coffe mug.

* Sleep naked.

Now, I actually employ three of these - I always stand up straight, to avoid the hunched-over tall-girl look; I keep two of my favorite quotes nearby (though they're on my nightstand, not a coffee mug); and I sleep naked. I didn't drop all that cash on 600-thread-count sheets for nothing! Regarding the toenail thing, sure I slap some red paint on 'em, but I've inherited what are kindly referred to as "the Miller toenails" in my household, meaning only nine of them are actually, well, there (the middle nail on my left foot is a bit shy and...OK, I don't think you really want to hear any more about that).

But it's true, all of these practices, from hitting the sack in the buff to strolling down the Magnificent Mile with my shoulders back, make me feel better about myself. Some other things: sweat dripping down the side of my face as I try to hold a tricky pose in yoga class; holding the door open on the subway (even though it threatens to chomp off my arms) so a stranger can make it on; kissing and cuddling with my husband, especially after I've been away traveling for a few days (I said cuddling people - what do you think this is, Skinemax?!); drinking kefir - I can just feel the probiotics strengthening my immune system; whipping out a set of push-ups; buying myself sassy new underwear; and soaking in the sights and sounds of my family laughing together.

What are your self-image boosting secrets?

xox,
Leslie

Oh, Baby!

First, a quick note to fill you all in on yesterday evening's talk. I wrapped up Body Image: The Naked Truth nationwide college tour, during which I visited 12 universities, from UNC-Chapel Hill to Baylor U. to Florida State. Every campus I visited was so welcoming and warm, and I can't think of a better place to finish up than at my alma mater, University of Wisconsin-Madison. We had a huge audience including the women of the Greek system and UW's female athletes--about 1200 in all.

So now I'm sitting in the living room of my friends Trish and Manny, watching Trish feed their newborn baby girl, Maya. It is one of the most beautiful, natural things I have ever seen. Maya is barely three weeks old, with her dad's olive skin, her mom's ocean blue eyes and a full head of dark hair that already brushes the folds of her neck. Watching Trish watch Maya as she takes in her milk was a shock to me at first - I remember partying at clubs with Trish, staying out all night and gettng silly on Cosmos! (Now, she fuels herself with bananas, oatmeal, and turkey, and chugs water in an attempt to replenish herself.) But after, oh, two minutes, I became not only accustomed to the site of her breastfeeding, but looked forward to the look of pure love and joy that spreads across her face everytime she simply catches a glimpse of her little girl - her "Baby Bird," as she calls her.

Trish used to struggle with her body image, suffering from an eating disorder at one point. But for her, getting pregnant and watching her belly grow was a phenomenally healing experience. She explained to me, as we played with Maya (OK, we poked at an animal mobile over her head and pretended she could distinguish the giraffe from the donkey) how she has gained a wholly new perspective on her body. No longer does she obsess over perfect abs or her how she looks naked (she looks fantastic, BTW). She has realized the miraculous achievements her body is capable of and it didn't take long before things like the ability to grow a human being outweighed the inconvenience of going up a cup size of the momentary sting of discovering that first stretch mark.

"I literally feel better about my body than ever before, and I have this one to thank for it," she said, bending over and kissing her daughter on the head. "Thanks, Maya!"

Indeed, thank you Maya. Auntie Leslie loves you.

Back to School

OK, so it's mid-April and snowing outside but that's nothing new for this Midwesterner and certainly not going to bring me down from how excited I am over today's visit to my alma mater, the University of Wisconsin-Madison! I'll be speaking tonight to about 1,200 women (mostly sorority members and all of the female athletes) about body image, self-esteem and my book. I frigging cannot wait. So many memories...from the bus trip up there (my car...well, how can I put this nicely? It's a broke-down piece of doo-doo) to walking down State Street and taking in the sites of coffee houses and cute little clothing stores to spending time in my sorority house. Go Delta Gamma! (Did I just e-scream that!?) This will be the best way I could ever imagine to wrap up a semester's worth of college tours.

I'll also get to see my friend Trish - yes, from the book - and her 2-week-old baby girl, Maya. More on that later, I'm sure.

Will keep you posted. Until then, ON WISCONSIN!

xo,
Leslie

Aging gracefully

I'm supposed to be having a facial today - the kind people over at Bliss invited me for one of their new antiaging treatments - but it conflicted with another assignment. Boo. I've never had a facial and was psyched to experience the relaxing, floating-on-a-cloud feeling my friends have told me such a spa package delivers. And I may have even undone a bit of sun damage, too.

Which got me thinking about aging and its link to self-esteem. At a recent talk in Los Angeles, a woman in the audience - a nurse, actually - brought up the fact that, in youth-obsessed Southern California, age (or the appearance of age) is so dreaded that she had just received a phone call from a friend whose facial laser peel had gone horribly awry, leaving her burned and in pain instead of dewy and pink.

In Locker Room Diaries, I devoted a chapter to women in their 60s, 70s, and 80s, talking to them about the lessons they have learned about life, love, and the pursuit of happiness...all in the face of changing mounting societal pressures to look a certain way. Many had decided to take up exercise for the sake of health, for fighting off cancer and other age-related illness, as opposed to pure vanity. A few had undergone plastic surgery. Some, upon reflection, realized they had suffered from distorted body image when they were younger - there just wasn't a word for "bulimia" 60 years ago (or at least it wasn't talked about.)

One of my favorite stories, which I often recount during presentations, comes from Becky, a 91-year-old yoga instructor I interviewed for my book. Becky truly believes the body is nothing more than a vessel and can do 100 yogic push-ups and has so few hang-ups about her body that she literally started taking her sweater off in the middle of a coffee shop while I spoke with her to prove to me that she didn’t need to wear a bra - that's how firm she was! Even though I'm comfortable with nudity, I had to coax her into lowering her top because perhaps the other patrons weren't ready to see a topless nonagenarian. But she was right - no bra!

Becky was in Marshall Fields not too long ago when a saleswoman was trying to sell her anti-wrinkle cream, promising her that, "When she hits 60, she’ll really need to start using a product like this." To which Becky responded, "Lady, I’m 90!" Chaos ensued at the cosmetics counter, as the women in starched lab coats scurried to see how a woman could possibly look so young without their product.

I'd love to hear from other women who have grown to love their age and are empowered by this number as it goes up. Please, share!

xo,
Leslie

Pretty, Popular and Too Much

Last week, Maureen McCormick, who played America’s favorite oldest sister Marcia Brady, revealed she has struggled with bulimia for a decade, as well as cocaine addiction. The former child actress, now 50, joins the ranks of countless others in the spotlight who, whether they’ve declared it verbally or not, have battled an eating disorder - illnesses that have the highest fatality rate of any other psychiatric disease.

McCormick is no longer bulimic, but succumbed to the pressure of the disease for six years, starting in 1969, just after The Brady Bunch ended its run. That she had to deal with this sad secret for so long (she learned about purging as a dietary method when she returned to public high school after filming and discovered her girlfriends were doing it) is not what shocks me. After all, she was America’s sweetheart - boys loved her, girls wanted to be like her; she represented the ideal young woman and that’s a lot of pressure to live with. But what I find to be such a pleasant surprise in the wake of her public announcement is that she simply revealed it at all.

Nowadays, star after star denies having an eating disorder, and for some, this may be true. A fast metabolism or a medical condition can be the underlying factor. But for others, anorexia or bulimia IS, in fact, a reality and you know what? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It happens to many, many people. Millions, in fact. It happened to me. It may have happened - may be happening right now - to some of you. McCormick, who had never told anyone about her bulimia, was recently on Entertainment Tonight and the question came up. As she reported in the press:

"It's so weird. I've always wanted to [tell someone], but I've never been asked the question, 'Have you ever had an eating disorder?' And they did ask me and I couldn't lie."

Bravo, I say, for her candor. I think a lot of women who still love The Brady Bunch will look to her as an example of bravery and strength. A eating disorder is not something to be embarrassed about. The more we bring it out in the open, the more we can get people the help they need. Hopefully this is a lesson many, including McCormick’s teenage daughter, can absorb, before it’s too late.

Obsession: Cadbury Egg

It's that time of year again...time to put down the Cadbury Creme Egg and STEP SLOWLY AWAY FROM THE BASKET. Why am I obsessed with these wholly unnatural little beasties? They're not really eggs. A bunny purportedly "lays" them, for crying out loud! But oh, are they delicious. Every year, after the last of the Valentine's Day cards get cleared from my local drugstore, my heart skips a beat and my stomach starts growling in anticipation for the chocolate-covered treat, its hard shell filled with...well, whatever that stuff is! Fondant, I suppose. Sweet, sugary, grainy. Is it the healthiest treat in the world? Of course not. But it's no Death By Fettucine Alfredo, either. For 170 calories and 6 grams of fat, it's a delish splurge that comes once a year (minus the few that I stash behind my box of oatmeal for PMS-fueled cravings.) Did I mention they're vegetarian?

Now I just need to find out if they're kosher for Passover... ;-)

Phat Talk

In response to my last post about two ladies complaining about their bikini-clad bods in the dressing room , a few of you replied, alluding to a study that recently came out showing that such verbal jarring has pretty much become a societal norm - an expectation, if you will.

Unfortunately, you’re right.

The research is out of Appalachian State University and concerns something called "fat talk," meaning when a group of women get together, sooner or later the convo turns to body dissatisfaction and, like it or not, women feel the pressure to join in. (For those of you interested in reading more about the study, go to http://www.newswise.com/articles/view/527870/ )

This reminds me of a Sex and the City episode where the foursome are complaining about various body parts, dissing models in magazines and generally bemoaning the near-impossible cultural standards of beauty. Charlotte pipes up, “It doesn't matter how good I feel about myself - when I see Christy Turlington, I just want to give up.”

Miranda, her trademark acerbic tongue firmly in cheek, replies by expressing a desire to hold Turlington down and "force-feed her lard." The bashing continues: Charlotte hates her thighs. Miranda wants a new chin. Carrie would give anything for a streamlined nose.

Samantha, never the silent one, is strangely quiet. It turns out, of course, that she loves the way she looks! (This confidence would carry her through later episodes when she was diagnosed with breast cancer, lost her hair, and confidently rocked a pink wig.) But what is so wonderfully bizarre is that Sam has refused to participate in the body slamming contest. She defied the results of the Appalachian State University. Go girl!

Do you feel the pressure to join in on these conversations? Remember - they need not be just about weight or dress size. Women often wind up finding imaginary flaws in many different aspects of our lives - work, relationships, family, or other physical aspects like hair, height, etc. How can we flip the situation to be more like Sam and love the skin (or situation) we’re in?

Dressing Room Drama

Today's gorgeous Spring weather put me in the mood to shop or some cute tanks and shorts. So I drove on over to my neighborhood, um, Bold Gravy (I mean, what do I look like, Miss Free Advertising?!) and piled up the goods until I could barely see my way to the fitting rooms.

So I began trying on a khaki skirt when I heard a girl's voice, maybe 20ish, from the stall next to me.

"Uch! I need, like, a total body lift."

Then, from acoss the way: "Give me a breaK, you're, like, a size two."

"No. I look huge. TRUST ME."

This went on and on and I was trying not to listen in but when you're all alone and two young women (it turns out they were college students trying on bathing suits for Spring break) are body-slamming themselves needlessly just feet away, it's hard to tune out...just like I'm sure it's difficult for them to ignore the cultural and media noise telling them that the key to Spring break is looking "perfect" (whatever that means) in a bikini.

I wish this blog could end here but it got much worse. A mother came into the dressing room with her young daughter and asked her where she wanted to sit. "Right here," the little girl announced.

"In front of the mirrors?" her mother responded encouragingly. "What a perfect choice." This little girl truly did adore how she looked and made some comments about her eyelashes, her pretty dress. It was lovely to hear. But the whole time I was praying that the older girls would pick up on the fact that an impressionable young mind had entered the fray; that they should silence themselves, if not their inner critics.

They did not.

"I'm just going to buy these big, loose shorts. Perfect. They hide everything. I'm going to wear them everywhere. When we go to the pool, I'm wearing these shorts. When we go shopping, I'm wearing these shorts. I'm sleeping in these shorts."

"Why don't you SHORT your mouth?!" I wanted to scream. "Five-year-old, sponge-like young brain on the premises!"

But I said nothing, picked up my clothes and left. I wonder if I should have piped up...or is that being too nosy? I suppose the mother could have left with her daughter if she was truly bothered. I can't be the body image police everywhere I go. Then again, if people were swearing in front of a child, I might say something.

What do you think? How would you have reacted? And am I overblowing this or have you, too, heard these kinds of awful comments in the dressing room? Kinda ruins the whole "Shop 'til you drop" experience, huh?

Have a great, Size WHATEVER Tuesday!
Les