My grandmother, who was born in the farmland of Oklahoma but who migrated to Texas in her teens, loved to read. She would read all the time, even when she really ought to have been doing other things besides reading. She could sing, too. She always sang hits from the 1940s and 1950s with such an earthy, sultry contralto that I thought she could surely sing for a living if she ever had the gumption to try. Nanny was a superior cook—a really, really, really good cook. She cooked with old-school ingredients, too, like bacon grease, lots of butter, and…bacon grease. She could be bitingly yet funnily sarcastic, and she was highly intelligent. As far as I can tell, I’m the only one on my mother’s side of the family who enjoys reading voraciously. On our special outings, Nanny would take me to a bookstore and then to a bakery—those were delightful days, I thought. She bought me books, some of which were fascinatingly disturbing and not at all age appropriate, but I read them nonetheless. And she bought me cookies and cupcakes. Like Nanny, I love to sing. My singing voice is not particularly noteworthy, but I sing anyway. I enjoy cooking, and most of the time my creations are tasty and repeat-worthy. My tongue is too saucy at times, and I like to think I’ve got some brains. In these ways, my grandmother and I are alike. My grandmother and I are alike in other ways, too. She loved sweets: cookies, candies, pastries, pies—all the sweets. Every year on Thanksgiving she made at least two glorious cakes and three scrumptious pies, including my favorite, a buttery pound cake. In a freezer in the garage she kept a large stash of Hostess treats. (And when I say a large stash, I mean a ginormous amassment of processed sugary sugar.) I would stay with her after school most days, and I knew about the sugar stockpile. Sometimes she would offer me a treat, sometimes not. Sometimes she made me feel welcome to the freezer hoard, but sometimes she made me feel like the biggest weirdo for wanting any of it at all. I ate whatever I wanted to eat, of course, even if I snuck it while she was in her bedroom, reading. And because there was an element of both excess and restriction, of both approval and disapproval, of mixed messaging and, mostly, of the forbidden, I usually ate more than one treat at a sitting; I consumed at least two, but often three, almost every day. So, just like my grandmother did, I fancied sugar…large quantities of sugar. There were a few clues along the way, though: my best friend in junior high, with her little sister, literally gawked at the amount of peanut butter I spread on my after-school snack bread; my roommate in college seemed stunned by the number of cookies I ate at one sitting. Still, although I had been overweight for some time, in my twenties I became more active, I ate lots of nutritious foods in proper amounts, and I was a healthy, normal-weight, flexible, energetic slip of a girl. Over time, however, my weight again increased as I became less diligent with my dietary selections and exercise routine. And after I married, I allowed my older habits to dominate; I slowly gained over fifty pounds. I stayed at that high weight for several years. I stayed at that weight—for the most part—until last year, as a matter of fact. My grandmother’s health began to decline at a relatively young age, but she neglected to get medical care until some issues became full-blown crises. She developed heart disease and had a heart attack, she had several strokes and lost her ability to speak, and she developed diabetes and lost her vision because of it. She was no longer able to do the one thing she enjoyed most in life: she was not able to read. I have not had a heart attack, or a stroke, but I do take medication to control high blood pressure. My serum numbers are not the best, with my HDL number being the only marker in the optimal range. My blood glucose levels are normal, and I am not diabetic. But last summer I was diagnosed with insulin resistance…so, yeah. Insulin resistance can be a strong indicator for developing diabetes, but it can also be managed with lifestyle choices to such a degree that diabetes never develops. So, while there is a family history of heart disease and diabetes on both of my parents’ sides of the family, I hurt with the knowledge that, for the most part, I have done this—this abuse of my own body—to myself. Shortly after my grandmother passed away, I had a dream. Nanny was driving a bus and had come by my house to pick me up. I got on the bus to find my mother already on board along with my aunt. I was the last one to get on the bus, and none of the men folk were around. I immediately began squabbling with my aunt (which was not at all unusual), so I didn’t pay attention as Nanny pulled away from my house to begin our travels. But as she started driving down the highway, I stilled. Nanny was driving the bus. My mother, who has of late struggled with high cholesterol and high blood pressure but who has forever struggled with a heartbreakingly self-critical body image and an unhealthy relationship with food, was on the bus. My aunt, who was obese, diabetic, and a life-long smoker, was on the bus. And I was on the bus. At that moment, I knew with a certainty that I was on the wrong bus. I frantically tried to tell them, the females in my family who learned so much about food and a way to relate to it from my grandmother, that I was on the wrong bus, that I did not want to be on that bus, that they had to let me OFF the bus! Then I woke up. If I want to experience wellness, to be active and mobile both now and when I approach the evening of my life, to keep my brain healthy and my heart happy, to read for always, then I must transfer buses, and transfer now. I can’t follow the path of the women before me, as much as I love them and value them in so many ways. And I can’t complacently, passively float along in the family gene pool and go wherever it takes me. I must choose a better way, every day. So, that’s why I’m here. I’m here to say goodbye to obesity, inactivity, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and insulin resistance. I’m here to welcome wellness, strength, gratitude for what my body can do, action…and a bikini. I was on the wrong bus. But now I’m on the right one. Here’s to a long, healthy, happy ride.
