A Parable: No Cookie Left Behind

Once upon a time two bakers decided to enter a chocolate chip cookie baking contest.

The first baker had the finest ingredients delivered to the doorstep of her well equipped kitchen, including freshly churned butter, the softest flour, farm fresh eggs, pure vanilla extract, and rich chocolate chips. She carefully followed the contest recipe and mixed together her ingredients in her KitchenAid stand mixer, then scooped out uniform bits and lined them neatly on cookie sheets and baked them in the oven. She watched carefully to make sure they were perfectly golden  brown and not too crisp or too doughy, but just right. She made two dozen yummy cookies and took them to be judged.

The second baker had to go out and try to find ingredients, but all that was available in her neighborhood was margarine, hard stale flour, lumpy sugar, imitation vanilla and a tiny bag of store brand chocolate chips. She pulled out the same recipe (it was required by the contest that they use the same one), a bowl and a hand mixer and got to work. Every few minutes someone would switch out a random ingredient for something unlabeled, the power kept going out on the mixer, and someone stood in the kitchen occasionally yelling at her and throwing wooden spoons around. She managed to make a passable version of the recipe and started to scoop out the dough, but the person in the kitchen began eating bits and pieces of the dough she put on the pan and scattering the bits of dough about. She finally popped the pans in the oven, but the thermostat on her oven would rapidly shoot the temperature up and then drop it down so the heat was very inconsistent. She tried to keep an eye on the cookies, but also had to complete an extra baking class and 14 pages of paperwork because of her zip code. Since the dough was all different sizes some of the cookies got overdone and some were underdone when she finally took the pans out. She turned out 2 yummy cookies and about 20 more that didn't turn out so great, and took them to be judged.

The contest judges gave the first baker a perfect score and exclaimed that she must be the best baker in the land and all bakers should get such fine results.

They told the other baker that she just didn't measure up, her cookies were a failure, she obviously had put no real effort into making her cookie, and she should consider having a commercial enterprise take over her future baking for the good of cookies everywhere.

The first baker left feeling greatly accomplished, not realizing that the ingredients provided and her circumstances played an equal part in her success.

The second baker ignored the advice of the judges and continued pouring herself into making the best cookies she could, realizing that judges were idiots.

The judges ran for public office and won, and continued to expect uniform results from all the bakers.

THE END

A Fat Chick Sucks It Up and Returns to the Gym

After taking a day to recuperate from my traumatic first trip to the gym I figured it couldn't get any worse so I might as well go back.

I had prepared myself for the day by texting with Katie (who has actually gone to a gym and worked out before) and more Googling, whereby I discovered that on my first visit I had chosen the rather difficult recumbent bike and used one of the more strenuous settings. Whoops.

This time around there were still a bunch of focused men working out, but there was also a staff member handy. I stopped by and told him I was about to try the treadmill for the first time and asked what the chances were of me flinging myself into a wall. He assured me it was extremely unlikely and told me which buttons to push and what to expect from the machine. I promised him that if I did get flung I would do my best to land near the 911 phone.

So with the shot of courage from the humorous banter, I walked right past all the muscle men and climbed on the treadmill tucked at the end of the row in the corner. I ignored the instructions the kind man had given me and pushed lots of other buttons instead, using my previously mentioned research. Then I waited for the gasping and burning and pain to being.

The first thing I noticed was that walking on a treadmill is weird. It was going pretty darn slow and felt really awkward. I was trying to keep my hands on the sensors at the front of the machine but after a couple of minutes I found myself tensed, leaning forward, taking tiny little steps and holding the sensors in a death grip. I felt like a 90 year old woman using a walker.

I started becoming more mindful of what all my body parts were doing, adjusted the speed and slowly found myself able to relax and walk upright. Trying to wipe the sweat out of my eyes was a little tricky, but I did manage to figure out how to work the television. I reached my target heart rate, stayed on the machine and made it for twenty minutes and nineteen seconds with out having to stop once. Hurray for treadmills!

A Fat Chick Enters the Workout Zone for the First Time in a Very, Very,Very, Very, Very Long Time

Imagine, if you will, a place filled with machines of torture and confusion, populated by muscular zombies who are focused on music pumped directly into their brains and flashing images on screens before their eyes.

Today began my journey to such a place.

After finally being discontent enough with the state of my health to do something about it, I decided to join a gym last week on the premise that if I am paying to work out I am more likely to actually stick to the program.

I joined last Tuesday and like any person with OCD tendencies, planned my first workout for the first Monday following. That gave me almost a week to do research about the gym, Google "beginner workouts" and decide what to wear. (Nothing too cute that looks like a newbie. Nothing new because I will be losing so much weight it would be a waste of money, but nothing too frumpy.)

The big day finally arrived and as luck would have it I had a meeting this afternoon which was on my side of town and had me home earlier than normal. I came home, put on my carefully selected outfit, and after only minimal whining went off to the gym. I remembered to park further away in order to get a little extra workout and marched right up to the door and flung it open...  Except it was locked and didn't budge. Not to be deterred, I gave the other door an authoritative jiggle, but to no avail. Then I remembered my fancy little key fob which I swiped and then swung open the gates to Hades.

As soon as I walked in I felt a bit of panic. I didn't see any staff members at the front and there were only a few people working out, all men and all seemingly very focused on their workout. So I put my things in an available cubby then went to hide in the bathroom for a few minutes. Once that avoidance technique was exhausted (and I resisted the urge to make fart noises with the power drier since I wasn't sure if it could be heard out in the gym area) I went back out and read the bulletin board very thoroughly. After looking over a list of birthdays and lots of ads for healthy things, I was still having a lack of courage and inspiration so I went back to cubby, got my phone and texted David and Katie for moral support, all the while stealing glances at the machines and trying to see if anyone looked like a good candidate to ask for help.

I had thought I'd want to try the elliptical machines, but after watching the people on them I wasn't sure I could even mount one successfully. The treadmill was my next choice, but there was a guy right in the middle and he was very focused on running at a high rate of speed. I really didn't want to distract him with all my random button pushing, plus the possibility of a messy mount or dismount was still pretty high. Finally I spotted a bike. Hard to fall off of, it was by itself, the control panel didn't look too confusing, and it was near the 911 phone. Perfect! I put my phone back in the cubby, squared my shoulders and made my way to the bicycle.

The mount wasn't pretty but I got on and put my left foot in the strap, then tried to put my right foot in the other strap, but kept managing to move my left foot so my right foot couldn't quite catch up. Once I finally got both feet settled it was time to press buttons. The green "Quick Start" button would seem to be the way to go, but nothing happened when I pushed it. Then I saw the note on the control panel that directs the user to pedal to use the control panel. I would have thought the foot chasing incident would have been sufficient, but apparently not. So pedal, then push the button, and then lights started blinking!

The friendly screen asked me how long I wanted to pedal. Now in all my research I kept reading that a beginner should start with 20 minutes of cardio. Since I am a bit of an overachiever I told the machine I wanted to go 24 minutes for good measure. Then Mr. Machine asked how old I was, and I punched in 47. Then it told me my target heart rate was 140 and to get to work. I was a little concerned that the Mr. Machine didn't ask me how much I weighed or how out of shape I was, but figured I could just go faster or slower if I needed to adjust how hard I was working. I wasn't counting on a smarty pants machine that adjusted tension automatically, so if I slowed down the tension went up.

After a good, long five minutes of huffing and puffing I needed a break, as well as about every 2-3 minutes after that. (How lovely that the machine keeps track of your resting time and doesn't run the timer during the breaks!) Since I couldn't figure out how to operate the fancy TV I passed my time fantasizing about reaching for that beautiful red 911 phone that was mounted on the wall in front of me like it was the brass ring on a carousel.

I threw in the towel at 15 minutes but was proud of the small beginning, however the pride was short lived when I dismounted and almost fell down because my legs were so tired. I managed to stagger over to the disinfecting wipes and back to the machine to wipe it down. Then I picked up my cubby items and dragged myself to my car, which seemed ever so far away.

Working out sucks, so far.

The Restoration of Geppetto von Swimington

"I think his tail fell off!" 

I knew my betta fish, Geppetto von Swimington, hadn't been looking so hot but until one of the teachers at my school made this pronouncement I had not realized the extent of his decline -- a case of seeing him every day and not noticing the slow changes. I had just figured he was slowing down and it wasn't long before I would be shopping for a new fish, not an uncommon occurrence. 

When I examined him I realized his beautiful tail with the green dot was now a small, dotless nub, and his side fins were similarly affected. He wasn't able to swim well in this condition and spent a great deal of time flailing on the bottom of his small tank on my desk trying to make it to the surface to get some air. "Is your fish dead?" replaced "I need" as the most common greeting in my office. After doing some research it appeared that Geppetto had a case of fin rot, which is as horrid as it sounds. I considered putting him out of his misery with a burial at sea, but just couldn't bring myself to do it. Plus when I talked to him, he would make a valiant effort to swim, as if to let me know he did not approve of any DNR plans. 

So that evening I went to the pet store and stocked up on a variety of recommended products and started a regime of water changes with a cocktail of aquarium salt and an assortment of pricey magical fish potions. Over the next week or so he didn't seem to be getting better, but wasn't getting worse. He still seemed mostly dead but I kept plugging away. Then on the way home from work one day I was praying about him (yes, I pray about even the smallest thing) and then asked God why I should go to so much time, trouble and expense for a five dollar fish and His response blew me away. 

He said, "It's not about price. It's about value." 

I am happy to say that Mr. Swimmington has returned to good health, and his fins have grown back in all their glory. But more importantly I was reminded that God is infinitely concerned about every detail.