breadbasket

"Right in the ole breadbasket" is one of my favorite descriptions pointing to the mid-body. I like that phrase but I've never liked "bun in the oven." That's always grossed me out. Since I don't have an oven, I'm going to talk about my breadbasket. More specifically, what I put into it.

As you my three readers know, I've been working out a bit since I've been in Medford. My goal is to be able to tool around without pain and maybe with some power and grace. So I'm semi-hard at work lifting weights, aerobicizing, revising my diet. My trainer (Remember the old days when your coach would exhaust you for free?) provided a weekly menu for the next hunk of time so I can shed a few fats while I build a few muscles.

I went shopping for my week's menu yesterday and I have to admit that it was an unsettling experience. My intentions are good: strict adherence to each prescribed snack and meal for the next six weeks. Buying a exact week's worth of food at a time was a bit disconcerting - three oranges, 70 grapes (no shit), two carrots. My shopping kart was pretty full. Sure, I bought a few staples that will last for weeks, if not months. But most of the load will be consumed in one week.

It was sobering to think that I ingest that volume of food in a week's time. The sense of volume worked two ways for me: first, the plain old size of the pile in front of me; second, that my body (aka, my digestive tubes) was going to have to deal with that pile of food. It was also sobering to know that it tallies up to far fewer calories than I normally eat. Soylent Green apparently is packed with calories. The ghost of my usual fare was crafting a greasy indictment to stop this madness.

I can't say whether this was a meaningful exercise or not. As I shopped among the folks in halloween costumes, many of them skeletons, I felt right at home. I had some empathy for what that hot dog eating champion must feel like every time he competes: "That pile is going into my body? What in the hell was I thinking?