Zen and the art of weight maintenance

This post carries a V rating. You have been warned.

Look, I'm all for world peace and love thy neighbour, but this 'have you hugged a calorie today?' liberal lefty thinking is really taking things too far. Calories are not innocent bystanders in this war; they are the diabolically cunning, Machiavellian masters of morbid obesity. Perfectly camouflaged, they hide in seemingly safe places waiting for your attention to wander before striking with the speed of an African killer bee. You think your home is safe? Forget it, they have invaded both your pantry and your fridge, with the most despicable having taken up residence in your wine bottle. The wine bottle. For the love of God, is nothing sacred? You could try starving them out, but this approach has limited efficiency and is not sustainable in the long term.

Picture from mybodyhealth.net
You don't get to middle age without having fought a few calorie battles (the post-pregnancy front of '91 comes to mind) and I'd like to think I am a veteran of many calorie wars.Without wanting to blow my own trumpet I once received a certificate from the local Weight Watchers regiment acknowledging my bravery and commitment in a particularly fierce skirmish along the thunderthigh front. And so, in an entirely uncharacteristic burst of generosity, I have decided to share two powerful weapons in my calorie-killing arsenal.

The statue of liberty

I have very high-tech equipment to use following the shoulder surgery. Trusty Physiotherapist suggested, some time back, that I rig a pulley system to help me regain some range. I asked Walter and Child no 2 if they had any thoughts about how to do this. They consulted. They stared into the distance. They announced it was do-able and then promptly forgot. Two weeks later, tired of waiting, I rigged this myself

Why yes, that is a tow rope slung over a beam in my house.

I stand there, like the statue of liberty, holding my gown closed for modesty's sake with my left arm almost pointing at the ceiling muttering "Give me your tired, your poor" and swearing like a trooper.

The beautiful girls

The Border Collie and I have loads in common. For example we both have beautiful children.
I will admit that she has a better eye than I (see what I did there?)
A while back Scientist No 1 was house-sitting for Fearless Leader (who lives next door to The Border Collie) and found the cutest outfit for The Border Collie's youngest. Couldn't resist it....

"It has wings, mom, WINGS!"

The cold shoulder

A diagnosis at last! I found (a qualified, medical) someone who was not distracted by the MRI. The trusty physiotherapist referred me to a shoulder specialist who announced I have a 'frozen shoulder' I burst into tears, not from pain this time, but because someone believed me.
This has been going on for six months now, so it's no small thing to have an actual diagnosis.

Image from kneeandshouldersurgery.com
To recap - I thought I'd pulled a muscle in Italy retrieving my backpack from the back seat of our rental. Since it was Italy and I (obviously) wasn't driving I was in the right passenger seat. So I used my left arm. It didn't end well (A Pain in the Neck) It didn't get better. Well-meaning people pointed me in other directions - the alternative approach. This irritated me immensely - resulting in the Snake Oil blog.

Airports

I've spent a lot of time in airports.

As a child I wore my BOAC Junior Jet Club badge with pride, begged the air hostess to take me into the cockpit (they always took me in). Sitting with my brothers and their friends at the end of runway 33 of Lusaka Airport, just beyond the end of the farm, watching the planes take off and land.
As a 5 year-old on a cushion, in the right-hand seat of my mother's Cessna, trying to find the railway line that would take us back to Lusaka Flying Club and chicken-in-a-basket for lunch at the airport.
As a 6 year-old unaccompanied minor being sent away to boarding school in another country, locking my arms and legs around my mother, weeping hysterically, promising to be good if I could just stay, while my father unwound me and handed me to the air hostess. Don't make a fuss, you're a big girl now, you'll be fine.
Home twice a year. Durban to Johannesburg. Customs. Johannesburg to Lusaka. Customs. Lusaka to Kitwe (where has my trunk gone?) Kitwe to Kasaba Bay, to the sandy, elephant-walk runway at the Lake, where the 'airport' was a guard's hut, the junior jet club badge buckled and bent, consigned to my fishing box. 4 weeks and then do it all again.
As a 17 year-old, with my backpack, heading off alone to see the world, my family waving goodbye at departures."Be safe" my mother said. "I'm a big girl now, I'll be fine"
As a young adult I was the air hostess taking unaccompanied minors with wobbly bottom lips through customs. I understood their fear, and even if they didn't ask I made sure to take them into the cockpit after service, asking the flight engineer to show them the 'Christmas lights' of the night cockpit.
Braais at the end of runway 19 at Ilha do Sol.Enough rum to try out the flying stunt in Pushing Tin (yes, the jet blast actually does lift you off your feet, I've seen it happen) as your colleagues take the beautiful 747 to New York.
As a mother, heading home to my family.
As a student pilot, drinking coffee with the 'real' pilots at Lanseria, listening to them telling flying stories, or giving me landing tips, endlessly re-hashing that bad one.
As a friend, saying goodbye to friends who are leaving forever.
As a daughter, smuggling my mother's ashes through Maun airport on the way to Kasane, and Chobe to wave goodbye to her forever. Don't make a fuss. Here you are home, surrounded by your beloved elephants.
As a commuter, frantically trying to find a quiet place to send emails or get some work done.
I know the smell of airports, the tearful loved ones waving goodbye, the anxious parents making bargains 'Let her/him be safe' Waving my own daughter off to Belgium when she went to study at Antwerp university, Les Mis 'Bring him home' playing dramatically in my own head.

For me, airports have always been sad places, goodbye places.

And that's why I love this T-Mobile Flash Mob video, at Heathrow's Terminal 5. This shows to good side of airports, the welcome home. I love the surprise on people's faces, the young girl with braces, tearful with the joy of it.Watch it, it's wonderful.

Welcome Home

Snake oil

The one thing this neck injury has taught me is how presumptuous people are that you want their advice on how best to 'fix' the problem.

Image source

Yes it's frustrating that it's taking so long to get to the bottom of it and find a suitable treatment. But not once have I said that I don't have faith in the medical specialists who are working with me. Each one has told me it will take time - it's not a straightforward problem. I don't see this as an indication they don't know what they are doing.
But every day I have some well-meaning person trying to get me to try something different. It's exhausting.
'Get a second opinion' is usually the first piece of advice. Closely followed by 'have you tried eye of newt/rescue remedy/reflexology/iridology/chiropractic/a sangoma?
I have seen, first-hand, the effect of this kind of ignorance. One of my nephews is profoundly deaf because his mother 'didn't believe in antibiotics'. A simple ear infection as a baby was treated with snake oil. Both of my own children spent a good couple of years on antibiotics to treat Vesicoureteral reflux and I send a little word of thanks to Alexander Fleming every day. Between them they have 4 healthy kidneys because of his petri dish.
I am not uninformed, cursed or bewitched. My blood type has absolutely nothing to do with this. It's an injury. And I don't believe there is an instant cure. The 'alternative' remedies would have made it into conventional medicine if there was any indication that they worked. I have no intention of being a guinea-pig for someone who has taken a 6-month online course in hand-waving, juju-speaking, incense-burning incantations.
Bog-standard physiotherapy has provided relief for the referred neck pain. I'm seeing a shoulder specialist (shock! horror! he has an actual medical degree) this week to investigate the shoulder injury.The physiotherapist referred me to him, she believes I need his help since the shoulder is getting worse rather than better. She also has an actual degree from an actual university.
So please. Enough with the recommendations.