One Meal a Day

I was priding myself on eating only one meal per day because it made life simple. It was frugal. It was nutritious, I made sure: vegetables and protein, some grains, fat, and fruit. Most importantly, it saved time and effort. I wasn't dieting; I needed that time in order to work more. Fewer dishes, less waste and less time spent cleaning up: One meal a day seemed ideal.

Then I realized a half-hour walk or a 40-minute yoga video or a 50-minute "senior" class at the rec center, or any exercise whatever, depleted me so I had to lie down soon after coming home, ears ringing and so exhausted I felt poisoned. Even thinking was an effort. At times two days passed before I summoned enough energy to do my job, or gussy up and go places. I sat instead of standing whenever I could. Craftily, I enrolled in an evening exercise class so I could go to bed soon afterward. I let myself sleep an hour longer. This helped a little.

The meal was at midday or a bit later. Clever me, making soup that'd last three days, and no-cook sandwiches or salad, and maybe yogurt and berries or chia-seed pudding. More than enough for someone who sits and writes all day. And coffee. A banana for a snack, or the white of a boiled egg, or 1.5 oz. of tuna on a Ry-Krisp (dangerously close to a meal). Pasta on Fridays only. Meanwhile I'm gulping vitamins and Tylenol, looking puzzled at perfect blood-test results, reading up on rare diseases (chronic fatigue? thyroid? cardiac? worse?), feeling weak, and reading message boards. What could be wrong with me?

Why could people much older than myself exercise daily while two sessions a week left me, like, paralyzed? Was this my metabolism? Genetics? Father Time telling me to "let myself go"?

As it turns out, you can't live and work and exercise without sufficient fuel. Exercise uses and then depletes glycogen (energy) stores. I had almost none stored because of chronic under-eating. When athletes deplete their glycogen they call it "hitting the wall," and it's like pulling the plug from an electrical appliance, you are that fatigued that suddenly. I was used to saying "I'm not that hungry" (true), "I hate dishes," and "I don't want to take the time." Needless to say I was not my cheery self, either. Yes, under-eating is a thing. Without glycogen your body eats your muscle tissue, and curves go flat, and whatever held you up fails to do so.

Life's Worst Meals (So Far)

Spoiled Coho Salmon: The July fishing derby drew up tons of salmon the anglers all give away at day’s end, a problem if your frugal family doesn’t like fish so doesn’t cook it much and fully expects it to smell and taste bad.

Hamburgers in Hot Dog Buns: With a bunch of teenagers to feed, Mom had ground beef but no hamburger buns, so she shaped the beef to fit the hot dog buns she did have, and the grilled and bunned burgers looked like quarter-pound turds.

Sauteed Chicken Livers: A horror show of not one but twenty or so veiny little livers I sincerely could not even look at and the only meal I ever told a friend (the host) I could not eat.

Clams Full of Mud: “Who wants clams for dinner?” caroled the enthusiastic Vermont hostess. I lied that I did. She went out and bought clams just for me and steamed them. I had to eat them.

Stuffed Green Peppers: Bitter body-temperature bell-pepper shells and acidic tomato sauce are a hellish combination always, but ten times worse if served as the gala welcome meal at an expensive retreat.  

Corned Beef and Cabbage: Like eating a human adult sent through a hot shredder.

I eat with no problem tripe, anchovies, lard, creamed herring from a jar, octopus, headcheese, zucchini blossoms, venison, sushi. . .

I Feel Like Working Again

I couldn't get out of bed and wasted hours on the Net, in bed or on the couch, and folded a magazine to a fine recipe for Peach-Pecan Upside-Down Cake, and bought the peaches, but they spoiled. And bought the pecans, but ate them because I didn't feel like cooking (call the doctor!) and actually bought frozen dinners, and after a while eating wasn't appealing either (call the coroner!). I re-acquired my fears of bread, fat, meats, calories, alcohol, and sugar, plus caffeine (I'd read up on metabolic syndrome), all of which I'd blithely consumed while vacationing in Portugal where people don't worry, and within a few days of returning re-acquired aches, pains, hypochondria, fear of crime, and blues entirely absent while I was there. Making phone calls was an ordeal, as was sitting or standing; I slacked. I did the minimum amount of work (which is still a lot; there's no second income here) and during the entire past month met up with only two friends. Couldn't write. Exhausted by the very idea of washing, styling, dressing, and making up. Thought I had no excuse. But I was burnt out after working 12 to 14 hours a day for months, so that merely approaching my workspace lashed me with a wave of nausea  and dread which I fought with a firehose of positive thinking--and secretly doing nothing for two or three days at a time, letting matters worsen and fester. And I took no pleasure in anything.

Just today--having separated from one of my jobs--I felt like working again. It took a month of near-idleness to restore me. Two months if you count the vacation. I just made soup and furthermore I ate some. Don't work 12 to 14 hours a day for six months, no matter how much you should, or even for good reasons. This experience taught me there are pressures and workloads I can't handle, or can't handle anymore.