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The game starts even before I get out of bed. As soon as I'm pretty sure that I won't be able to sleep any longer, I open my eyes and peer anxiously at the red digital numbers on the bedside clock--anxiously, because those numbers have the power to control how I will feel all day. If the numbers are somewhere between 3:45 and 4:30, no matter how refreshed and energetic I might actually feel, no matter how many hours I might have actually slept, because I am enslaved to certain numbers I will consider myself tired and lethargic and will have to push myself through the day's activities, fighting the temptation to opt out and veg out. If the numbers are between 4:30 and 5:00, I will strive to keep an open mind but will slip into fatigue at the least mental weakness on my part. If they're between 5:00 and 5:45, I will eagerly look forward to what the day has in store, and if they're between 5:45 and 6:30, I'll be raring to go, full of energy all day. What if they're post-6:30? I wouln't know, because they never are. What are they most likely to be? Between 4:45 and 5:15, which means that I often have at least a chance to start the day with great expectations.
Until, that is, I step on the bathroom scale. If the scale numbers are bad (for the past 40 years, anything over 160 for me was bad; last spring, dismayed at the jiggly flesh that insisted on draping itself over my 3-pack abs, I dropped the number to 153), regardless of whether or not I'm pleased with my sleep numbers, I know I'm in for a challenge all day. I will have to cut back the calories consumed at each meal and ramp up the exercise routine. At 153 even, I allow myself 400 calories (a ballpark figure--I don't actually count each one) for breakfast, 500-600 for lunch, and 800-900 for dinner (including dessert). Breakfast usually consists of a level 1/3 cup (before cooking) of oatmeal with blueberries tossed in and topped off with Splenda but no milk, a piece of raisin bread with a tablespoon of jam, and a piece of fruit. (Occasionally I will substitute cold cereal or three Eggo waffles with two ounces of syrup for the oatmeal; if it's waffles, I will eliminate the bread.) Over 153 means a shallow 1/3 cup without blueberries; under, a rounded cup and a generous handful. Over also means a scant teaspoon of jam on my bread; under, a heaping tablespoon. And over means a 1/2 grapefruit, picked from our own tree this time of year; under, or even, a whole one--either way splendid but not Splendaed, as the fruit is sweet indeed. At 153 for lunch I have a smoothie (Splendaed lemonade squeezed from our own lemons, seven ice cubes, a scoop of protein powder, a banana, and a cup of frozen fruit), a thin slice of turkey, a 1/4" slice of hard cheese, six tortilla chips, and one of our oranges. Over, I skip the chips and slice the cheese thinner; under, I add a second slice of turkey or a few more chips or have a tablespoon of peanut butter right from the jar. At 153, for dinner it's a meat or fish entree, a starch (two pieces of bread, or a heaping serving spoon of rice, or a medium-sized potato with a bit of olive oil or I Can't Believe It's Not Butter), a vegetable, and a lightly dressed salad. If the entree happens to be pasta or a casserole, then no additional starch, just the veg and salad. Nothing to drink in any case. Over, smaller portions all the way around; under, a second helping of the entree. For dessert, a piece of pie, cake, or candy, or some sort of ice cream or frozen yogurt. Over, small portions of the dessert; under, perhaps a small bowl of cold cereal (non-fat milk) before bedtime, fingers crossed that tomorrow's number won't jump above 153.
Before breakfast, of course, comes coffee: 16 ounces of filtered water poured over three scoops of freshly-ground beans. Sixteen--can't have less or I will convince myself that I feel deprived and lethargic and on the verge of a headache; can't have more or I will surely feel edgy and dizzy. And in the late afternoon or early evening, exactly 16 ounces more. Happily, it never keeps me awake. I can down 16 and 10 minutes later fall asleep watching TV.
The number obsession continues as I move into the day's actitivies. In softball games and tournaments, I must take all pitches until I get a strike and must hit at least .600 (used to be .700 but my standards are dropping with age) or have as many total bases as times at bat. In basketball pickup games I must shoot 50%--or 40% if I make at least one nice offensive move that the young guys would not expect an old guy to be able to do. In bowling, I must have a 500 series each outing and must maintain a 175 average. In golf, I must break 90 (used to be 85 but...). In tennis the special number is three. I must imagine that three balls are coming at me in single file and I must swing through and hit all three (which helps me keep my eye on the ball and hit it straight at the target.) Sad to say, I seldom succeed in achieving this number consistently. In weightlifting, every two or three days (depends on when I can work it into my schedule) I must do three sets of four exercises for each major muscle group in the upper body--bis, lats, and back one day, tris, pecs, and shoulders another. For each of the four exercises, I do 10 reps at a given weight, then eight reps at an increased weight, then six at another increase in weight, with one minute intervals. (I also always do 200 ab crunches at each workout, but leg exercises are more hit-and-miss, depending on how much time and energy I have that day.) I will confess that I am like Sisyphus (the Greek who pushed a heavy rock almost to the top of a hill, only to find it come rolling back down each time) in this regard. Trying to get bigger and stronger--without putting on any weight, of course!--inevitably I eventually push too hard and strain a ligament or develop muscle spasms that require me to retreat for rest and recuperation before I can start from the bottom again. Just last week my back seized up on me when I was shrugging 135 pounds. Naturally, I finished the set--those numbers compelled me to do so. Naturally, I struggled with bending to pick up a grounder and straightening to throw when playing softball the next day. Time to go back to 20 pounds and work my way up the hill again.
During the day, a few other numbers come into play. I'm compelled to check my pulse rate, which at rest should be about 45. (Whenever I go to a new doctor or specialist, which unfortunately I did quite often in 2010, they are always alarmed at my pulse rate and often order an entirely unecessary EKG.) I'm compelled each day to look up online our checkbook balance to make sure that it's above $10,000. If it isn't, I seek ways to cut my expenses (not Judy's--she has no such compulsions!) to get that book back in "balance." I can live with $10,000. If I were an Air Force colonel, a Fed-Ex pilot, or a retired university administrator, I'd probably need more in there. Last year I managed to edge it up to $38,000, which even I had to admit was a tad high for the joint checking account of a retired schoolteacher and retired dental assistant, so we paid $28,000 in cash for a new car and dropped back to the magic $10K. Speaking of going online, I must spend at least one hour, preferably two, in cyberspace, checking my accounts, reading my news sources, and just looking up stuff. E-mail I must check three times a day. And I also need at least an hour to read the morning AZ Republic while downing that 16 oz. of coffee. If the day threatens to be too crowded to do that, I will set the alarm for 4:30 and probably feel groggy all day, because that ritual is just too important to ignore.
Finally, I must leave the living room (where the temperature in winter is maintained at 73 and in the rest of the year at 80--anything less than 73 and I would feel painfully cold, anything more than 80 and I would feel overheated) and head for the bedroom at 10:00 o'clock. If a televised ballgame is still in progress, I will listen to the bedroom TV while tending to my teeth, then watch the rest of it while reading or working a puzzle. If there is no game, I'll tune to a sit-com or Sports Nation or Leno's monologue. I must be asleep by 11:00 or run the serious risk of being further saddened next morning when I peer at those red digital numbers.
One last obsession: when I wake during the night and can't get back to sleep right away, I review my most recent weightlifting session, going over the weights and the reps and thinking about which exercises I could add weight to next time. When I can't sleep, I count my pressings instead of sheep. So, you say, I'm way too obsessive-compulsive and anal-retentive? Well, I reply, it's high time that calling someone "anal retentive" stopped being a justifiable accusation and started being classified as hate speech. Anal-retentive, industrious ants do not live for the moment or act on whims, but they enjoy life just as much as lazy, laid-back, spontaeous grasshoppers. Besides, Sigmund Freud's analysis of personality types is so 20th century.
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