The Northward Contrail

So what does it all mean?

[A note: I'm busy today and don't have any quick-and-dirty posting ideas.  Instead, I'll take you back to a post I wrote last year when I was doing more flying.  Forgive me for taking the cheap way out, but even a year or so later it sums up my feelings about flying better than anything I could have written since.]

Many times I've tried and failed to describe what flying means, but it's one of those things that you can't really explain, at least in words.  It's something you have to experience, and something that you really have to share with someone else who knows the feeling.  Too many times when I try to explain what flying means to me (or what Alaska means to me), I feel like I'm an astronaut who's just come back from six months on the International Space Station.  I've spent half a year participating in one of the most magnificent adventures anyone can have.  And yet most of the people who would talk to me about it would nod politely at my explanations of doing gymnastics in perpetual freefall and of looking down on our beautiful planet and seeing no borders, and say "Gosh, that's nice, but how did you go to the bathroom up there?" or "Well, didn't you get homesick?" or (worst of all) "Gosh, you know, I could never do that kind of thing."  (Ooooh, spare me.)

The first thing I have to do is differentiate flying of the sort I'm doing now from the sort of flying you do in the cabin of an airliner.  Strapped into an airliner, you're disconnected from the process, and you might as well be in a car or a bus going somewhere.  Sure, you have plenty of time to think and contemplate, and to look down on the little towns and cities, but it's not the same. 

To some extent, I'd even say the same about if you were in the front of the airplane.  Yeah, it's cool to be an airline pilot, but when you boil it down, it's not really that different from your average office desk job.  Sure, the office has a great view and travels fast, but so much of what you do is systems management and customer service.  The airplane is computerized and can mostly fly itself.  It's a far cry from where you start out, in an airplane where almost everything is manual in some way, shape or form, where there are no fancy multi-function computerized displays or anything of the sort. 

And flying's different in so many ways from other experiences.  I love cars, and there's a thrill I get from driving a fine automobile in a way that you drive fine automobiles.  Heck, there are even times when I enjoy taking my little Chevrolet out on a back road and pretending I'm Liz Halliday, taking the corners and seeing if I can improve my lap time.  But it's not the same.  I don't attach the same feeling to driving a car that I do with flying, and I don't know why that is.  Driving a fine automobile doesn't take you into another realm the way flying an airplane does.

Flying, to me, is about so much and yet about so little.  Obviously, it's about the realization of a lifelong dream, and yet the little things I've seen have been the ones that have stuck with me.  The little victories, like finally learning how to deflect aileron and coordinate rudder on a crosswind takeoff.  Or the little epiphanies, when you discover why things act the way they do and experience that simple little pleasure of finding things out (thanks, Dr. Feynman). 

And then there are those moments that you see something that leaves you in awe, and you don't know why.  I've seen a lot of storm clouds in my lifetime, having grown up in the South.  But last week, up in the pattern, I happened to look out the top of the windscreen, and up a few thousand feet above us was this big, gray, puffy cloud.  Intellectually I knew we were well below it, but from my viewpoint a thousand or so feet above ground, I almost felt I could reach up and touch it.  It was almost one of those moments where you're speechless.  There have been a dozen or so moments when, even in the midst of some demanding training, I've seen things that cried out for a lyricist's view.  John Gillespie Magee's poem "High Flight" has become a cliche many times over, but even as shopworn as it's become, there is so much truth in it, and I never realized that until I became a pilot -- that he'd really nailed something about the experience.

Flying is a very high-sensory experience for me, and it means something deep within.  It makes me feel things I can't express, almost the same way that a song can put pictures in my head or make me feel things that I can't (or, in some highly special and very personal cases, don't want to) explain to other folks.  And, like a song, each person who hears it or does it has his or her own mental image that goes with it.  Flying, for me, is this lyrical experience with so many deep, hidden meanings that I can't explain, any more than I can explain why a certain song makes me think of certain things or certain places or certain people.  It just does.  I hope it never stops being that way for me.

Adventures in medicine, and other picture postcards

This morning I finally went in to get some blood drawn for routine labwork.  I've had this lab order sitting around for several months, but, for a variety of reasons, had never followed up on it until today.  Part of it is that I've had past hassles with my insurance company, and though the last few years it's gone through with no snags, I'm still wary.  The other was trying to find out just where I could go to get it done, and once I got that figured out, all was well.

So this morning, having starved myself since 8 last night, I went in and expected things to take a while, like it has in the past.   I was pretty much ready for it.  So imagine my surprise when I came in the lab office this morning to find it empty except for a very shy lady behind the reception desk.  After a few moments of in-processing, she called me back, tied up my arm, stuck in the needle and took my blood sample.  What I expected to take an hour and a half lasted about 15 minutes.  I now have a nifty piece of gauze and a bandage on my left arm as a souvenir, and it's another thing taken care of.  Plus I didn't have to be gone from the office as long as I'd expected, so that's good.  (Now to find something to eat!  Man, right now, I'm so hungry I could eat a sandwich from a gas station.)

:: The word "goofy" comes to mind  I've touched a bit in previous meditations about this medical that's coming up, and that there are some circumstances that are making it a little complicated.  (I prefer to call it "interesting," but "complicated" is probably more appropriate.  Sort of like how, instead of saying I was basically fired from my first teaching job, I like to say "I was granted my free agency."  See?  It's all in how you spin it.)

Anyhow, I figure it might serve some good to touch on why this medical is a little more labor-intensive, and involves the guidance of the folks at the FAA.  It's nothing really that exotic, but for privacy's sake I'll share only the broad outlines of it.

I'm pretty good about paying attention to my body, knowing what she likes and what she doesn't, and what's normal and what isn't.  Well, one day about ten years ago, I noticed something that didn't seem to be right.  It had been okay before, but now it seemed goofy, and it also started to hurt a little bit.  So, I went to the family doctor's office.  The doctor who saw me was new to the profession and didn't really know what the deal was, but he gave me a bunch of antibiotics he felt would fix it.  (For the record, it wasn't Dr. Leo Spaceman.)

Well, that didn't work.  But I figured it had been checked out by a medical professional, so I went on about my life.  Still, my condition didn't improve, and I somewhat stupidly didn't follow up.  It worsened to the point that I ended up in the hospital one day.  Turns out the problem was a malignancy, and I was operated on as soon as the specialist could schedule me in.

The bad news?  It was cancer, all right.  The good news?  They got it all, it hadn't spread, and it didn't involve anything I needed to carry out essential life functions.  Oh, I'd still have to get a bunch of X-rays and exams, and as a precaution the doctor ordered a series of radiation treatments.  But other than that, I was fine and my prognosis was excellent, and I would very likely return to full health, free to pursue a life of religious fulfillment.

I recovered from the surgery in no time, and once I learned how to manage the radiation treatments' side effects I actually gained a little weight (hint I discovered on one cancer support group's website: drink lots and lots and lots of water).  I kept my mind busy, and I'd even go out and take brisk walks in the evenings after dinner.  My stamina lagged just a tiny bit, but I kept on going.

(The only strange thing I can remember from the radiation is that, while I was on it, even just the thought of tomato soup made me ill.  I tried eating some one night and it turned my stomach.  Which was weird, since tomato soup had never bothered me before, and hasn't since.)

The funny thing is, I can't ever recall feeling sad or gloomy or pessimistic, or asking "why me?"  Part of me saw it all as a new adventure; part of me was pragmatic, saying "well, I have to do it, so let's get this done"; and part of me realized how much worse it could have been, especially when I saw some of the other patients, some of them extremely ill, who were awaiting their turn on the radiation machine.  I had been spared, for whatever reason.  There were also times I'd sing Gilda Radner's cute (and somewhat obscene, so I can't share it here) little "I am well, I am wonderful, I am cancer-free" ditty to myself, because that's how I felt.  I was going to beat this cancer.

It's funny, but I really don't have any bad memories of those days.  It was something I didn't want to have happen (who would ask for cancer, anyway?), but I tried to make the most of the cards I was dealt.  I had people around me who loved me.  I had things to keep myself occupied.  I had learned how to manage my side-effects.  And I came through it with mind and health intact.

It'll soon be ten years since this episode.  I have received excellent medical care for most all those years, and all my follow-ups have gone very well.  The worst health crisis I've had since has been occasional sinus problems.  My body works as well, and in some ways even better, than before; all the little lights light up and all the little switches switch inside, just like the cutaway guy in the old Bufferin ads.  (Gee, if that's true, I'd work wonders with a button-hole stitcher in my nose, wouldn't I?)  And I have never stopped being thankful that I survived and that I enjoy a happy and healthy life.  (Something I forget too often when I'm grumbling about something petty like waiting in line at the post office or having to wait in rush-hour traffic is that, but for the grace of God, I wouldn't be alive.)

The FAA, however, gets very interested when your medical history involves the word "cancer," and in a way you can understand that. Cancer's a serious illness, and though we know a lot about it, there's also a lot about it we still don't know.  The FAA's in a goofy position, because what's in question is a medical certification that lasts several years.  On the other hand, even though you can understand their concern about any form of cancer, it still becomes a bit of a hassle and a potential nightmare when it's your medical history, and your future in a cockpit, that's in question.  You have to round up all the medical records you can, because it'll probably end up having to be decided by the FAA and not your doctor.

This is where doing your homework comes in handy.  There are aerospace medical experts who specialize in complicated medical certifications and will, for a fee, help you figure out what you need to do.  (I've benefited from the help of one such doctor.)  Organizations like AOPA and the EAA also offer similar assistance as a membership benefit.  So, it can be done, and according to the statistics only a tiny number of applications for medicals get turned down for good.  A lot of times, folks are able to get an issuance or a special issuance; some of them, though, get tired of the hassle and give up.

Still, it can be done.  You just have to jump through the hoops.  Even if it is a pain in the backside.  (Which, to be honest, it is.  But I'm the one who put myself up for it, aren't I?)

:: While looking for something else this morning, I found the lyrics to one of my favorite Warren Zevon songs, "Figurine."  I have a low-quality cassette recording of him performing it at a live show, but I'll forever wish he had put it (and "Bujumbura") on a studio ablum.

Kryptonite

The flight physical is coming on, I'm carrying out my plans to get in shape with almost frightening determination, and I'm eager to get it done and get all happy and certified. I'm wired and inspired, ready to crank up the juice and cut the thing loose.

So what brings it to a screeching halt?  The telephone -- or, more precisely, my fear and loathing of it. 

Yesterday I tried to call the Regional Flight Surgeon, with whom I'd had some very helpful conversations last Fall, and check on my status.  I'd sent a bunch of my medical documents to the RFS office (directly to the RFS, on said doctor's personal invitation) so that any issues could be worked out beforehand, and I wanted to make sure nothing's been derailed.  I'd just intended to leave a message; the RFS has been good about calling me back.  Well, problem is, there's no longer a secretary handling it, but now a big fancy automated system that directs your incoming call down certain prearranged, simplified paths.  And I can't navigate it, or make sense of it, or figure out which path I need to follow.  I'm nervous enough having to initiate a call, and this phone menu makes a hash of my nerves.  It's funny, isn't it?  In so much in life I'm absolutely fearless, but tell me to call somebody and I get the shakes.  (I'll eventually get it done, of course, but I don't much like it.)

So I ended up sending a fax instead, and that went through okay.  This was actually a little more useful, since it let me organize my thoughts, so it's all good.  But, man, telephones (and, for that matter, working the radios in the airplane) do to me what Kryptonite does to Superman.  There's a reason why, when I'm at work and need something, I'll more often than not go directly to the person's office and talk to them one-on-one rather than calling.  The phone's a bit too impersonal.  (Yeah, and like a weblog is up-close and cuddly.)

:: You think I'd find a hobby  Sometimes when things are slow, I'll get on Wikipedia and look around, because I'm one of those folks who will pick up an almanac or a dictionary and get engrossed in it, flipping around to different things and learning stuff.  Wikipedia, despite the inaccurate or unverified junk that sometimes gets in it, does the same thing to me.  It's even more dangerous when the article is full of links to other entries.  And, well, there goes an hour, right?

Some time ago I started to play a little game, sort of the Wikipedia version of "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon."  I'll start with an article, any article, and try to get to a given topic I set for myself in the fewest number of jumps.  This can be fun and frustrating, but it requires brainpower, and that way it keeps my mind sharp.  And sometimes you surprise yourself.  I'll never forget the joy I felt one day when, completely on a dare to myself, I managed to jump from William F. Buckley to Willie Mays in only two articles. 

Revenge of odds and ends (in 3-D)

This morning I have some things to get done, and not much to say, so here's when I whip out some links I've thought about the last few days:

:: Any of you who have taken the CNN tour in Atlanta will remember the giant escalator that takes you up to begin the tour.  Once upon a time, though, that escalator led you to The World of Sid and Marty Krofft, to roam amongst critters even more furry and cuddly than Wolf Blitzer.  Here's a very interesting article about the short life and spectacular fall of that exhibit. 

:: Seriously cool article from Slate about the culinary skills of Vincent Price.  You may know him from the horror movies, but Price was also an artist, connoisseur of fine art, and could cook up a storm in the kitchen.  He issued not only cookbooks, but also LPs of his recipes (which lend themselves to very interesting mash-ups). 

So here we go

I've been in touch with an aviation medical examiner who was referred to me for my medical.  This afternoon, an offer of an appointment time was made, in mid-October.  It fit perfectly within my schedule, when I'll have time off for such things.  I accepted.  Now, please wish me luck -- that the getting-in-shape deal goes the way I hope, and that there won't be many (if any) snags in my certification.

:: As things continue to look up for ol' Liz Lemon  And, if that wasn't enough, I also learned today that the second season of 30 Rock is due on DVD about the same time, and it will include a raft of extras.  Mine's already on pre-order; if you're savvy and all, you can find some neat pre-release deals on it.

Calm

This morning I was at home, about to get ready for the day.  I went out on the back porch to retrieve our hummingbird feeders so I could fill them back up.  It was a perfect morning.  The temperature was nice.  There was really no wind to speak of.  The sun wasn't up yet.  Out where we are, there are no lights of the city to screw up the sky, and it was a really deep blue.  Directly overhead, the moon smiled down.  The only noise I could hear was the morning's first birds chirping from the trees.  It was everything we'd wanted, and everything we'd hoped for, when we bought this bit of land in the middle of nowhere a few years back.

I cleaned the feeders, filled them back up, and then took them back outside.  When they were back in place, I took a moment to look up at the moon as it grinned down between a couple of trees.  It was so peaceful and quiet and calm and perfect, and yet in less than an hour I'd have to be on my way to the office for a long day of work, where things are often anything but calm.  I almost felt like crying. 

:: In hopes of helping you start this week in a happy place, here's a similar post from Aviatrix on her blog the other day.  It's wonderful when something you've seen so often actually lives up to what you imagine, isn't it?

In the books

The first week of a new academic year is coming to an end.  It seems odd not to be constantly meeting one class after another, the way I was last semester.  When I came on here, I thought it was odd to be asked to teach four courses each semester, since I'd only taught three where I had been; I accepted, though, because it meant a paycheck and I needed to eat.  Over time, I became used to it, and am now to the point where if I only taught three, I'd wonder if something was wrong.  Last semester, though, because of some personnel issues, I ended up taking on nine courses.  The overload pay came in handy, but the rest was a nightmare, and was a classic case of doing a bunch of things at once, but not doing them particularly well. 

This semester, though, seems almost alien.  I only have five courses, one of them a tiny activity lab that doesn't involve much heavy lifting.  Only one will be really paperwork-intensive, and involves students who haven't had me before.  There's a semester-long dance that takes place as I get to know them, and they get to know me, and they have to learn how I operate my classroom and what they can and can't get away with.  Fortunately, it's the first one on my schedule every other day, so they and I get it over with first thing.  The rest mostly involve projects, and are with students I know and who know me, so there's a lot more comfort for me and for them.  I already know their personalities, I know their abilities, and I can act accordingly.  Those are the classes in which I have the most fun, and those are the courses that help keep me coming back to this job.  (The paycheck doesn't hurt, either.)

The one downside I can see in it all is that I get the really awful feeling I'll be involved in a lot of committee meetings, as assigned.  I hope not, but I also know how these things go.  I really don't like meetings, being the rugged individualist I am, but you knew that by now.

:: Interesting piece over at Slate about the potential value (or lack thereof) of campaign-themed memorabilia.  Since Presidential history/trivia has been pretty much a lifelong interest of mine, I have a small collection related to the candidates and political figures whom I've found of interest.  What surprised me when I first got into it is how affordable a lot of it is.  Maybe not so good if you're trying to sell it, but a definite help if you're wanting to build your collection.  (Shameless plug here for the folks at Political Heritage, with whom I've made several happy transactions.  I don't believe you'll find nicer people in the business.)

Famous

I'm not a celebrity, and I like it that way.  Most of the time, I get embarrassed if people make a fuss over me, unless it's a place I expect a certain degree of service in exchange for what I'm paying, like in a nice restaurant or a good hotel or something like that.  There are odd occasions when it's nice to be treated special, especially if it's a birthday or you've accomplished something, or your colleagues honor you for something...but, for the most part, I am content to be anonymous and fade into the hum of life.  I am an average lady of average means, and I'm not rich or famous, and probably won't be until I'm able to patent a device that will instantly vaporize subwoofers that are being operated by the inconsiderate.

In my life, however, I have had the rare occasion to meet some folks who are well-known, and in a meditation a few days back I promised you I'd share some stories of these encounters, both good and bad.  They've left me with the view that, in ways both good and bad, the famous are much like us.  I've also learned about the perils of putting someone on a pedestal, too.

The first famous person I can remember meeting was Jerry Clower.  For those of you who don't remember, Jerry Clower was a fertilizer salesman who parlayed the funny stories he told to clients into a successful career as a comedian.  I must have been seven or eight, and we had gone to one of his performances near my hometown, and my father took us up to meet him after the show.  I vaguely remember shaking his hand and getting his autograph, and being awed that the guy whose face I knew from the album covers was right there, talking to me in that familiar voice.  (By the way, do I get extra points from anyone for still being able to recite, from memory, the names of the entire Ledbetter family?)

For a long time, he was the only really famous person I'd met.  I got to meet an astronaut a few years later after a speaking engagement; he was one of the Shuttle astronauts and had come in one of the big groups as the program started, so his name wasn't exactly a household word.  I was impressed, though, with how personable and friendly he was, and that he was willing to talk so long with me and my mother.  Two years later, I got to meet him again, and he was the same sweet guy, willing to talk, and instantly making you feel at home with him. 

I went through a thing with baseball a few years later, and a friend and I would occasionally go to autograph signings with retired players we liked.  Some of these were fun, and some of them were forgettable.  Warren Spahn was a wisecracker and loved to tease you.  Eddie Mathews was recovering from a horrible accident that eventually played a role in his early demise, but he still offered up a smile and a handshake.  Steve Carlton was an absolute gentleman, and needled the nearby Robin Roberts, much to our amusement.  Al Downing probably impressed me most of any of them I met, not only willing to talk with you, but also going into an interesting discussion about how the way baseballs are wound may have something to do with the proliferation in home runs.  Of all the baseball players I met, I think Al Downing would win, hands-down, as the best guy with whom to share dinner conversation. 

Along with the good, though, there's some bad experiences.  I think the moment that it all changed for me was when a friend and I drove a couple hours to meet one particular player we really admired as hero, inspiration and role model.  (Out of respect for this gentleman, and for reasons that will, I hope, become clear later, I won't name him.)  So we bought our tickets, waited on the line for the moment to meet him, and were absolutely thrilled to be there and wondering what we'd say during the few seconds we'd be near him. 

It was a dud.  We handed over our baseballs to be signed, he signed them, and put them back on the table for us to claim.  He didn't look up, didn't respond to our "thank you," nothing.  The two slightly-too-perky young men who were tending to him were talking to him about things that, I could tell from his voice, he was weary from recounting over and over in the years since they happened.  He was signing and talking at the same time, and he didn't seem happy to be there.  It was like a factory, grinding out the signatures like a meat market. 

Back then, I was more full of piss and vinegar, and when I got home I vented my spleen in a diplomatic, but still upset, letter to this former player, and I mailed it off.  To my surprise, I received a personal response, and after I read it, I felt like the world's biggest schmuck.  He didn't intend to offend me; rather, much of the reason why he was withdrawn was because a member of his family was ill (and, it turned out, had died a few days after the event I attended).  Something in me immediately felt the urge to bray like a giant jackass.

In the process, though, I was reminded of something I'd forgotten: These famous people, like all of us, have good qualities and lesser qualities, good days and bad days.  Catch them at a good time and it's good, but catch them at a bad time and it can leave a mark.  And while it's okay to admire them, don't let it get out of hand; inevitably, you'll be disappointed when the image you've constructed doesn't match up to the reality.  (It's a little like love, I guess: You become smitten with a guy and think he hung the moon, but do you still love him when you find out Prince Charming carries more gas in his tanks than a 1953 Cadillac and can't eat French fries without saying "Man, these boys is tasty!" after each one?)

I had to be reminded that famous people are often no better, or no worse, than the rest of us. And it ended up being good for me.  Many times, they just have better public relations and better editing going for them.  We see the sunny side, the happy side, and on television or in the movies or in the magazines we see them with every hair in place, but we don't see as many of their lesser moments...while each one of us is along for every moment, good and bad, of our own lives.  We forget that the people we admire have not-so-good moments, that bad things happen to them, and all that other stuff.  We forget that behind the big smiles and perfect hair, there are things we don't see, and those things are often very much like things in our own lives.

Since that episode, I've had a few more brushes with fame, mostly with brand-name journalists who have come to speak at various functions for my employers.  They have been kind and gracious, and I've especially enjoyed it when they have wanted to meet my students.  But, any more, I really don't have the compulsion to meet famous people unless there's some greater purpose, or unless it's something related to a job I have to do.  I've mostly gotten past my autograph collecting days, though there are a few I have that I love.  But will my life feel more validated because I've shaken hands with a famous person?  I don't think so.  (And, because I get tongue-tied, nor will I have to relive, over and over, forever in my mind's instant replay, the sort of moment Wil Wheaton talked about here.  Or that Liz talks about here.)   

Are there famous people I still admire?  Oh, absolutely.  For now, at least, I'm content to watch them from afar, and I try not to put them on a pedestal.  They inspire me, yes, even with their flaws.  But I've learned to draw more inspiration from those around me.  My circle of close friends isn't very big, but you can't beat its members in terms of quality.  They've done amazing things, and they've shared them with me, and they've made my life happier and richer for the being there.  And, just by being around them, whether in person or via e-mail, they have helped me become a better person in ways no celebrity could have.  Sometimes we get so wrapped up with our idols that we lose sight of the wonder that's constantly around us.

So that's my gassy, somewhat self-contradicting take on fame. 

Down in the basement, I got a Craftsman lathe

Two days into the new semester, and I see nothing has really changed from previous semesters.  The first week is always a sort of Hell Week, because you deal with students who come in and want schedule changes (sometimes making requests/demands that are often difficult to fulfill, and frequently rooted in not wanting to inconvenience themselves), and a handful of students who need whole schedules constructed.  That's darn near impossible, especially when just about every section of just about everything is full.  I've spent about 95% of my time the last two days on about 5% of the people who have come through the door.  Just when I think I have their schedules resolved, they come back because a course has closed or something else has come up.

If I can make it to next week, when drop/add will be over, things will be better.  But -- argh! -- next week brings at least one meeting for which I will have to stay late.  And there may be more, the nature of which I'm not really at liberty to discuss.  I never dreamed I'd strike it rich like this.

:: Hal Gurnee's Network Time Killers  If you really want to use up bandwidth like there's no tomorrow, spend some time at the Atlanta Time Machine website.  I was referred to it because of its excellent section about the history of the Atlanta airport, but while there I got drawn in by its companion sections about the history of Waffle House (and you can find out what became of the very first location, no less), the Smokey and the Bandit "then and now" tour, and the Dukes of Hazzard "then and now" tour.  For someone who's spent enough time in Atlanta (and not during airport layovers) to be slightly dangerous in knowing her way around, I think this site's a blast.

Somewhat related (and found via a link in the Waffle House section of the above website) is this treatise on fried chicken outlets that, in the course of trying to cash in on the market leader's fame, ended up with names that you don't really think of.  Must be seen to be believed.  (I wonder if Oliver Stone's ever eaten at one?)

Squeezing the sweetest juice from your mind grapes

So I'm trying to get myself ready for this physical that's coming up, and one of the things I'm really working hard to do is finish losing about 20 or so pounds.  I'm halfway to my goal, but, man, it's been a slow process.  (I started about a year ago, if that's any indication.)  Every time I think I'm making progress, something has happened and my diet's gone out the window, along with my exercise regimen.  These last 10 or so pounds are being especially stubborn. 

This time, though, there's plenty of motivation.  I'll be going to a doctor I've never seen before, forking over a good amount of money for the privilege, and there's a very dear personal reason I'm doing it.  You can appreciate why I want it to go so well, I imagine.  (There's also some vanity in that there's a block on the medical for "weight," and when they get that measurement during intake, I want that number to be something I'm not ashamed of.  Yeah, so I'm vain.  But, deep down inside, we're all shallow, aren't we?)

So this has meant I'm pulling out the stops.  I'm exercising every day; heck, I went out Sunday morning and ran, and I don't believe I've ever exercised on a Sunday.  I'm also being very careful about what goes into my body.  Breakfast is a bowl of cereal with soy milk; lunch is usually a sandwich (tofu turkey on light bread); dinner is usually another bowl of cereal, or stir-fry vegetables with a precisely-calibrated serving of rice.  And I try not to munch between meals.  If I do, it's either a handful of nuts or a few whole-wheat crackers. 

Even that, though, I'm trying to cut back on.  ["Bork!  How many times have I told you never to end a sentence with a preposition?"]  How?  Drinking water, as much as I can, between meals.  Not only is water good for you, for obvious reasons, but it also helps you stay full.  One important thing that helped me as I was originally losing weight about 15 years ago was drinking lots of water and iced tea.  It kept me full, it kept my body flushed out, and it just helped, period.  Over the years, though, I haven't done as well with it.  It also isn't helped by my tendency to pour a glass of Diet Coke and grab something to munch with it, either.  Even iced tea brings with it the temptation to dive into the Triscuits, and as much as you can tell yourself that you could be eating things that are a lot worse, it's still something your body could have run without. 

I've known there are things I could try that would be better for me than sodas and even iced tea.  There are zero-calorie drink mixes out there, I know, but almost all of them have Splenda, which tends to really upset my stomach.  (The sweeteners in Diet Coke and Diet Pepsi don't, though.  Go figure.)  Plus, I could never get used to their taste.  So that's out. 

A couple nights ago, though, I had an idea.  We keep a bottle of lemon juice in the refrigerator.  It's just that; juice that's squeezed out of lemons, with nothing else in there.  I put some in a glass, threw some ice in, and filled the glass from the tap.  Man, was it good.  Not overpowering; not cloying; just enough of a twist to make it different.  It was good enough that yesterday I stopped by the store and got more lemon juice and even a couple bottles of lime juice, all the more to have on hand, and all the more variety.  Yep, still as good.

While it'll be a while before I know if it matters any in regards to my weight, I have noticed some definite changes.  I'm again staying full as I keep drinking water.  Better still, I'm also noticing that the caffeine headaches I got from all that iced tea and Diet Coke are nowhere in sight.  I've only had one Diet Coke the whole day, and that was at lunch.  It was just enough.  Everything else today has been water.

It's hard for me to scale back -- man, do I love Diet Coke (and, even better, Coke Zero), and at home I drink so much iced tea it may as well be in my bloodstream -- but I have read about what it's like to wean yourself from so much caffeine and the results that come after, and I've wanted to know what it's like to not be so perpetually stimulated.  I hate the evening headaches and grumpiness that comes with it, too.  All that caffeine has probably played a role in why I have trouble winding down and going to sleep most nights.  And I shudder to think about what all the artificial sweeteners in the sodas and the tea are doing to my body, too.

So maybe going gonzo about this whole medical deal will turn out to be a good thing.  I sure hope so.  With this, with exercising before I get ready for work in the morning, and experimenting with the running thing again, I'm already feeling much better, and better about myself too.