When I moved to Michigan in 2009, I decided it was a great time to start eating less and exercising more.
As the months went by, I discovered some health connections I hadn't seen before.
Here are a few:
* The oldest and most frayed gym bags belong to the people in the best shape.
* When a kitchen has a full salt shaker and an empty pepper shaker, the cooking in the house is healthier.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
A Change in the Wind
Sometimes, when I'm out for my daily walk, I swear I can feel the Great Lakes air blowing in over the treetops. It's a cleaner breeze, with a shoreline taste to it. It's different than the drier air in Wisconsin.
Michigan has more shoreline than any other state. And there's no fence keeping the lake breezes from washing over the land.
I'm just not used to it yet, and it catches me by surprise when the air actually changes in mid-blow. Kind of fun.
Michigan has more shoreline than any other state. And there's no fence keeping the lake breezes from washing over the land.
I'm just not used to it yet, and it catches me by surprise when the air actually changes in mid-blow. Kind of fun.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Exercising Their Opinions
At my local health club franchise, ear buds sprout everywhere. Spoken messages have given way to electronic feeds into human heads.
While fewer points are uttered via mouth, however, plenty are broadcast via T-shirt. It's a kind of free speech -- what's displayed on someone's back speaks his or her mind.
A routine of circuit training gives me plenty of views. Today, I saw a Miley Cyrus purple and pink shirt reflecting the light on a nearby elliptical machine, while beer brands were advertised in the front row of treadmills. Wayne State T-shirts are as popular here as Bucky Badger UW tops are in Wisconsin. I wondered if I’d see a direct Democrat-Republican textile face-off anywhere in the club but, so far, no. Detroit Pistons and American flag motifs are favorites, along with Woodward Avenue Dream Cruise shirts. Some grassroots slogans intrigue me, like the one that proclaims the "Denim Cult."
For now, I've chosen the "no comment" approach in workout gear. The only message my plain turquoise top sends is that I like it to match my bottoms.
While fewer points are uttered via mouth, however, plenty are broadcast via T-shirt. It's a kind of free speech -- what's displayed on someone's back speaks his or her mind.
A routine of circuit training gives me plenty of views. Today, I saw a Miley Cyrus purple and pink shirt reflecting the light on a nearby elliptical machine, while beer brands were advertised in the front row of treadmills. Wayne State T-shirts are as popular here as Bucky Badger UW tops are in Wisconsin. I wondered if I’d see a direct Democrat-Republican textile face-off anywhere in the club but, so far, no. Detroit Pistons and American flag motifs are favorites, along with Woodward Avenue Dream Cruise shirts. Some grassroots slogans intrigue me, like the one that proclaims the "Denim Cult."
For now, I've chosen the "no comment" approach in workout gear. The only message my plain turquoise top sends is that I like it to match my bottoms.
Monday, February 1, 2010
The Cold Truth
It's easier for you to read my words than to hear me right now. Why? Because it's February in Michigan and my voice has to travel through layers of clothing to emerge. My face is hidden behind a hat brim, scarf, and coat collar -- it's the only way to stay warm outside.
The air feels damper here than in Wisconsin. Maybe that's just my internal barometer, but perception is reality, right? I hear Michigan natives commenting about the cold, too. My book group at the local library usually chats for a few minutes after the last word, but lately we've just waved and bolted for our cars. Or as close to a bolting pace as we can manage while wearing hiking boots and two pairs of socks.
I have enrolled in the Fahrenheit School of Fashion. For ammo, I pulled out a long black sweater dress that's like a lengthy mitten. It goes over boots, tights, ski socks, whatever it takes. Sometimes I feel like the layers are wearing me.
My new look includes winter hats, not for the jaunty fashion of the berets and work caps, but rather for the warmth. When my hairstylist suggested a shorter hair length, I deferred until spring.
Meanwhile, I'm chillin', literally.
The air feels damper here than in Wisconsin. Maybe that's just my internal barometer, but perception is reality, right? I hear Michigan natives commenting about the cold, too. My book group at the local library usually chats for a few minutes after the last word, but lately we've just waved and bolted for our cars. Or as close to a bolting pace as we can manage while wearing hiking boots and two pairs of socks.
I have enrolled in the Fahrenheit School of Fashion. For ammo, I pulled out a long black sweater dress that's like a lengthy mitten. It goes over boots, tights, ski socks, whatever it takes. Sometimes I feel like the layers are wearing me.
My new look includes winter hats, not for the jaunty fashion of the berets and work caps, but rather for the warmth. When my hairstylist suggested a shorter hair length, I deferred until spring.
Meanwhile, I'm chillin', literally.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
I'm Branded
I live in metro Detroit and I drive a Japanese car. This was not planned, but it is fact. Since moving to Michigan, I have experienced what it feels like to be in the motorists' minority. Often, in traffic or in parking lots, I have the only Japanese car in sight. It actually was manufactured in Japan.
Before I moved to Michigan, my 2007 auto got attention because it has manual door locks and crank windows, by my request. Now, however, I find just driving my car down the street can garner attention, and not all of it positive.
The thing is: I understand. In this economy, my Japanese car is a symbol of losses in Detroit: losses of jobs, market muscle, a way of life, pride.
In the Dearborn area, an SUV that shall remain nameless tailgated me for a curiously long time even though I kept pace with traffic. (The thought crossed my mind that, with the size disparity, I could drive my tiny car up a tailgate ramp and piggyback a lift inside the SUV.) When I get in line to merge from three to two lanes, I find I can expect a leisurely interval to pass before someone lets me in. My car gets stares when I'm simply pumping gas or hanging a Michigan left. These events might happen to anybody, true, but they happen to me so frequently that I accept the message is being sent.
So be it -- no hard feelings. If it makes anyone feel better, please know my husband drives a Mustang.
Before I moved to Michigan, my 2007 auto got attention because it has manual door locks and crank windows, by my request. Now, however, I find just driving my car down the street can garner attention, and not all of it positive.
The thing is: I understand. In this economy, my Japanese car is a symbol of losses in Detroit: losses of jobs, market muscle, a way of life, pride.
In the Dearborn area, an SUV that shall remain nameless tailgated me for a curiously long time even though I kept pace with traffic. (The thought crossed my mind that, with the size disparity, I could drive my tiny car up a tailgate ramp and piggyback a lift inside the SUV.) When I get in line to merge from three to two lanes, I find I can expect a leisurely interval to pass before someone lets me in. My car gets stares when I'm simply pumping gas or hanging a Michigan left. These events might happen to anybody, true, but they happen to me so frequently that I accept the message is being sent.
So be it -- no hard feelings. If it makes anyone feel better, please know my husband drives a Mustang.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Mysteries Solved
New words intrigue me. New words spread around town on multiple signs on restaurants and stores give me pangs of curiosity.
After moving to Michigan, I saw "coneys" and "grave blankets" on signs for the first time, so I went on their trail.
One down:
You can't drive more than a few miles without seeing coney spots, and now I know why.
Coneys, which are worth a brake, are a standard-size hot dog on a steamed bun, topped most often with chili sauce, yellow mustard, and a sprinkling of chopped, raw onions. Hmmm, tasty.
Two down:
Grave blankets are a cold-climate variation of leaving bouquets and other tributes at a grave. They're evergreen rectangles that literally blanket a last resting place and tuck it in for the winter. These reverential tributes to the deceased are placed on graves from around Thanksgiving to almost St. Patrick's Day, when cemeteries remove the boughs and bows.
The local florist says her family makes a Christmastime trip to the cemetery with a grave blanket to honor her parents. They add a string of blinking Christmas lights to the evergreen blanket and sing carols graveside, for a family flourish.
At last, my curiosity can rest in peace.
After moving to Michigan, I saw "coneys" and "grave blankets" on signs for the first time, so I went on their trail.
One down:
You can't drive more than a few miles without seeing coney spots, and now I know why.
Coneys, which are worth a brake, are a standard-size hot dog on a steamed bun, topped most often with chili sauce, yellow mustard, and a sprinkling of chopped, raw onions. Hmmm, tasty.
Two down:
Grave blankets are a cold-climate variation of leaving bouquets and other tributes at a grave. They're evergreen rectangles that literally blanket a last resting place and tuck it in for the winter. These reverential tributes to the deceased are placed on graves from around Thanksgiving to almost St. Patrick's Day, when cemeteries remove the boughs and bows.
The local florist says her family makes a Christmastime trip to the cemetery with a grave blanket to honor her parents. They add a string of blinking Christmas lights to the evergreen blanket and sing carols graveside, for a family flourish.
At last, my curiosity can rest in peace.
Friday, January 22, 2010
A Show Not Seen on TV
I watched as a silent story of dignity revealed itself in -- of all places -- the modem return line at a cable TV /Internet/phone service's storefront.
The store in the Detroit metro area was way too popular on a recent day when I stopped in to straighten out a moving-related matter.
The customer service line stretched 50 feet from the counter. There was no doubt at first glance that entering this store would mean handing over a chunk of time.
Customers stood in two lines. Some had TV devices in their hands, with cords dangling. Some had children's hands in their hands, with mittens dangling on cords. Some had monthly statements in their hands, with questions dangling.
I've observed the same circumstance before. Usually, impatience grew as the time in line stretched. But here, the quiet stayed. Nobody drummed their fingertips, or tapped their feet restlessly. Even the children were quiet. Not miserable, just quiet.
It was as though a silent agreement had been reached, with a pact: "Let's handle this. This is not your fault or my fault. We can't make this experience be delightful for each other, but at least we won't make it any worse for each other."
I think the silent pact stemmed from a common awareness: When a state's economy is rocked by a financial earthquake and a recession stays in place like a financial drought, then the time has passed to sweat the small stuff.
Not making it any worse for each other? I'll get in line for that.
The cars in Michigan are not the only things here with a steel spine.
The store in the Detroit metro area was way too popular on a recent day when I stopped in to straighten out a moving-related matter.
The customer service line stretched 50 feet from the counter. There was no doubt at first glance that entering this store would mean handing over a chunk of time.
Customers stood in two lines. Some had TV devices in their hands, with cords dangling. Some had children's hands in their hands, with mittens dangling on cords. Some had monthly statements in their hands, with questions dangling.
I've observed the same circumstance before. Usually, impatience grew as the time in line stretched. But here, the quiet stayed. Nobody drummed their fingertips, or tapped their feet restlessly. Even the children were quiet. Not miserable, just quiet.
It was as though a silent agreement had been reached, with a pact: "Let's handle this. This is not your fault or my fault. We can't make this experience be delightful for each other, but at least we won't make it any worse for each other."
I think the silent pact stemmed from a common awareness: When a state's economy is rocked by a financial earthquake and a recession stays in place like a financial drought, then the time has passed to sweat the small stuff.
Not making it any worse for each other? I'll get in line for that.
The cars in Michigan are not the only things here with a steel spine.
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