Monday, June 30, 2008

the BMI, or not?

.
.

. .

One portion of fettucine alfredo
+ One slice of garlic bread
+ A slither of chocolate cake
+ One pair of skinny jeans

Do some very simple
[highly emotional]
addition and subtraction
and you can arrive at
a whole new way to see yourself.
.
.
Catherine Price introduces her own body image index:
The first documented instance of my distorted body image is an entry in my fourth-grade journal. "I just ate three cookies," it says. "I feel fat."

There is no way that I actually was; my jeans, though dorky, fit just fine. Nevertheless, the disconnect grew worse as puberty approached - especially in eight grade, when the body mass index (BMI) entered my life. This is a formula that tells you whether you need to drop pounds - and while it's generally reliable, it doesn't take body composition into account. At 5'4 and 140 pounds, I'm close to the overweight category, but that's only because I've got heavy bones and a sprinter's thighs. Everytime I calculate my BMI I get angry at myself, even tough I'm aware that I am in good shape.

But what do feelings have to do with numbers? Most women know that it is possible to immediately gain 15 pounds by eating one pint of Ben & Jerry's. And when it comes to your butt (which can enlarge six sizes in the wrong pair of jeans), the rules of physics no longer apply. We need a better way to quantify these fluctuations - a formula that goes beyond your BMI and calculates the feel of overweight. So I propose the personal body image index (PBII).

The general idea is as follows:

Start with your weight. Subtract seven pounds if you have just worked out. Add five if you've single-handedly finished a plate of guacamole and chips; four for macaroni and cheese; six for death-by-chocolate cake. Subtract ten if people nearby are fatter than you. If you're wearing black pants; subtract two; if in a bathing suit; add eight. If you are more than seven years older than the group average or are surrounded by bikini-clad undergraduates with toned stomachs and cellulite-free thighs, add 20.

I don't advocate letting the PBII dictate how you live your life; it could turn you into one of those people who spend their beach time camouflaging their lower halves with sarongs. But once you acknowledge that the PBII exists, you can take steps to improve your score.

Some suggestions:

Hang out with people older than you, preferably much older. This has three benefits:

(a) You probably have fewer varicose veins than they do.

(b) Truly old people are inspiring; they tend not to give a damn about what they look like in bathing suits.

(c) Except for my elderly neighbor, who once greeted me by announcing that I'd gained weight in my face, older people are usually effusive with compliments. My friend Luba, who lived to 99, used to tell me how beautiful I was everytime I saw her, even though she was blind.

Watch those college girls on the beach. Notice how often they adjust their bikinis and glance at themselves in other people's sunglasses. They are totally insecure. Granted, they are probably also judging you, but still - I find their self-doubt liberating. Isn't there some cosmic limit how much body insecurity the universe can handle?

Embrace the bikini now: "Look how skinny I was!" my mother says everytime sees a picture of herself from the 1970's. "I thought I was so fat. I was 130 pounds." My mother, now 66, is living proof that you should do everything in your power to enjoy your body as it is right now, so you never have to look at an old photograph of yourself and wish you'd spent more time in a two-piece bathing suit.

When it comes to my own PBII, I still have a way to go. It doesn't take too much extra chocolate to convince me that I should never be allowed to wear shorts. But recognizing the illogical logic behind my self-image helps me to control it better. And by my calculations, that's worth at least subtracting five pounds.


Catherine Price. "Weight Loss: How Women Do the Math." The Oprah Magazine, July 2008.

.

Note to male reader(s): I don't anticipate that you understand any of the above. Don't let your speedy metabolism hit you on the way out.

;)

.

.

Sunday, June 29, 2008

fotografías!

.
.
picasa es su casa.
.
.
p.s.
due to life being crazy beautiful at the moment,
i seem to be struggling to find the time to blog nowadays.
i'll be back though.
.
.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

congraduation!

.
.
hats off to my little brother:



well done Faraz.
turns out, you're not as dumb as you look ;)

love,
roza
.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

bravo.

i love this commercial.

.

Saturday, June 7, 2008

what happens when you demand a latte.

.
.

Funny enough, the elaborate concoction aforementioned is precisely what I have been ordering on my coffee runs for the past several years, with the addition of an "extra, extra hot" request tagged onto the end. At times, I also take the liberty to follow up on my order by pitching a friendly supplemental reminder to the barista actually engaged in making my drink that he or she be sure to steam the milk well over 170°, quantitatively ensuring the extra, extra hotness of it.

I'm certain that not being punched in the head thus far in my life by these employees has either been a result of the baristas simply not being able to reach over the counter to actually make contact or Divine Intervention, protecting me.

Anyone know how Starbucks¹ and other coffee beaneries are doing nowadays, economically speaking? With a 16 oz. cup of coffee² now costing less than a gallon of gas, I worry for the state of the world, slash my bank account.





¹ Also known as, Fourbucks.
² Refer to footnote¹.
.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

seeing is deceiving.

-
Earlier this evening, I decided to make a quick stop at the grocery store to pick up a few necessities before heading to the only place in the world I wanted to be: my bed. I strategically made my way through the aisles, zipping past the other nocturnal shoppers, trying my best to abide by my no-nonsense list of items to purchase, determined to get in and out of the store, through traffic, and into my pajamas as soon as humanly possible.

As I scratch off the remaining items on my post-it note, I get into [what appears to be] the quickest moving line, hoping that whatever price checks, cash register malfunctions, receipt paper refills, and nothing-but-trouble shoppers [who refuse to pay with anything besides exact change].. [that elusive change that conveniently always seems to dwell somewhere in the abysmal black hole that is, the bottom of their bottomless purse] are not among the things that will test my patience in this selected line o' mine.

As I'm placing my groceries on the rubber belt, I note that the elderly lady waiting in front of me has only one item to purchase and yet has decided to opt out of the designated express lane. What's more, she's carrying a baby and is beginning to engage in a non-grocery-related conversation with the cashier. Great. Then, as if the conversation isn't unnecessary enough, the lady proceeds to take the baby over to the entrance of the cashier's stand area, allowing the cashier to hold the baby and begin cooing over it.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm normally one to drop everything and go goo goo ga ga at the sight of a baby, but tonight, my haste simply wasn't allowing me to go there. And besides, by this point, I had a string of people waiting behind me. Helloo, lady? After what felt like an eternity (reality: 45 seconds) watching this cashier pour out every ounce of affection she had in her onto this baby, the two parties finally concluded the lovefest, parted ways, and it was finally my turn.

At this point, I had two options: either continue being senselessly irritated or take a chill pill and be human. So, I decided to dry gulp the chill pill and do the right thing: loosen up, smile, and comment on how adorable the supermarket-line-baby was.

Well, it turns out the infant was not just a supermarket-line-baby. The baby was none other than the cashier's very own child.

Yeah.

It turns out Karla (the cashier) works two jobs, and rarely ever has a chance to spend time with her darling Chase (the baby). The only time she can see her little boy is when Grandma brings him in to the grocery store during her evening shifts so she can spend a few quick moments with him.


oh.


Coincidentally (or not), I'm reading this book that discusses one of the most striking revelations of modern psychology -- how wildly wrong our perceptions can be. I can't help but feel like this experience was planted in my day (courtesy of Above) just to drive this point home.

It's amazing how deluded we can allow ourselves to become (and by "we" I mean, me) about the people and situations unbeknown to us and how terribly quick we can be to judge others without even realizing it. The thing is, in doing so we miss the beauty and overlook the suffering. But when you free yourself from delusion (and in my case, the effects of a painstakingly long day) you begin to see with wisdom.

Tonight, while driving home, I promised myself to make a conscious effort to seek out the inner nobility and dignity in people, especially in the people that I don't know, and notice how that can instantaneously affect my interaction with them, as well as my own heart.



FYI, I only slept 2.5 hours last night (hence my low irritability threshold as shamefully described above) and oddly enough, for the most part of the day, I've been super alert and energized. But my right eye keeps twitching. I think I may be dying.


And will you look at that, I'm finally going to make it it to bed by 10 p.m.!

Hip, hip, hoo... zzZz.

-