Multitasking Mania

I've always been fairly adept at multitasking—from engaging in dual activities like cooking while talking on the phone to juggling the larger overlapping and continuous responsibilities of life (career, home & family, and personal commitments).  As one with a short attention span, I’ve found stimulation in these varied involvements. That is, until recently.

Naturally curious, I went online to dictionary.com to see what it had to say about multitasking.  There I found an expanded "computing dictionary" definition, as it was the computer industry that first coined the term.  (It's not surprising that we Americans borrowed it to describe human behavior since we often expect overly productive, machine-like output from ourselves and others).

Among other things, it said:  "A multitasking operating system should provide some degree of protection of one task from another to prevent tasks from interacting in unexpected ways such as accidentally modifying the contents of each other's memory areas."  Lately my “memory areas” have been “accidentally modified” as my multitasking has bordered on the ridiculous.

In an earlier post I wrote about returning to teaching after a six year break (and a 15-month hiatus from the work world).  When I last taught, I was younger (read:  more energetic), single and I wasn't also working as a freelance writer/columnist as I am now.  

Most weeks I'm barely a step ahead of my students as I prep for two different courses; I'm not turning out as many articles or columns as I'd hoped; and my blog has been merely a nagging afterthought. Why?  My health has sent me signals to slow down.

In the month since I returned to work, I've undergone a sleep study and discovered I have a mild case of sleep apnea; seen a sports medicine doctor for chronic neck and shoulder pain who ordered first x-rays and then an MRI to  diagnose two bulging discs in my neck; started on a course of physical therapy several times a week to remedy the problem; and made numerous trips between the eye doctor and the optical place trying to get my middle aged eyes into prescription glasses that work at near, mid and far distances (I know it's asking a lot, but...).  Then there are the daily commitments to husband and home, extended family and friends, and the organizations to which I belong.

Not long ago a friend asked me, "Do you think you're doing too much?" Although her delivery was polite, the implication was "DUH!" In my usual, I-Can-Handle-It manner I said, "No.  I don't think so” (‘I don't think’ being the operative phrase). Because the aforementioned health issues have been impairing my life, I needed to take action.

Still, my friend's question struck a chord that resonated with me.  I realized that I've been trying to heal myself all at once while keeping up an unreasonable pace of productivity with the other areas of my life, and it's been exhausting.  

At my next physical therapy appointment, I heard myself say to the therapist:  "I'm feeling overwhelmed.  I think I need to cut back to twice a week."  Since then, I've been re-evaluating my current obligations, health and otherwise, and focusing on the proverbial "First Things First," trusting that what needs to get done will get done.

It hasn't taken long for me to see that my bouncing from project to project, appointment to appointment, task to task--much like a pinball in a machine—has finally caught up to me and has me now metaphorically lying prone and calling out (if only to myself) "I've fallen and I can't get up."

Obviously, multitasking has value and purpose when not lived as a way of life.  We all must at least occasionally juggle our obligations and divide our attention, but the question is clear:  what is it that is really worth juggling?  I’m in the process of evaluating just that as I modify some of my commitments and let others go.

To borrow another computing term, maybe I'll try the batch system for awhile: finish one task before beginning the next one.

Midlife Midriff

"Oooh," my husband cooed, with eyes wide and an impish grin, his hands on my waist as he pulled me close, "I can pinch a bunch!" His playful exclamation had us both laughing, but I felt a twinge. It'd been quite a while since I'd been able to pinch that elusive inch.

The next day I was back at the gym. My husband's humorous advisory wasn't the real reason (he’s more accepting than I that a woman’s body at 46 isn’t the same as it was at 26), but his comment was a comical reminder of a truth I already knew: it was time to get back to booty boot camp.

Although I'd noticed a slight tip in the scales around 40, I wasn't concerned. I'd always been slim and easily able to drop unwanted pounds by simply cutting back on calories for a few days. However, when I married for the first time a few years later and my eating habits began to mirror those of my husband and step-kids (I inherited two live-in teens), that tip snowballed into a slide. I progressed quickly from a whole foods vegetarian to a pre-packaged foods-eating carnivore with a penchant for sweets.

These were the days of eating for pleasure and for comfort, for satisfaction and for solace. And, whatever it was, eating more of it. Naively unconcerned, I ate onward until one day I sat down and could feel my boobs resting on a fleshy little mantel between my bust line and my belly. I was horrified.

In response I joined a gym. I started with the treadmill, but soon realized I could burn more calories on the elliptical machine. I hired a personal trainer and began a cardio and resistance regimen in earnest, all the while nurturing fantasies of returning to my former figure: abdomen flat instead of protruding, butt cheeks taut instead of rippled, waist 26" instead of . . . (you get the picture). In short, I wanted back the body of my 25-year-old self (or even my 35-year-old self).

I've been in denial. I think that's why my workout routine stalled after about a year. I'd worked myself to muscle stiffness and fatigue, but couldn't break that extra 10 pound barrier no matter how hard I tried. Recently, I acknowledged for the first time the piercing truth that my former body is not coming back. And it's a crushing blow.

I'm not encouraged to discover that for the average woman of 50 to maintain the weight she was at 20, she has to eat between 1/4 to 1/3 fewer calories a day. And, she has to exercise regularly. Why isn't this common knowledge, I wonder? Passed down to us by our mothers or taught to us in school like reading, writing, and arithmetic? Or even advertised on T.V. between the bologna and beer commercials?

Let's face it. Women have more fat than men. It’s an evolutionary hiccup dating back to the prehistoric era when this higher fat ratio gave us the edge against starvation and the ability to continue the species. Men needed more muscle mass for hunting and with all that exercise chasing down dinner, they burned off their extra calories. Sitting around the cave, tending to hearth and home, we were not so fortunate. Although prehistoric starvation is no longer a concern for us women, excess fat still is.

Both men and women are subject to the midlife bulge and declining metabolisms, but aging women are at a disadvantage because we simply have more fat. The equation looks like this: more fat - less muscle = fewer calories burned. Fewer calories burned = more fat. It's a vicious cycle made more vicious by the fact that we have to burn an astonishing 3500 calories to lose one pound of fat, the equivalent of a 12-hour day on the elliptical machine. It makes me want to put my head under a pillow and eat a Twinkie.

Still, the news isn't all bad. The experts tell me that I can attain a reasonable (not ideal) weight and body with proper nutrition and exercise. If I eat a diet of complex carbohydrates (lucky for me I like brown rice), low saturated fat (grilled fish, it’s what’s for dinner!), adequate protein (please pass the beans) and high fiber (I think I bran, I think I bran), I’m on my way. But diet is only half the solution.

It turns out the 30 minutes I spent red-faced and exhausted on the elliptical machine, endurance draining from me like sweat from my pores, may have been better spent walking briskly or running. I was on the right track, however, with alternating days of weight resistance training to build my muscle, which in addition to increasing physical strength, comes with the added bonus of burning 50 extra calories a day for each pound of muscle. (For those counting, that's 50 down, 3450 to go).

Other helpful tips I gleaned for moving from youthful self-indulgence toward mindful mid-life eater: no more cooking our way through every kitchen gadget we received as a wedding gift (bye-bye bountiful bread maker), no after-dinner snack trips to the kitchen (farewell, beloved Honey Baked Backyard BBQ potato chips), no eating in front of the T.V. (arrivederci NCIS crew, we’ll be eating dinner without you), no high starch vegetables (au revoir potato, corn and peas), and no more cuddling in the recliner instead of going to the gym (sayonara to “Oh, sweeeetie, you’re heavvvvy.”).

It's tough to swallow the idea that no matter how much I exercise, it won't be enough to lose or maintain my weight without a more restrictive diet. I have to eat less. Period. Maybe the quantity issue will be helped by the final recommendation that instead of one or two big meals a day, fewer, smaller meals with some healthy snacks can make less seem like more.

Most of all, I get that redefining weight maintenance and success at this stage of life is imperative. Even if I were to get back to my pre-marriage, pre-midlife weight, the likelihood is slim that I'd be fully satisfied with my figure or the fit of my clothing. With age, even if weight doesn't change, apparently fat distribution does.

So, I end with this note to myself: you're in a new phase of your life now. Get over it, love the body you’re in, pick up your salad fork and your gym shoes and power-walk on.

for more information visit: http://partnership.hs.columbia.edu/klauer.html or www.newsweek.com/id/44119