New adventures in grocery shopping.
I looked at the time as I entered Albertsons.
7:45
Will this take 20 minutes? 30? An hour? I had no idea. My ability to grocery shop has regressed in the past several years. Pathetically.
I walked into Albertsons armed with a cursory list of items my trainer, Paisley Ann Meekin, told me to buy during our first sit-down meeting six days ago. Tomorrow morning I am at her mercy. For the next 10 weeks, I’ve promised to follow the diet she’s spelled out for me down to the last grain of ground cumin.
The first item on my list was a dozen eggs. Paisley told me to be sure to get free range chicken eggs. I wondered, is my trainer a tree huger? Is she going to demand that I drive to the grocery store in a hybrid too?
“They’re better for you,” Paisley said. “Seriously.”
Long live free range chickens
A dozen Horizon Organic brand free-range chicken eggs ran me $4.69. I looked below them and noticed a regular package of eggs were $1.79. No pain, no gain, right?
Next on the list: a bag of brown rice. Easy!
Six boneless, skinless chicken breasts. No problem!
A bag of spinach and a bag of spring greens. Done!
Four cans of albacore tuna fish. Piece of cake!
Olive oil and ground cumin … ground cumin?
I’d written ground cumin down, but I didn’t know where it was, or even what it was.
This was the first of many items that would take me several minutes to find. Searching for something so unfamiliar as ground cumin underscores how lazy and inept I’ve become at preparing food for myself. I’ve been on my own for 14 years, and it’s not like going to Albertsons is visiting a foreign country, it’s just that grocery shopping for creative — and, shall we say, healthy — foods is a huge paradigm shift.
Until now, my world has revolved around the microwave. As I searched for the ground cumin I walked by the more familiar parts of the grocery store, like the soup aisle where I usually snatch 10 cans of Campbells Chunky brand soups, or the Nalley Chili. I love that shit, because all I need is a can opener, a bowl, a microwave and 3 1/2 minutes.
I usually make my way back to the deli, too, where I load up on zesty chicken wings and anything that’s already prepared, like sushi or turkey club wraps. Yes, I’m so lazy I’ve even gotten to the point where I buy pre-made sandwiches.
Paisley told me to spend two hours in the kitchen each weekend preparing for the week ahead. So I continued down this strange new shopping list.
Celery and carrots. Check.
Onions, peppers, avocado, cabbage, pickles. Check.
As I stood in front of the assorted vegetables I noticed the peppers created an appearance that rivaled the bright colors in the cookies and potato chips aisle.
I think I can get used to this.
Yogurt. Check. I’m not sure I have ever purchased yogurt under my own volition.
The last shopping item I grabbed was Ezekiel-brand bread Paisley had been just a little too enthusiastic about. Next to the ground cumin, this was the only thing I had a lot of trouble finding. I had to fetch help, and we found it next to the Hot Pockets.
“That’s strange,” a nice female worker said to me. “I wonder why it’s frozen?”
I wonder, too. There’s a lot of things about this new diet I won’t understand for a while.
As I went through the checkout line I felt a sense of pride. Usually I come through here with clam chowder, chicken wings, a few beef pot pies, microwavable lasagna, a bottle of wine or a 12-pack of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. But the items the young male checker scanned were the foods of a responsible person — foods that announce to the world “I’m healthy, and I know how to cook!”
I about spilled my carrots when the final total appeared.
$93.68.
No problem, nothing the Albertsons card can’t take care of, right?
New total: $90.28.
“You save $3.40 in bonus buy savings!”
Funny, but I think crappier food comes with bigger discounts. Damn free-range chickens!
As I left Albertsons I remembered to look at the time: 8:38. It took me 53 minutes during my first trip to the grocery store under my new diet.
This was perfect, because the Peterkort Towne Square has a Panda Express on the west end, and I had 22 minutes to get myself one last heap of chow mein, Kobari beef and sweetfire chicken to go. Mmmmm.
This oversized meal has come to epitomize my bad eating habits. When I got home and began to chow down on my chow mein, I didn’t have to worry about how hard Paisley was going to work me the next morning, or how hard it’s going to be to prepare all this new strange food.
But my last helping of Panda Express only delayed the inevitable question my trip to the grocery store still hadn’t answered.
What the fuck is ground cumin?
Seriously, what do I do with this?
“I know you’re in Vegas partying your ass off right now,” the message went, “but sober up for a sec and e-mail me back!”
We hadn’t even had our first workout yet, and my new trainer was already on my ass.
I was due for a weigh-in on or before Monday, but I hadn’t yet picked a time. I’d been putting it off. This was the last week of my old lifestyle, and I wasn’t ready to get into next week mode.
Next week? Next week is the beginning of a new chapter in my life.
This week? This is Panda Express Week.
Next week is the start of a 70-day supervised weight loss program. This week I’m in Las Vegas.
Next week is the start of a new diet. This week I’m drinking Long Islands.
Next week is the start of the “Just Lose It!” contest at my gym. This week I’m eating Chinese noodles, orange chicken and Bejing beef.
This is Panda Express Week.
Next week I begin a quest to lose 50 pounds in 10 weeks. That 50 would take off the 25 I’ve gained in the past two years, and the 25 I needed to lose before that.
“Normally I wouldn’t recommend that much that fast, but you can do it,” my trainer, Paisley Ann Meekin, told me during our first official consultation. “And besides, this is a contest.”
I don’t actually know how much I weigh right now, and if I had the courage to step on a scale I might find out that I’ve put on more than 25 in two years. I’ll wait until next week for that sobering statistic. This is Panda Express Week.
It didn’t take me a New Year’s resolution to decide to lose weight.
Last spring I bought a membership at the Lloyd Athletic Club where next week’s Just Lose It! contest begins. I began working out in earnest, using the elyptical machine for 30 minutes or an hour, three or four days a week. I thought to myself, “Lose the 25 you’ve gained in the past two years, then get yourself a trainer and get serious about the next 25.”
Problem is, I never lost the first 25. And I never changed my routine. Or my diet.
“Eight-five percent of this will be your diet,” Paisley told me. “The exercise and other stuff is only 15 percent.”
That’s the hard part for me, because I’m a bachelor, I’m self-employed and I eat out two-thirds of the time. I find virtually no utility in cooking meals. When I’m hungry and on the run, I like instant gratification. I find utility in beefy five-layer burritos, angus beef burgers and, of course, a little place called Panda Express.
When I decided to enter the Just Lose It! contest, I pondered writing a blog, but then decided against it. Fat man loses weight and finds redemption seemed too much of a cliche to me — too gimicky, and too formulaic (see also: “Biggest Loser“). But during our first meeting, Paisley told me I had to keep a food journal. When I told her I’d already decided against blogging the experience, she objected.
“It will give you the fastest and best results,” Paisley said. “It creates mindfulness if you write things down.”
She’s right. I find writing to be a mental exercise that adds explanations for actions, meaning to choices and closure to past events. Writing to me is theraputic, and it’s fun, too — especially when I sit down to write and the words take me somewhere I never expected.
I told Paisley I’d do whatever she tells me to do for 10 weeks so long as I lose weight. But I added two conditions.
“Before the contest starts I’m going to Vegas,” I said. “And the week before our first session is Panda Express Week.”
