It’s hard to avoid overeating at Thanksgiving. As Art Buchwald wrote, it’s the one day a year that the Americans eat better than the French. My Mother the Artist loves Thanksgiving, because as she says, “the menu is completely decided in advance, and it’s all delicious; you don’t have to buy presents for anyone; it’s perfectly acceptable to eat with the company you want…” she has a litany, or polite rant, but those are the core elements of it. And I recognize that my family is better behaved than most, and that we’re better adjusted than many.
I still overate yesterday. And yet I’m not uncomfortably full today. And as I did tai chi (14 minutes today for the form, woohoo!) I discovered quite wonderful things. First, it’s easy to touch my toes again, Second, the definite effort to turn from the waist and not with the thighs and knees is paying off: my abdominals are getting stronger, and flatter, I wore a tank top (it was clean) to do the work in, and lo— I’m starting to develop arms.
There’s a sense that my body is developing some definition and direction from this daily work. It’s not as fast or as testosterone fueled as a daily gym workout, but neither is it clumsy or random. And I’ve suffered zero injuries in one and a half years, I also haven’t really been sick. At all.
As I sit here, breathing and writing, I’m aware of the steady rise and fall of my belly as I breathe. I’m brewing from the right places, and switch nice slow, long breaths. Elegant.