I am a chronic insomniac.  I do not sleep.  I fall asleep at 9pm and when the clock strikes twelve, I am up tossing and turning.  I have tried a check list of things to bring sleep back into my life: only a half cup of coffee in the morning, no caffeine after 9am, no sugary nighttime treats, no chocolate, no exercise before bed, cold and dark room, eye patches, herbal tea marketed RELAX and BEDTIME, no decaf coffee after 3pm because that has a touch of caffeine, and the list goes on.  Clearly, I get enough daily exercise to induce sleep.  Yet, most nights I am sneaking by with a mere 3 to 4 hours of sleep.

I am agitated and frustrated with my sleep.  Something has been left on my list of consumables that I have not yet scratched.  Today all the little yellow packets of SPLENDA sit in the trash.  I know why I did not want to try cutting that before.  It makes everything taste sweet while allowing me to stay in my bubble of “I’m not consuming sugar.”  Confession: I am a SPLENDA Fairy.  I sprinkle that stuff on everything.

Finally, I did some easily accessed internet research and found multiple confessions out there of insomniacs cutting SPLENDA and enjoying the return of restful nights.  Since I am now at the point of considering prescriptive drugs for my condition, I have decided it is time to kick the yellow packet crap and see what happens.

Too bad I already jacked up my morning coffee with the accused sleep robber.  I suppose the experiment starts tomorrow.  SPLENDA be gone like Glenda.  Sleep, I’ll dust off the door mat for you, come on back!

Splenda adverse effects include: agitation, bloating, cramping, diarrhea, insomnia, weight gain, nausea, muscle cramping, fatigue, and miscarriage.  A recent study held at DUKE UNIVERSITY reports that people ingesting SPLENDA report difficulty falling asleep and staying asleep.

“Yeah,” Rusty says, “You’re not normal.”

Well, I knew that much.  But really?  I am not normal.  Wait, what are we talking about?  Um, you will just have to guess.  In the meantime, let’s just stand around and shoot the shit.

I thought I was just super healthy.  Eating all kinds of super healthy foods and burning a lightning metabolism and just keeping the system running….and rearranging….and prioritizing who gets to stay on board and who has to…well…evacuate.

“Try shaking the dairy.”

I have already made the leap of faith to soy ice cream.  Today on my way home from Saturday workout, I got my first soy-decaf-latte.  Or otherwise known as the “why bother.”  However, I have to say, it was delicious.  It left my tummy feeling settled and cleaner.  Hmmmm, maybe it is the dairy.  I bought a jug of soy milk.  Bye-bye moo-cow, hello soy beans.

I have kissed off the gummi bear, the junkie carbs, the diet cokes, 89% of the caffeine, and now the dairy has to go too?  OK, OK, but don’t anybody come at my wine.  That stays!

It is no secret, I am a bean fan.  I like-a the Java, love-a the Latte, and almost never say “No.”  I will take it to go.  I enjoy everything about coffee.  The color, the feel of your hand through beans, the aroma, the noise created when grinding, the whirling and whisking of a foam-er thingie , the theme song…….”The best part of waking up…….”

Negative on the Folger’s, but positive on the rest.  I pre-make my coffee each night before bed.  Sucking the sweet fumes up through my nose, I slap the lid shut and set the auto-drip button.  Maybe tomorrow my coffee will wake up before I do.  I can’t wait for morning!

Over the last decade, the caffeine attached to my morning magic never seemed to really get me one way or the other.  OK, it got me going, but never seemed to stop the drop factor on sleep.  I was seemingly immune to the jitters and jumps.  Now that does not seem to be the case.  I started conservative.  I 86′d all caffeine after 1pm.  Then I bumped that up to 11am and then 10am.  Nighttime still found me tossing and turning.  My mind raced.  “Maybe it is not the caffeine?” I protested, “I mean I only have coffee before 10am and then no more.”

True.  However, I drain a pot.  Oh yeah.  So I upped the committment.  I stopped topping up after two cups.  I filled the mug 50% skim milk.  I re-heated it to keep the mojo on my jojo going a little longer with less.  I thought I was doing pretty good until my husband did the unthinkable.

He shhhhwotuoithechaonetea.

What?

He switched to TEA!

OHMUYGAWD!  I know.  He said he felt cleaner with better focus.  He said he went days without feeling antsy.  I did not believe it until I actually watched him deny my coffee pot any attention.  The black juice just sat there untouched.  I offered him a cup.  “No thanks,” he said.  I almost felt insulted.  Coffee!  We do this together!  I drink it.  You drink it.  That is what we do!

This prompted me to progress further.  I concocted the tried and true mix of half caf/half decaf in the pot.  I continued to feel better, but it did not taste as good.  Why does removing the caffeine toy with the taste?  I am not sure, but I think I found a solution.

RUNNER’S COFFEE

In a coffee maker:

3/4 Decaf ground coffee beans

1/4 caffeinated ground coffee beans (preferably a strong aroma to make up for the decaf)

2 shots of ground cinnamon.

The cinnamon makes it all taste richer, sweeter and more decadent.  I smell the cinnamon percolating and it just reeks fabulous.  So take that Tea-totaler!

Tim is getting so much more sleep, he arrives to runs in his PJ’s.

I knew Canadians were a little crazy.  I mean, I married one.  Wait…reverse that argument, think about it, yep yep, see he is crazy!  He married me!

Over the years of learning a little bit more about the Canadian tax system and how “loonie” har-har-har it is, I have to give a big eye roll to the Americans who still make comments like, “Well health care is free in Canada.”

Ain’t nothing free in this world, and lookie lookie Cookie now those free lovin’ iglo huggin’ frosty friends of the north want to tax cyclist.  Behold their argument!  Did someone stick their head in the ice box for a little too long?

I particularly like the point about Bike riders grinding up the same route [Jonge Street in Toronto] burn up a lot more carbohydrates [than people sitting in their cars], which their bodies convert into carbon dioxide and exhale, adding to their carbon footprint [WTF!!]. The volumes are small, but it all adds up, and bicyclists don’t pay.

What is next?  Well, probably a license to procreate right? 

Pregnant woman enters the labor and delivery room.  “Sorry mam’ do you have a license for that?” Mountie double clicks his pen and points at her expanded belly.

Double click.  Double click.  “Yeah right,” he mutters, “So if you don’t have a license than you are gonna just have to keep it in.”

Pregnant woman looks at Mountie’s crotch.  “YOU got a license for that?”

You see where I am going don’t you? 

Will the people of Toronto need to buy a license to own and operate running shoes?  Good Grief!

Eh?

(Did I just start a domestic fight?  Stay tuned.  Hee Hee Hee.)

Read more: http://network.nationalpost.com/np/blogs/toronto/archive/2009/09/29/time-to-stop-giving-bicylists-a-free-ride.aspx#ixzz0SWgA7KTR

Blueberries, aka Bluebs, have stolen the health kick spotlight as the ultimate miracle muscle in combating free radicals.  BOOM POW, take that radical.  How you feeling now?  Free?  Knock ‘em and lock ‘em out, these powerful antioxidants know how to Clark Kent cancer causing free rads.  No phone booth required.  Talk about a berry blast.

They taste delicious too.  These yummy little warriors cannonball into my oatmeal, lobby for recoothie rights over the blackberry, sneak into my salads, and have become the star of my desert menu.  Bucket-oh-berries-dollop-of-tart-yogurt.  Mmmmmm.  Did I mention whole wheat blueberry pancakes, bran packed blueberry muffins, or just straight up blueberries on toothpicks with cheese?  And lab rats have shown a decreased aging process when consuming bluebs.  Why they practically stop being lab rats and turn into whiskered runway models.  At least so the scientist say.  You did not read that?

There is just one little problem.  While my blood has slowly turned blue, so has uh-hum. [Little soft whisper, shhhhh].  Berries may not be compatible with running.

“Do you need a moment?” Tim asks.

“Yes.”

Damn berries.

“What took you so long?”

“I got a flat tire.”

“You know how to change one,” he interrupts.  Yes this is true, but I cannot get the wheel OFF the bike because your mitts fastened it too tight.  I have to flag down another man, not to change my flat, but just to loosen the wheel.  “Oh sorry for helping you,” he sarcastically sulks.

I carry a collection of sippy cups over to the sink.  I grunt and twist and turn and finally throw them against the back splash.  “Can you not put the lids on like that!?” I cry, “I can never get them off!”  Sips do not drip!  That is the point of the cup, no need to Seven Seal them!  Man hands man handle.  A fact that is great for tasks dictating, “Pick that big box up and move it there.”

“Wait, not there, way up….up there.  Yep, up there.  Oh, I forgot something in that box, could you get it down again?  Thanks sweets.”  Kiss kiss.

But somehow just turning off the kitchen sink, man hands break the handle.  They shatter expensive wine glasses, they knock over glass containers onto bathroom floors, they open well sealed olive jars, but then ask me to pull them out.  Small hands.  My father best took advantage of this when he asked his six year old daughter to scale the roof and clean the winter waste out of the gutters.

Consequently, I have no problem asking big hands for help.  A gentleman walks by me on his way to the Cosco entrance.  “Excuse me Sir,” I smile, “Can you just lift this for me and put it in my car?  Oh thank you.”  In such situations a slight twinge of a southern accent is best served.

Speaking of asking for it, today I went and saw Rusty for physical therapy on my sore quadriceps and left Achilles tendon.  His index fingers probably go to the gym to bench press.  Thumbs are crunching double sets of one hundred while pinky is running laps inter-spaced by pull ups.  I lie there awaiting their attention.  I have been on this table before; therefore, I am not oblivious to the medieval methods of quality PT healing.  Good time to practice breathing, until I start coughing.  “You alright?”

“Yep, just gonna puke.”  Too bad no one has invented a PT pill.  Oh wait, it might be called Valium.  There is a little Hercules for your handbag!

Of course, I joke, but I do not think my hands would ever be capable of creating so much therapeutic pain.  Girlie me would have to wield some sort of object and then it is doubtful that it would heal anything.

Oh yeah, I think this is the part where I say, “Thank you!”

Ah nutrition.  What do the pros eat?  What is the secret?  Were you really just born that superior or is there some magic concoction that has your engine working on mean machine?

I always thought supplements were gimmicks designed with the sole purpose of peddling hopeful elixirs at the expense of peon’s dreams like mine.  I wanna be like Mike!  To legit to quit?  Give me a sip!  Pro cyclists used to fill up on flat Coke and is the banana not the world’s most perfect food?  Where do I begin in the selection amongst the shiny cans and powdered formulas promising me a more optimal system?

The former-cyclist-me once invested in tubs of Cytomax.  Perhaps they have come a long way in taste, I would not know because that protein was not one that I could palate no matter how much more efficiently I wanted to pedal.  Gag me with a sirloin, it had the aftertaste of death.  I rewarded skinny McPhee with my leftovers and went back to Coke.

Recently, I have gotten into Vitamins.  I never used to take anything other than calcium (gals build your bones, (that there was the maiden me), but now all the kids multi-vitamins come in Gummi Bears and Sparkley Sugar Fish and calcium is chewy chocolate!  Bring on the vitamins!  I stick B12 under my tongue, eat my fruits and vegetables, and have animal protein daily.  But I am *tired.

*Tired as defined as some cause other than two children under 3 1/2 who awake me nightly to protect them from sharks and dinosaurs in their room and rise before the sun at 4:30am everyday.  This above mentioned tired is an ode to coffee.  Your welcome Don.

Fatigue. Lead. Glue. Blah.  Instead of Peppy Priscilla who never sits down, Sedated Sara is looking forward to The Pillow Diaries.  Diagnosis?  Over training.  Shhhh do not even say it.  Irritable?  Me? Never!  Just do not ask around.  Fatigue.  Trouble sleeping.  Change in appetite.  Those are the same symptoms for being a MOTHER!  Medicaid my Koolaid, you can fit any diagnosis out there if you read the fine print long enough.

I am amused at how we have a knack for selective hearing.  “Hon, take out the trash.  Hon, Hon?  The trash?  REMOVE IT.”  Am I speaking? Not about that listening lack, but about preferential cherry picking of piece meal scientific information. 

Example:  Gillian reads that NutraSweet causes cancer in some laboratory animals.  She taps her fingers on her diet drink and scoffs, “Oh they’re just rats.”  Newsflash: Blueberries are shown to have anti-aging effects in laboratory animals.  Gillian buys the farm.

Same rat.  New trap.

But…athletes seem to supplement.  They claim there is a difference.  Even if the change is subjective, the power of placebo is not to be under estimated.  If it works to you, it works.  I ask around at the gym.

“YOU don’t supplement!” she says between sit-ups.  “Of all people, I would think you would!”

I mean, I drink coffee in the morning and wine at night.  These uppers and downers apparently do not meet athletic expectation.  My friend suggests I try a two week sample of FRS.  I have tried a can or two before and it is tasty.  No, seriously, it actually tastes good.  My kids would drink it, but then if it worked on them, I would die.  Consequently,they will have none of it!

I ordered a two week free sample on line.  Well, here is to experiments.  Cheers!

Serendipity

Lips like sugar.  Especially the ones on my face.  I once “dieted” on nothing, but skim milk, candy corn and gummi bears.  OK, I had the occasional whole wheat toast with an inch thick heap of jam creeping off the sides.  Nothing says power breakfast like two tablespoons of oatmeal to three tablespoons of brown sugar, and don’t forget the raisins.  In fact, pile them in there.  It’s raisin grain Cain.  Lunch?  Diet coke, package of pretzels, and roll of sweet-tarts.  What?  Dinner?  No, let us skip that all together and go straight for the frozen yogurt. 

Eventually, I turned twenty-two and decided to add some variety to my sugar-soaked menu.  I added bagels.  Brilliant.  Feeling all grown-up, I incorporated coffee in the mix.  Living-on-my-own meet non-fat-half-caf-no-whip-mocha-latte.  After a while, glucose girl met celiac man.  Celiac?  Celiac sprue is a chronic disease of the digestive tract that prevents the absorption of nutrients from food if gluten is around.  Gluten?  Wheat, malt, hops.  Try to find a gummi bear without food starch.

“You can drink wine right?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“We can date.”  Let the reading of labels begin.  I stared at my boxes of sugar puff cereals, stores of sweeties, modified starched yogurts, bagels, and everything had to go, but the jam.  Ah man!  I did what any good sugar addict would do, I learned to bake gluten free.  I made brownies, pies, cinnamon rolls, cookies, searched for clean ice creams, and hello, chocolate is in the clear.  I converted my gluten-free rail thin man into a sugar-seeking wreck.  Sweets would run out and he would wrack at the cupboards demanding more.  He began ordering boxes of gluten-free cookies from the internet and storing them just in case Betty GF Crocker took the night off. 

Children entered our lives.  My life ran into the thirties.  Sleep got off my mommie-train at some junction and still has not called to check in.  If you see her, tell sleep to get her tush home!  Then the children started sleeping better, but I was not.  Tossing and turning, staring at the clock, beating the pillow, listening to the snores of my husband, counting sheep, shooting sheep and finally the children awake from sleep and “argh!”

“Maybe, it’s the sugar?” my husband suggests.  “No!” I quickly retaliate, “It’s the mattress!”  But the thought lodges itself in my sweet tooth like brain freeze.  I do the research.  Disappointingly, I discover that there is a strong correlation between sleep disturbance and diets high in sugar.  I decide to enter this new year sugar-free.  (Disclaimer: when I say sugar-free, I mean refined sugars in junky foods and candies.  Fruits, grains, rice, yogurt…these things all still have sugar and I am not 86′ing them.  Non-fat frozen yogurt at 2pm does not count either.  Hey it’s my experiment, I can make the rules!)

Well, the proof is in the pudding (ha-ha).  We are almost half-way through the month and I feel great.  I have been sleeping more peacefully and waking up more rested.  I feel more alert, probably from more sleep (duh), and drum-roll….in a better mood!

You know, it blows my mind that a diet rich in gummi bears is not good for you.  Really I didn’t see that one coming.  Perhaps the little sleep snaggers should bare a bear warning: Caution Goldi, the sweet you are about to enjoy is likely to induce sleep disturbances that will rob you of your soft complexion and pleasant attitude.  You will be more likely to drink 5 or 6 cups of coffee in the morning to offset said side effects.  This will undoubtably lead to further insomnia episodes and cravings for more sweets.  But please, have a bear, the first one is free.

No?  Too wordy?

Sugar Plum Fairies need not advertise near me, they dusted me an addict long ago.  However, I never sit down to indulge.  Instead, I bake.  Baking naturally defies the laws of the glycemic index.  If there is a piece of chocolate pumpkin cake on a plate it runs your gut a whopping 500 calories, but if half the bag of chocolate chips kamikaze your lips while preparing said cake the net caloric intake is zero.  Brilliant.  I bake.  I make husband remove baked goods from house.  I bake again.

Cookie in hand, oh no, I couldn’t possibly have that.  Pile of raw dough on spoon and goop at bottom of the bowl, here let me clean that up.  Last year I made homemade fudge as presents for my friends.  I felt sick.  A lot.  This year, I decided I cannot be trusted to the tradition of fudge to friends.  I bought bags of white chocolate chips to make pound cake cookies mixed with sweet cherries and white chips.  The chips are gone.  The cookies a mere idea.  Oops.  Oh well, I sent out cards.

I stand in the check out line at the grocery.  One magazine broadcasts making fantastic sweets for festivities while the print next to it boosts moral to banish such indulges from your diet.  Why do we have such difficulty with “everything in moderation?”  My European family can sit down to tea and have one cup, one cube of sugar, one splash of cream, one small piece of pie, and one measly dollop of whipping cream.  My sister can Betty Crocker her house and open a container of delicious decadence and she will consume only one tiny morsel.  Not I.  Bounty hunter me must seek out all sweets and eliminate them from my presence or else I cannot be held responsible for what will transpire.  A sugar massacre of epic proportions.  I have quite the tolerance.

January to October easily passes without a wagon tip on the sugar trip, but November and December the sweet teeth remember.  And here I am gnawing on a couple of candy canes and sipping phony sugar-free hot coco with a few packets of splenda added to jack it up.  Yep, the January withdrawal is always a tough ride.

I wander into my friends pilates class and roll out my purple mat.  I have tried pilates twice before.  Well, wait…does the “Buns of Steel” video in my freshman dorm room count as pilates?  OK, I have attend one official pilates class.  The following week, I could not sneeze or laugh without pain.  However, I now hear all these wonderful things about pilates and everyone seems to be doing it and I think sneezing still exists so I figured I would try it again.  After all, my friend is the teacher.  How hard can it be?

I am strong, I say, I am strong.  I can run to the top of the mountain, compete in triathlons, teach back to back spin classes, carry a small child in each arm, perform 100 sit ups with a medicine ball, swim, do chin ups, push ups, and maybe one pull up, but apparently I cannot make little circles with my leg while I lie on my purple mat.  My friend gracefully talks her class through each move.  My leg shakes and quivers while my lungs beat out Lamaze breathing.  “Now let us reverse our circles and remember to keep your foot flexed,” my friend smiles at us.  My foot protests and my leg dips to the floor.  Dang it.  I try again.  And again.  One more time.

After class, I feel like Jello.  The red kind, which clearly feels more relaxed than green.  I did not run or ride a bike, but I feel joyfully worked.  Relaxed, yet energized.  Nothing hurts and my joints feel happy.  Hmmmm pilates!  I think I like it.

Apparently, pilates is of great benefit to runners.