Take that inspirational quote and stick it in your ear; better yet, eat it.

It is coming up on midnight, and when the clock strikes twelve I'll be facing the beginning of the last two weeks of preparation. For all the bodybuilders in the world whose pictures I have studied in glossy photos and web pages let me apologize for ever underestimating the mental walls you had to climb in the last weeks before a competition. There is nothing harder than the food battle that comes into play at the end. 

My current diet consists mainly of egg whites, tuna, and green apples now. I have been on this regimen for so long it has had phases: since I cannot salt anything, I have dressed the egg whites in experiments like Stevia and cinnamon. It was palatable the first few times but rapidly lost its appeal. I now just cook the damn eggs and eat them plain. Then there is the no sodium canned tuna. At first, I was so turned off by plain, unadorned tuna chunks that I gulped each serving down as quickly as possible and then got the hiccups a few minutes later. Tuna hiccups did not help me in my growth as a person, let alone as a tuna lover. 

Now I have a ritual. I get 1/2 a can every three hours with 1/2 a green apple. I slice the green apple thinly, sprinkle seven slices with cinnamon and cut the last two up into tiny chunks and toss it with the plain tuna. I eat the tuna as my meal and the cinnamon apples as my dessert. I is not bad, in fact it borders on pleasant. 

But don't get me wrong. I think about food all the time. I plan what I will eat once these days are ticked off. In two weeks I will pour a cup of coffee with a cascade of real cream that will come up to the rim of the mug in a soft brown swirl. I will sit at a Mexican restaurant and eat chips and guacamole. I will eat chocolate cake, and peanut m&m's. I will make two peanut butter sandwiches, one with jelly and the other with raisins, both with a tall glass of milk. 

That's my short list.  

Earlier this week I dreamt I was standing at a take out window on the receiving end of a mounding plate of french fries. In my dreamy thoughts I was rationalizing that if I sprinkled no salt seasoning on them, I might not bloat so badly, and I might just get away with eating them. Sadly, as I sat down to take bite, my daughter's voice pulled me from the dream.

"Mom, I can't sleep." Poof the plate of wonderful, greasy fries was gone. I trudged upstairs to rub her back. And for the rest of that next day I harbored a smidgeon of bitterness about my dream's interruption. 

The big problem with dieting is that when it comes to food in this nation, we are in a constant game of Space Invaders, whacking away images of Cold Stone Creamery ice cream cupcakes as they fly toward us in increasing numbers. When the temptations are incessant, our ammunition eventually dries up.  

Being so restricted in my consumption at the moment has made me acutely aware of the volume of food temptations we have to swat away. We don't just encounter a box of chocolate chip cookies in the grocery aisle, we get their cousins and second cousins, aunts and uncles, the ones with sprinkles and dipping sauce on the side. 

I think it is time for a new game plan.

The more enlightened cultures of our planet have menstrual huts for their women where they can retreat into a more meditative state during sensitive times in the hormonal cycle. I propose we develop dieting huts where earnest folks seeking better health can have a reprieve from the smell of Cinnabons, the sight of a Carl's Jr. commercial, and the chocolate impulse purchases at the checkout stand. Then we might stand a chance.

Yep, I need a dieting hut, I thought tonight as I sliced crusty bread and spread it with butter, handed it over to my child and watched her eat it. The crust she abandoned was torturous, it taunted me from the edge of the plate, a small smear of butter on one side and some soft inner still left on the crust. I silently repeated an Emerson quote: What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us. 

Shove it man, was my next thought, what lies within me is a whole lotta nothing! 

But Friday morning has officially arrived now, one more day I can tick off that brings me closer to the end and that cup of coffee with real cream. 

Up for the countdown

Today ended Spring Break, that glorious week when schools close in order to take a deep breath and prepare for the final push to summer vacation. It is the week that, despite the inevitable fog that rolls in and keeps us impatiently bundled in our fleece, presents daffodils as evidence that easier seasons are coming. 

The close of this week also marks the start of the four week countdown to May 9th. It is a time I have simultaneously feared and anticipated. Since November Tina has shared tales of the four week competition countdown where your caloric intake is measured and timed scientifically while your already overtrained body is asked to push even harder. You stop being able to interact socially. You become an anorexic with muscles.

The four week countdown of hollowed out hunger includes bathing in citrus baths and slathering on hemorrhoid cream to help shrink and tighten the skin. This phase of insanity also includes painting on layers of bottled tanning lotion, tapering water intake, and posing through muscle cramps and light-headedness. These are the details that get doled out to you in small increments. If presented too early, they are the tidbits that would make a person choose to pass on bodybuilding competitions as an acceptable hobby.

"You won't be yourself," Tina warns. "You'll be forgetful from lack of carbs. You won't trust your own decisions." 

"I lose my car keys several times a week as it is," I reply as I hear her horrific forecast. 

"You'll be even worse."

At this remark I conjure up an image of people gathering in the parking lot of the grocery store to observe me as I dump the contents of my purse on the pavement in search of my car keys. As I squat down on the pavement to thumb through my assorted lip balms, tampons, gum wrappers, and paper clips, they tsk and shake their heads, "Poor dear, she is carb deprived," and they chase the spare change that rolls out in every direction from the tangled mound I am fingering.  

I blink away the image but what loiters is the feeling that I am completely unprepared for the mental challenge, the extreme dieting, and the hours of workouts that lie ahead. An odd realization because, since the first of November it has been dieting and hours of workouts. I have not had a single day without muscle soreness. You'd think I would be used to it all by now. I have lower body workouts so intense on a Tuesday, that my glutes are still cramping on Thursday--while doing  biceps curls no less. Since last fall, each body part has barely had time to recover before screaming for mercy again.

Never-the-less, this is where I am. It feels a bit like going into labor, where the fear of impending pain is mixed with the elation that, after such an arduous and long journey, the last leg of the trip will be like a Roman candle: explosive, intense, and then simply over. 

It is the place in every story where the weary warrior summons up one last bundle of strength and says, "Bring it on."

Earlier in this week, my ten year-old daughter and I had one of those days--the kind that turns instantly into a golden memory. After browsing thrift stores and snipping sweet peas from a hillside, we drove dreamily back up the mountain, and along the way we passed a group of tourists taking photos of themselves on the edge of a turnout. 

My daughter asked, "Why do people always take pictures of themselves in that turnout?"

"We all like to show we've been somewhere I suppose."

After a few moments she said, "But we're all somewhere. No one is no where."

I have reflected on her comment all week. If that is the truth, then as fearful as this place is, and as unqualified as I feel, it is somewhere. Even if I don't prove to be the weary warrior with one last bundle of strength.

And as scared as I am, it feels good to be here.