Drop Dead Healthy A. Jacobs (good novels to read .TXT) 📖

she calls me. I tend to miss a word here or there, like a bad Skype connection to Ecuador. I’m usually able to cover it up with nods and smiles. Never underestimate the power of the nod and smile.

The headphones aren’t foolproof. I recently wore them to a playdate at my friend John’s apartment.

“Please take them off,” Julie said as we waited for the elevator.

“Why?”

“They’re dorky.”

“They’re the same as sunglasses. They’re protecting my ears. Sunglasses protect my eyes. Same idea. Blocking out harmful stimuli. Why are sunglasses cool and earphones dorky?”

“Please take them off.”

I acceded.

But this just spurs me to prove to Julie how perilously loud our lives are, so I order a decibel meter on the Internet. It looks like a rectal thermometer. I carry mine around everywhere, surreptitiously taking it out and testing the air whenever possible.

Here’s a sample of my findings. And remember, decibel levels above eighty-five—about the sound of a leaf blower—can cause permanent hearing loss.

     Dave & Buster’s restaurant/video arcade in Times Square: 102 decibels

     New York’s C-line subway entering the station: 110

     Zane’s tantrum about missing the last five minutes of Bubble Guppies: 91

     Julie in an argument about whether or not I misplaced her Time magazine: Unknown. Whenever I put the decibel meter near her mouth, she refuses to talk. As Werner Heisenberg knew, taking measurements can mess with reality.

Checkup: Month 3

Weight: 168

Push-ups till exhaustion: 34

Walks in the park: 8

Blood pressure: 115/75

According to a University of Manchester study, my headphones might make my food taste better. The study found that background noise dampens our taste buds, which is part of the reason most airline lasagna tastes like AstroTurf.

This finding is good, as I need more incentive to eat healthy food. I’m trying to eat right, but only succeeding in fits and starts.

I downloaded a list of superfoods from Dr. Oz’s website, and I go on nutritional binges. I’m on a mission to break my own record for the most superfoods eaten in one sitting. My record so far is eight. Yesterday, I spent half an hour making a lunch salad of mango (vitamin C helps prevent periodontal disease), fennel (anti-inflammatory), blueberries (antioxidants, of course), avocados (monounsaturated fat), pomegranate seeds (ellagic acid that preserves collagen in skin), dark chocolate shavings, ground kelp, and lentils (good source of zinc). I like this idea of competition as an incentive to healthy eating, even if it’s just a competition to break my own record. Maybe games are the way to change our habits. Perhaps the competitive eating circuit could substitute kale for Coney Island hot dogs.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to exercise every day, though I only manage about four times a week. To boost that number, I decided to buy a treadmill off Craigslist for three hundred dollars.

“Where are we going to fit it?” asked Julie.

“The bedroom?” I said.

She paused. “Normally I’m against big machinery in the apartment. But if it’ll help you get in shape . . .”

And it was helping for a while. I was running two or three miles at 5 mph almost every day. Then we got a call from our downstairs neighbor, Lloyd. Apparently, everyone on the entire fourth floor is in a tizzy. The pounding from my treadmill reverberates from one end of the building to the other. One neighbor wants to know why, every night, the paintings on his walls bounce.

If I were in Bronzaft’s novel, I’d be murdered in my sleep. I’ve had to abandon my treadmill. It sits in my bedroom, a silent reminder of a wasted three hundred dollars.

Back to the gym it is. I can’t say that I relish it, but I don’t dread it as much as I once did.

There are parts of the gym ritual I find comforting. I like nodding at my fellow regulars, such as the guy who reads the Talmud while on the stationary bike. Or the guy who does biceps curls and then thumps his chest like Tarzan. Or the guy whose workout getup—tube socks and a white headband—makes him look like he stepped out of the 1985 Jamie Lee Curtis movie Perfect.

And thank God for Tony. He’s supportive, always saying how much improvement I’m making, even if I’ve been stuck on the fifteen-pound biceps curls for three weeks. He’s an understanding mentor, and happy to give me tips on gym etiquette. “You can’t let the weights clank down,” he says. “It draws negative attention. People think you’re weak. On the other hand, if you do a lot of grunting and then clank, that’s okay. But you got to plan for it.”

So overall, I feel decent. Even good. Perhaps the best I’ve felt since high school.

But every time I start to edge toward smugness, I read something that stresses me out. The latest study that’s obsessing me: It might not matter if I’m exercising for an hour a day. If I’m sitting down for the other sixteen waking hours, I’m almost as unhealthy as ever.

Chapter 4

The Butt

The Quest to Avoid Sedentary Life

FOUR MONTHS IN, I’VE DECIDED it’s time to declare war on Sedentary Life. It’s not a war I want to fight. I’ve never had anything against the Sedentary Life. It suits me just fine. Before Project Health, I sat happily for ten to twelve hours a day. My Aeron chair and my butt were soul mates. I remember complaining to Julie once about the idea of the standing ovation. Is it really necessary? Can’t we express our approval for Wicked while comfortably seated? Maybe we could raise our arms or bow our heads or stomp our feet.

But the more I read, the more I realize an unfortunate truth: Sitting and staring at screens all day is bad for you. Really bad, like smoking-unfiltered-menthols-while-eating-cheese-coated-lard-and-screaming-at-your-spouse bad. Michelle Obama is right. We need to move. Chairs are the enemy. Sitting puts you at risk for heart disease, diabetes, obesity, and some types of cancer, including colon and ovarian.

We weren’t built to sit. Never before in history have we been so immobile.