Chubby Mommy

The newest “diet pill” under study is actually a very old medication: sixty years old, as a matter of fact. And, it’s not even a diet pill: it’s an anti-histamine formerly marketed as Betahistine.

After learning that blocking the brain’s histamine-1 receptor causes weight gain, Tel Aviv-based nutrition expert Nir Barak went hunting for a drug that would stimulate that receptor.

He found Betahistine, which has been used to treat vertigo since the 1940s. Betahistine was pulled off the U.S. market in 1970 when the FDA began scrutinizing drugs more rigorously and demanded a new round of clinical trials.

Betahistine’s manufacturer, Unimed, never complied. A generic version is still sold in Europe, but the compound is no longer under patent protection in the United States.

That an anti-histamine could decrease appetite and reduce food cravings is no surprise to those of us who suffer allergies. After all, the old Dexatrim formula — the one that actually worked for many people — featured phenylpropanalomine (PPA) as its primary active ingredient.

Many overweight allergy sufferers — myself included — bemoaned the FDA’s decision to pull PPA from the market in 2000 due to the risk of high blood pressure with prolonged usage, leading to possible increased risk in strokes (as if being overweight doesn’t increase such risks, too).

Although Betahistine involves a different anti-histamine, it’ll be interesting to see if the FDA decides to block Betahistine’s development now that the “war on obesity” is receiving such great amounts of government attention.

A European think-tank has come up with a novel suggestion to reduce childhood obesity and, perhaps, help out adults fighting the battle of the bulge as well.

Car exclusion zones should be set up around schools to force children to walk to lessons, an environmental think-tank said yesterday.

It said parents should be banned from driving within a half-mile radius of a school to help tackle the dramatic decline in childhood activity levels.

Car-free areas should also be established next to shopping centres to prevent motorists making unnecessary short journeys, it added.

In addition to increasing the amount of physical activity for parents and children, the study also notes that such a plan would significantly reduce carbon dioxide emissions, thus benefiting the economy.

Unfortunately, like many “think tank” ideas, this one’s not terribly well thought out. Parents driving their cars to within the half-mile zone near schools, for instance, would still need a place to park while they walk their kids the rest of the way. The result: fewer trees and more parking lots, pretty much undoing the benefit of the reduced emissions.

As for shopping malls, one can easily imagine store owners protesting such a move. Lazy consumers would merely wind up patronizing those malls and stores that didn’t require a half-mile walk or opting for an online clothing store. Even those energetic folk willing to deal with the half-mile car-free zone would find themselves hesitant to purchase larger, more bulky items they’d then have to schlep a half-mile to their car.

I’m all in favor of reducing car travel, and very much a fan of a return to pedestrian shopping. “Car-free zones” aren’t the way to accomplish it, however. Give us back old-fashioned neighborhoods with Mom & Pop stores on the corner, a cafe the family can walk to, and a church just down the street and I’ve little doubt America would begin slimming down once again.

The U.S. government might have reason to rethink the “war on obesity” given the important role overweight consumers play in the American economy.

What is the price of an in-shape America? If everyone looks like a Greek statue, what happens to the cheeseburger cycle that supports all those farmers, food processors, truck drivers, drive-through clerks and sewer workers? Could an increase in gym memberships really make up for the furniture industry’s loss in steel-reinforced recliners? Are the country’s oppressed butterballs actually its most important assets?

So, OK, no one’s saying that being fat’s actually good for us. But it’s certainly good for the economy!

Last weekend, since it was my first “mini-vacation” in ages, I decided I wasn’t going to count calories. I wasn’t going to worry about what I ate. I was in a luxury hotel with room service and free Happy Hours, and I was going to enjoy myself.

Friday night’s dinner: a Reuben sandwich and French fries. And cocktails. Many, many cocktails.

Saturday’s meals: cheese omelet with fruit; turkey club sandwich with fries; steak with garlic mashed potatoes and steamed veggies. Three “Red beers” instead of cocktails. (Hey, they’ve got tomato juice and that’s “good” for me!)

Sunday’s meals: bagel with smoked salmon, cream cheese and red onion; a bacon-mushroom-Swiss burger with curly fries; green salad and grilled pork chop with pineapple rings. Iced tea.

I stood on the scale this morning a little worried about the damage done over the weekend — not that I’d change a thing; it was lovely not worrying about calories.

The result? I lost a pound.

I. Lost. A. Pound.

I ate like a freakin’ pig and did little more than lounge around in my hotel room, reading and watching TV, and I lost a pound.

It’s enough to make me crazy!

Yesterday, for the first time in a month, my husband was home to take over parenting duties. This meant, of course, that I needed some excuse to lock myself in a room to do something more important (in my family’s perception) than merely trying to bathe or take a nap. So, I worked out.

I did, after all, have plans to eat a massive rib eye with a baked potato for dinner: something far more high-cal and high-fat than I’ve consumed in over a month. Burning additional calories beforehand seemed like a good idea. (And the steak, by the way, was fantastic!)

So, I shut myself in my bedroom and broke out one of my new step-aerobics DVDs. I hate those things: if I’m not tripping over my feet, I’m wincing at the way my sports bra seems to creep upward while everything else seems to tug downward. But I did it: I worked through the entire tape, and found myself afterwards surprisingly full of energy.

Why not a little yoga to unwind then, I thought. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

This morning, I ache everywhere, but nowhere near as much as in my thighs. This is most assuredly not a part of a 40-year-old’s body one wants uncooperative after a long night’s sleep when a swollen, 40-year-old bladder demands an immediate trip to the bathroom.

I’m fully aware that lactic acid is to blame, just as I’m also aware that one of the best ways of overcoming such pain is by working out again. Kind of the exercise equivalent of “the hair of the dog” hangover treatment.

But exercising yet again today is out of the question. My day is already overscheduled and, I confess, I’m a wuss. I’m leaning more toward a gentle solution like natural healing, the kind where a practitioner draws pain out of your body with physical touch therapy (which doesn’t actually involve touching at all and good thing, too, since that would most likely prompt me to tears at this point).

Actually, I’ve been giving the whole area of alternative healing much consideration lately. What better incentive to exercise than by promising myself I can indulge in a massage afterwards?

My husband, of course, has volunteered to act as my “healer,” although his qualifications are as dubious as his methods. See, when I mention “touch therapy” to him, he gets a whole different picture in his mind than the actual practice itself.

But, hey, his approach would probably be good for burning off a few calories, too!

Want to have your margarita without killing your diet? The woman who made “Zilch” says you can!

“It’s a powdered concoction that we put in little packets about the size of a sugar packet. You go into a bar or restaurant or a party and order a tequila on the rocks. Just take a packet of Zilch from your purse or pocket and sprinkle it into the tequila on the rocks. Now you’ve got an authentic-tasting margarita with zero carbs and zero sugar. Zilch itself has no calories, so the whole drink will have only 70 or 80 calories from the tequila, and still no carbs. It’s a good deal for people who want to enjoy a margarita and stick to their low-carb diet. Here’s a margarita that’s only two points on the Weight Watchers plan,” Johnson said.

I’m not a ‘rita fan myself. My tastes run heavily toward martinis, if you didn’t already know that. And, well, I tend to get a bit more ‘Venomous’ than usual when tippling the tequilla.

But for those of you who’ve been longing for a way to have your margarita and diet, too, check out ZilchMixers.

You’ve heard of Web 2.0, web-based communities and social-networking sites that facilitate collaboration and sharing between users.

Wouldn’t it be great if there was such a platform that empowered even beginning computer users to find information about the health issues relevant to their lives?

Good news, folks, there is: it’s HopeCube.com, a site featuring user-generated content addressing a wide range of health-related issues.

In addition to a blog addressing the latest in health-care concerns, there are topics users can collectively share information about addressing, to name just 10 of the most popular:

* Autism
* Abortion
* Depression
* Asperger Syndrome
* Cancer - Breast Cancer
* Acne
* Alcohol Addiction
* Anger Management Problem
* Back Pain
* Cocaine Addiction

The user community is active, involved and very much knowledgeable. But laymen aren’t the only ones involved in HopeCube.com: they also have a growing community of health care professionals willing to lend their knowledge in their areas of expertise. (There are plans in the works to add even more doctors, and to enable users to download forms, ask questions and even schedule appointments.)

When it comes to weight loss, recent studies have shown user-provided information is reliable.

That’s the beauty of HopeCube.com: it integrates Web 2.0 with Health, making its diet and weight management section are another a great source for information for those of us fighting the battle of the bulge.

Ever wonder what the other people at your gym are thinking?

Now you know.

One month ago today my husband went out of town on business. At the time, I consoled myself with the fact that his absence would give me the opportunity to “eat like a girl” (read: salads, not steaks) and work out whenever I wanted.

And, for the most part, I did eat like a girl. I’ve had Healthy Choice or Lean Cuisine for lunch and dinner each day, and breakfast has consisted of either a Slim Fast shake or a bagel with that fake-butter spray.

Sure, I’ve had nachos twice and one day I even ate a cheeseburger — man, that was good — but for the most part I’ve been eating just a fraction of what I ordinarily do.

So, ok, I didn’t work out for an hour each day. I didn’t even work out a half hour each day, but I’ve certainly been a bit more active than when he’s home. I’ve had better sleep, too.

But does my scale show it? Does it show any loss at all?

No. No it does not.

My clothes fit the same, so I don’t even get the Fat Girl’s consolation that “Oh, but I’ve gained muscle even if I haven’t lost weight!” (a mantra which conveniently ignores that a pound is a pound the whole world ’round).

This sucks. I suck. I’m so disappointed and so sick of frozen, prepackaged meals! Tomorrow night I’m tucking in to a big, juicy rib eye and a baked potato topped with sour cream. Screw the diet. I am hungry, dammit.

Dieting will resume Monday. Honest.

One year ago today, I’d signed up for a membership at our local Curves gym. It was an impulse thing, to be honest: I’d had a day to myself and decided to visit the mall where I saw a group of women my age, and about my build, walking in to the place. They were actually smiling.

Smiling before going to the gym? Hey, that was something I needed to check out, I figured.

The skinny little woman behind the desk was only too happy to show me around the place, not that I needed much help: all of the machines were in one room where butcher paper blocked the windows and prevented inquiring eyes from watching the ladies work out. There was a tiny little changing area off to one side — no showers, no dreaded locker room — and a half-dozen women, most older than me, going through the exercise circuit.

I signed up right then and there, not particularly caring that the monthly membership cost twice as much as the fancy new gym located behind the very same strip mall. (One which, incidentally, offers spa services, tanning beds, an indoor track, classes, a juice bar, yoga, personal TVs on the various machines and child care.)

The next day, I made it to Curves at 7 a.m., the perfect time to squeeze in a half-hour workout and return home before my husband had to leave for work. The routine was fun, although the oldies music was rather annoying. I spent the rest of the day with Fontella Bass’s “Rescue Me” stuck in my head.

A day later, I was back again: this time, however, a different director was there. She wasn’t just skinny, she was downright emaciated and terribly, terribly perky. Halfway through the circuit, she decided we all needed to play a game: this one happened to involve fuzzy dice that we were to pick up and roll, and if you threw an even number you got to pick out a silly movement that everyone else had to repeat while they were on the jogging stations between machines.

I stood there patting my head and rubbing my stomach thanks to a 60-something year-old woman’s “lucky” toss of the dice and found myself thinking: Oh, no. I am not playing stupid games every time I come here. I want to work out, and I want to do it without being self-conscious. I do not want to have to participate in a group activity like I’m some kindergarten child who needs to be entertained.

The next time I went back it was in the evening. I’d hoped going at a different time of day might mean no stupid games. I was wrong. This time there was a spinner in the middle of the floor and whomever was on a particular station got to spin the dial. The person it pointed to had to sing along with the Supremes — or whatever other oldie band was playing — in front of the others.

I “twisted my ankle” as an excuse to get the hell out of there, and I never went back.

As of yesterday, my contract with Curves expired. One year of payments on a membership to a gym I only went to three times. A gym, I might add, that’s now rumored to be closing in part because people figured out that the fancy one not three doors down didn’t make them play stupid games while only costing half as much for ten times as many amenities.

I’ve got nothing to show for that membership: not firmer thighs, not a flatter stomach, not a higher and more firmly toned butt. I’m out a couple of hundred dollars. But hey, at least I have one of their cute little personalized pens.