The Secret to Weight Loss

For years, I've tried in vain to lose weight. A few pounds might come off on occasion, but would consistently return. Real weight loss was more elusive than a floor attendant at Walgreens.  

I stand 6'2" and my weight has hovered between 225 and 230 lbs for over ten years (188 cm and 102 - 104 kgs.) I just couldn't get below that magic 220 lbs. or 100 kgs. 

I know I should exercise. But the thing about exercise is that it's boring and it hurts. My mom was an athletic coach and I can't tell you how many times I heard, "No pain, no gain," from her.

My philosophy has always been, "No pain? Hey. No pain!" Also, I don't do well with boredom. Nasty things like addiction looms when I'm bored. 

However, I'm so happy to say that one month in Mexico did the trick. How? How??

I lived like a Mexican grandmother. An abuela.

First, there was plenty of un-processed food on hand. The most delicious, freshest fruits and vegetables were available everywhere. There were at least four fruterias within three blocks of my apartment. I could return with a weighty bag of mangoes, pineapples, guavas, avocados, onions, tomatoes, corn, and zucchini for about $3.00. Every other day, I'd go out and come home with another haul. 

Dried beans of every variety were incredibly plentiful and inexpensive. It's no wonder abuelas can't imagine life without frijoles as a nutritional, high fiber protein source. Chilis of every flavor imaginable with which to flavor them were everywhere; an unimaginable palette of flavors: Ancho, guajillo, pasilla, mulato, puya, and smoky chipotles. 

I learned of sprinkling fresh mango with ground chili, salt, and lime juice. I will never eat it any other way. 

There was a tortilleria one block from my apartment. If you've never had fresh, corn tortillas hot off the press, you are truly missing out. At 50 cents a pound (10 pesos per half-kilo), I can see why they are a beloved staple. 

As you can see, there's nary a processed food item in sight. If an abuela tried a chicken nugget, she'd be appalled at how tasteless and salty they were. (And they are.) 

Even though I eat a plant-based diet, I did try a bit of roast chicken from a nearby rosticeria. It was the chickeny-est chicken I'd ever tasted. Also notice how the chicken fat drips down and roasts the potatoes and jalapeños. How clever is that? Flavor! Sabor! So, it's no wonder abuelas would be appalled at a chicken nugget. 

So, I got up off my backside to procure this gorgeous food every day, just like a Mexican grandma would do. 

A typical meal for me would be a small bowl of spicy beans with tortillas for dunking along with sautéed vegetables with a little crema Mexicana (a mild sour cream) added in. I kept fresh fruit on hand at all times for snacks. 

Walking  Yes, walking can be boring but not when you have such a gorgeous place as this. Ajijic sits at an elevation of 5,000 ft., so you're surrounded by cool, dry, mountain air. It just feels good to be out in it. At least once a day, I'd go for a walk along the lakefront. As you can see, it really was a bit of paradise: 

Why in the world would I stay indoors watching cat videos on YouTube when I have this outside?

After one month, I weighed myself and had dropped well below the 220 lb. (100 kg) mark. 

So that's the secret, dear puppies. Eat beans, fruits, vegetables, and walk to get them. Get up off your backside and it won't be as fat. 

Live like a Mexican grandma. 

Live!

Té

It turns out, Mexicans really don't drink tea (té). Not like we do and certainly not like the Brits. 

Every morning, I've enjoyed a pot of really strong Indian black tea. The tea leaves are dried into little granules and is very popular in India. It's like the espresso of black tea. It's inexpensive, too. It blows Lipton out of the water. 

Since Mexicans don't drink té, I can't find it in Mexico. Amazon in Mexico doesn't even have it. What am I to do? (Banging on my high chair ensues.)

In Mexico, you just learn to go with the flow. I'd noticed these coffee vendors around town who have old-fashioned grinders with which to freshly-grind your beans. 

Well, that sounds good.  

Need I mention that the coffee is less than a third of the price of the pricey stuff at Starbucks? Also, the coffee is grown nearby. In Mexico. And I get to practice my Spanish with the nicest guy you'd ever want to meet. He and his little truck are always there, ready to purvey the dark black beans to me. 

So, I'm buying something locally grown, supporting a local vendor, and getting a top-quality product, from a really sweet fellow. Isn't that a much more appealing way to get my caffeine beans? 

So, the absence of my Indian té -- "It's a good thing," as Martha would say. 

A really good thing. 

 

My coffee guy

Monk

It's true, I am a monk in the Anglican Church. (Yes, there are monks and nuns in the Anglican Church rather than the Roman Catholic Church.) I prefer to say that I'm "a monastic" because when people hear the word "monk", I think they envision something from Monty Python and the Holy Grail or a Buddhist monk in Tibet. While my religious order does have habits, I seldom wear one. I would prefer not to wear one at all, for I feel it sets me apart from others. But, out of obedience, I wear one at church or when I'm with my Community. 

Now you might wonder why I don't live in a monastery. In 1969, the first "disbursed order" was founded within the Episcopal Church -- Men who live on their own but are a member of a religious order. Since then, many more disbursed orders of men and women have been founded. With the huge decline in the numbers of monks and nuns in the Church, allowing disbursed orders is the way of the future in my opinion. 

So, what makes me a monk since I don't live in a monastery? 

First, I'm obligated to pray the "Daily Office", a set of prayers, three times a day. I broadcast Morning Prayer, live, at 7:30 a.m. six days a week for my parish. You can watch it here on Facebook. (It will ask you to become a member of the page. Just ask. The moderator is very lenient -- That's me.) 

Yes, we work to serve those in need, but what makes us monks and nuns is that our main duty is praying the Daily Office. We strive to lead a contemplative life rather than an active one. We are also obligated to pray the rosary three times a week among other prayers. 

Having this obligation gives my life a center that I love. The discipline of praying three times a day (four if I include Noonday prayer) connects me with something-bigger-than-myself, The Creator, The Divine Mystery, in an incredibly profound way. 

Do I always do it faithfully? No! I'm human. Sometimes I fall asleep before praying Compline (Night Prayer). Sometimes I get lazy or I'm just in a horrible, nasty mood. I'm human.

Another thing that makes me a monastic is the vow of chastity. A lot of folks might think it's a huge sacrifice, and sometimes, yes, it can be. I'm human. But, again, it provides me with a "center". Rather than seeing it as never being able to have a romantic relationship, I view it as something that frees me to love everyone on a more profound level. Do I always accomplish that? No! Sometimes I want to verbally filet some folks, especially on social media. But I always try to empathize with them. 

Just like being partnered, married, or with children, it can be a sacrifice. Other times, euphoric. 

Do I always have a holy countenance about me? Sometimes. But there are other times when I let loose with the f-word, especially while screwing things up the kitchen. I love the f-word. Too much, sometimes.  However, living in Ajijic, known as "the town that smiles," certainly elicits the countenance I should strive for. 

I'm also very much a minimalist and get a huge rush from keeping things simple. That includes my dwelling-space. My condo in Chicago was a nice little 550 sq. ft. studio. My casita in Mexico, even smaller. For years I lived in a 10 x 12 monks' cell. A casita is a palace in comparison. 

So, when I say in my byline that I'm an Anglican monastic, I hope this clarifies some points. It will come up again. It's a big part of who I am. 

Sometimes, I give sermons, too. 
Preach!

Heaven

Day Two: 

My first day in Ajijic left me despondent and wanting to go home. Buying a Diet Coke and unable to understand the store clerk just about did me in. It turned out, I was simply exhausted and grumpy from the overnight flight. After a good night's sleep, I awoke to see my surroundings at Namaste Village, the spiritual retirement center where I was staying. 

The mountain air was cool and dry. It just felt good to be out in it. The casitas in the Village were so colorful, they almost seemed surreal. The scent of jasmine perfumed the air while tweets and chirps and squawks of various birds along with the crowing of roosters filled the morning. It turned out I had, maybe, found paradise. I certainly "wasn't in Kansas anymore."

I thought it was strange that the residents kept referring to a "mirror door". It turned out that they were talking about a mirador (a "lookout"). My own casita had one; a roof deck. What a view! I could drink some serious morning coffee up here:

Later that day, I went exploring. I needed food and had been looking forward to sampling as much local fare as possible. 

Armed with embarrassingly rudimentary Spanish, I headed into a little fruteria (fruit store), and noticed the most gorgeous fruits and vegetables you could imagine. Whole Foods Market had nothing on this modest little place. Neither did Eden, I imagine. "So this is what food looks like!" I thought. 

I smiled at the elderly woman at the counter and used my magic phrase: "Estoy aprendiendo español." ("I am learning Spanish.") The most genuine smile you could ever imagine was graciously given back to me. Grandma took matters in hand and soon, I had a ten-pound bag of bounty. A papaya, avocados, mangoes, guavas, (which, it turned out, are the most delicious, gorgeously-scented fruits ever created), little plums that tasted like strawberries, and actual strawberries grown locally. All for about $3.00. Oh, and those juicy Driscoll strawberries that cost $6.99 a pint at Whole Foods? They're grown right there along Lake Chapala. 

This grandma's smile and helpfulness truly melted my heart. I actually teared up. She and her beaming face turned everything around. I am a "foodie" and this interaction was foodie-heaven. 

Having sampled my first guava, I now dreaded leaving this place and being guava-less. I don't ever want to be guava-less. 

Thanks to this grandma, I was now in heaven. 

A typical haul from the fruteria, costing about three dollars

Janis

Janis Joplin made me want to move to another country.

I was raised in a very small town in South Texas where it was hot, humid, and (for me anyway), with a heavy, turbid boredom to match.  I remember watching the Mary Tyler Moore show back in the 70s and thinking that living in Minneapolis would be just about the most exciting thing ever. It was the exact opposite of my home town. Mary Richards would be seen prancing down the snowy streets each week, so happy that her glee couldn't be contained. Her beret just had to be flung high above the crowded, downtown sidewalk. 

I wanted that. 

Religious life brought me to New York, graduate school in Toronto, and ultimately to Chicago. While I didn't prance through the snowy streets of Chicago throwing a beret in the air, I really was awfully happy. Life wasn't just good; it was great. 

So, why am I thinking of changing that?

It's because of Janis. 

She grew up in a town not far from mine and in very similar circumstances. I remember reading one of the first biographies about her while in high school (Buried Alive by Myra Friedman) and it had a huge impact on me. Her gutsy philosophy of "life-is-short, get-it-while-you can" resonated with my teenage mind on an incredibly profound level. Of course, it didn't work out too well for her, but perhaps given a gentler time, she might have been with us more years than she was. 

I've continually sought new experiences during this existence we call life. I've been incredibly fortunate. In some ways, I'm still that kid watching Mary and Rhoda living it up in Minneapolis. In other ways, I'm still making up for lost time.

The thing is, I not only wanted to live in a big city up north where it snowed, but I've always wanted to live in another country. Canada was interesting, but let's face it, the only strange thing to get used to there was an obsession with hockey and Alanis Morissette.

Janis seized life with complete abandon. Her vocals reflect that, almost on a supernatural level. True, she overdid it with the Southern Comfort and heroin. I did it by giving up a career in banking and moving into a monastery 25 years ago. Both were radical moves if you ask me. Mine was just a little bit quieter. 

I thought that a semi-early semi-retirement would bring a sense of repose; of settling down. I never thought I'd have an address in Mexico. Never in a million years. I'm so glad I do. 

Thank you, Janis. 

Arrival

Scan my passport into the app? How?

I was dead tired when I arrived at Chicago's O'Hare International for a red-eye flight to Guadalajara. I mistakenly thought that an overnight flight might be fun and different. After all, I've no problem sleeping on airplanes; the white noise of the engines along with the rocking of the aircraft and, boom, I'm out like a baby. 

Valium helps, too. 

Instead of checking in with a polite airline employee at a normal ticket counter -- you know, like God intended -- I was told to use the airline's app and have it scan my passport. My stress-level rose due to the unfamiliar, new procedure. It was the middle of the night and I was already apprehensive and punchy.

Finally, the camera on my phone figured out what part of the passport to scan and I was "in". 

Well, that was kinda cool. I was now an international traveler. 

Even though I was flying on a discount, Mexican airline, I'd paid extra for the extra legroom. I'm 6'2" and "upper-middle-age", so I need it and deserve it. A four-hour flight would kill my back without the extra legroom. 

The flight was uneventful aside from the fact that I forget to bring a pen to use for the customs form handed out during the trip. Also, I forgot how to say "pen" in Spanish. A bi-lingual flight attendant came to my rescue. 

Upon landing, my phone texted "Welcome to Mexico" to me. I then emailed myself as a test and was very relieved to see that I, indeed, had reception. Before leaving, I had checked with T-Mobil three times to ensure I would. I was so relieved. I could, at least, be connected. You never know when you might need to scan a passport into an app or something. 

The first step at the Guadalajara airport was to go through immigration. In halting, limping Spanish, I was able to say I'd be there for 30 days. I handed in my customs form and a tourist visa was handed over. 

The second step was retrieving my luggage. No Spanish required. 

Step three was waiting in line for the customs officials. As I neared the front of the line, I noticed everyone around me were holding forms they'd filled out. I asked the elderly couple behind me if they spoke English (they did) and I asked about the forms. Seeing my predicament, the lovely gentlemen trotted over to a table, retrieved the form, saw that I still didn't have a pen, and produced one. It was a second customs form to be handed to the baggage inspector who I was about to encounter. The line was moving pretty fast. The lovely gentleman helped me fill it out and I made it just in time. I can't remember how many times I said, "Muchas gracias!" to him, but it was a lot. He deserved it. 

A cursory inspection of my baggage was made. My gray-and-blue monk's habit was held up, an eyebrow raised, and I was on my way. 

Fortunately, I'd been told how to obtain a taxi. Just head to the kiosk labeled TAXI, tell them where I want to go, pay, then hold my receipt up to the taxis waiting outside. 

"Voy a Ajijic," I proudly blurted. ("I'm going to Ajijic.")

"Quiniento cuarenta pesos," was his reply, so fast there could have been a sonic boom trailing it.

My perplexed expression caused him to immediately say, "Five-hundred forty pesos," in perfect English.  I fumbled with my currency. "Twenty-six bucks," he added. 

Receipt in hand, a taxi driver had my bags in the trunk with blinding speed. 

"Voy a Ajijic, por favor," I announced, a little more confidently. Then, I added the phrase that would serve me well with every encounter: "Estoy aprendiendo español." ("I am learning Spanish.") It broke the ice and took the pressure off me from feeling so self-conscious. The taxi driver smiled and said I spoke very well. Having studied Latin for three years in the monastery paid off, I guess. My Latinized accent was, apparently, pretty decent. At least I didn't sound like Peggy Hill. 

The 30-minute trip to the small town of Ajijic was uneventful. Even though it was early in the morning, it was completely dark. I noticed that the cab driver didn't have GPS at all, so I had to use my thankfully-connected GPS to find the address, la direccion. He needed to turn right at one point.

"La derecha, aqui, por favor," (Right, here, please) I said, probably sounding like a three-year old.  I'm glad he needed to turn right, because I couldn't remember how to say "left" in Spanish. 

We were bumping down the narrowest cobblestone street you could imagine. The town was pitch-dark and pitch-quiet. Another right turn (thank God) and I was there. 

I'd made it. 

I was greeted and shown to my living quarters. My little casita looked so Spanish and so Colonial. 

I was just so happy I'd made it. 

This trip was really outside my comfort zone. For the past twenty years, I'd only flown to from Chicago to Texas and back to see my family. Now that Mom and Dad had gracefully passed, I was free to travel, speak Spanish badly, and rent a casita for a month.

Later that morning, I stopped by a convenience store for a Diet Coke. I had been up for 30 hours without sleep -- the Valium and the plane ride did nothing to help -- and I was exhausted. 

I couldn't understand the price the clerk told me. It was a simple veinte pesos (twenty pesos).

I felt so out-of-place. I was exhausted and anxious. 

I thought, "What the hell am I doing here?"

I felt utterly despondent.

I wanted to cry. 

I wanted the app to scan my passport . . . and fly me home.