Tips to maintaining a healthy lift sty when living and working out of a suitcase
It is important to live a healthy lifestyle, even when travelling for business. I have written this short article to give you some suggestions on how to accomplish this.
Ah, an hour to kill at the airport. Might as well head to my favourite airport destination. Besides the “Everything for $10 store” and the “We Sell Our Stuff Cheap Because It’s, Well, Cheap” store, it, is, of course, the bar. Not important enough to belong to the high flying member’s special type bar, (what goes on in those places anyway?) I settle for any class of bar, the only qualifications require that it serves alcohol. My stomach is rumbling, my head aches, and I have had yet another delightful day with a client. I am in dire need of a cocktail. Preferably a very stiff cocktail.
Entering the first bar I see, I ask the wait staff if they are serving food. Because, as badly as I crave that very stiff drink, a very stiff drink on a very empty stomach is never a good combination, especially for me. It tends to lead to delirium, and, as I am already half way there, after working 12 hour days and two plane trips this past week, one from all the way around the world, eating is definitely a wise choice, along with the very strong cocktail.
The woman replies with a curt: “Yes”. As they do not serve Margaritas with a shot of top shelf (as this is not the high flying member’s special type bar), I decide to settle for a glass of wine. Not very creative, nor the stiff drink that I had envisioned, but, should do the trick.
As I attempt to place my meal order, the woman informed me that, at this late hour, the kitchen was only preparing fried food.
“Does that mean that there is no grilled fish on a bed of rice topped with wilted spinach?” I ask.
“No, only fried food”.
“No vegetarian pasta with lightly sautéed eggplant and squash?
“No, only fried food”.
“No three trio dips with pita bread?” I ask, desperation beginning to creep into my voice as my stomach continues to rumble and the couple of sips of wine increasing the delirium. I am sorely tempted to succumb to the temptation of delicious, decadent and extremely fatening treat, if it weren’t for this girth that has appeared around my middle, that has been expanding at an alarming rate.
“No! No grilled fish! No wilted spinach! No lightly sautéed vegetables, nor even any vegetables drowning in a rich cream sauce! No! No! No! Only deep fried food!”
She begans to chant: “Deep fried food, as in chips; chips with dips; deep fried chicken with chips; deep fried chicken with chips and deeps” she shouts as she punches her fist full of swizzle sticks in ‘the air. “Deep!” punch! “Fried!” punch! “Only!”
“What about the Chicken Caesar salad”. I timidly suggest.
‘“Deep! Fried! Only!”
“Chicken Caesar salad without the chicken?” I whisper.
“Oh bugger all!” she shouts, throws the fist full of swizzle sticks up in the air and stumps off to the kitchen, the swizzle sticks falling like rain to the floor behind her.
I anxiously wait until she returns a few minutes late and slaps my order number on the table.
I am about to creep off to the furthest corner so that I will not be in salad throwing distance from the kitchen when I hear a voice beside me ask:
“Are you stlll serving food?”
We both turn and yell “Fried food only!”.
“Fried food only? But, can’t I get the grilled fish on a bed of rice topped with wilted spinach?”
She, unlike me, doesn’t have a girth around her belly which has mysteriously been expanding at an exponential rate, and therefore could eat all the fried food she wishes. However, as I see the bartenders face turning an alarming shade of purple, I pull the young lady aside and quickly advise her that she can get the Chicken Caesar salad without the chicken.
She assesses the scowling, purple face and clenched fists, and wisely orders the Chicken Caesar Salad without the Chicken. We grab our drinks and our order numbers and scurry to the furthest table, ducking and weaving in case a barrage of swizzle sticks will follow.
As we sipped our wines, listen to our stomachs growl and waited for our Chicken Caesar Salads without the chicken, she told me that her little boy was with his daddy, who lives in Brisbane, and with whom she is still madly in love with. Eventually, our Chicken Caesar Salads arrive, surprisingly in tack on the plate, and, as we dig in, she told me of her Aboriginal heritage on her father’s side and her Ukrainian heritage on her mother’s side; the poverty; her dad succumbing to alcohol and dying at a very early age; and that she loved Obama. I told her that she looked a great deal like a younger version Obama’s lovely wife. She then told me that some had said the same about Condalisa Rice, but, I couldn’t see it.
We then discussed and decided that she should go into politics and fight for the rights of her people. Her being so lovely and well educated and all.
That decided, I suggested that, perhaps we should check the time to see if our flight was boarding yet. I, of course, do not own a watch. Watches, along with mobile phones, work badges and earrings seem to have a great aversion to me and are forever dropping off, going missing, disappearing without a trace, so, I have resolved myself to this fate, and have to continuously ask people for the time, or hazard a wild guess at what it might be.
“We still have plenty of time.” She assures me. “At least an hour.”
I shook my head. “No, we had an hour when we got here, which was…..about an hour ago! Oh sh*t!
We leapt up and she cried “Follow me to gate 56!”
As we raced through the tarmac, a nasally voice came over the loud speaker:
“If there is a Renee Palmer, a Renee Palmer, please come to your gate immediately, as your plane is waiting departure.”
“A Renee Palmer, a Renee Palmer, please make your way immediate to your gate, as your plane is waiting your departure”.
She ran like the wind, and soon, I was left trailing behind.
“Tell them to wait for me….wait for meeeee…..” I cried, as she disappeared from my view. Of course, this had nothing to do with the fact that she might be more fit than I, nor having this alarming girth, nor that she is about 20 years younger than me. No, I am quite sure that it is a result of me wearing these extremely fashionable, designer sandals that I picked up from TJ MAX for a song. And we all know that fashionable woman’s shoes cannot be comfortable nor practical. There is a law dictating this somewhere.
As I finally reach my destination, gate 56, panting, much to my dismay, there is no one there and the departure signs says Darwin. Ah, the mother lived in Darwin, she was going to visit the mother, not the ex-husband with whom she was still madly in love with and with whom her son was visiting.
As the loud speaker is announcing my name along with the fact that everyone else has boarded and that they are waiting for me, I occurred to me that I have never felt so wanted in my life. Everyone is waiting for me! Even people I have never met before! An entire plane is waiting for me! Of course, while making this proclamation, they can’t be bother to tell me what gate they are all so anxiously awaiting for me at, no, I have to rummage around my bottomless pit of a purse (Prada, New York knock off, purchased for $20 several years ago). No, they can’t tell us the gate, we have to dig around until we find our boarding pass and figure it out for ourselves. Don’t they understand the concept of purses?
My boss does. She knows that it takes 10 rings for me to rummage around and locate my mobile phone (if I haven’t misplaced it, that is). By the time I have located the phone, it will have gone to voice mail. She simply hangs up and redials, knowing that second time I will answer.
Ah ha! I have located the boarding pass! It’s gate 34, not 56! Wasn’t that the gate that was right next to the bar that was only serving fried food? As I raced to the other end of the airport my purse starting vibrating as my phone starts ringing. Dare I take the time to answer it? I am quite sure it is the people at the gate ringing to inform me that everyone has boarded and they are all eagerly awaiting my much anticipated arrival. However, they are not aware of the ten ring rule, so, I fear that by the time I rummage around for the phone, it will have stopped ringing and the plane will have departed.
As I race around the corner, as fast as one can race, with a blister that has formed on each of my big toes from the fashionable designer sandals purchased for a song, and lugging around the ever expanding girth that has appeared around my middle, I see the gate! “Wait” I yell! “I am here! I am Renee Palmer, the one you have all been waiting for! I am THE Renee Palmer!” My god, I have been waiting all my life to say that!
However, instead of the triumphant entry that I had always envisioned, everyone is glaring at me. The nerve! Do they not understand what I have just been through to get on this plane?
I squeeze into my seat and look straight ahead and I feel someone staring at me. I look to the man sitting in the seat next to me, and see him lift an eyebrow as he takes in the sweat pouring down my face. I glared at him and protested, “No, I am not going through the change. I am not having hot flashes. “ I sniffed and said “as a matter of fact, I am far too young for that. “, I say, remaining determinedly oblivious to the fact that I turn 45 in the next few weeks.
I explain the panting and the sweat pouring down my face with: “I am determined to live a healthy life style even if I do spend half of my life in an airport. Why I had a Chicken Caesar salad without the chicken for dinner and a glass of wine laden with all sort of antioxidants (or is it red wine that? I can never remember) and then I ran from one end of the airport to the other. So pardon me for just wanting to stay healthy”. I say to him, as I grab the inboard dining menu to select a desert.
