Drop Dead Healthy by A. Jacobs (books to read to increase intelligence .TXT) 📕

“What are you working on these days?” he asks.

I tell him about the health project, as I’ve told him a dozen times before. He nods his head. It’s unclear if he remembers or not.

I update him about my pain research.

“My favorite study shows you can alleviate pain by cursing,” I say.

He laughs.

The study, which appeared in the journal NeuroReport, showed that volunteers could hold their hands in freezing water forty seconds longer if they uttered expletives—it’s possible the cursing activates the amygdala, a part of the brain associated with fight-or-flight response, which makes us less sensitive to pain.

My aunt Jane—who is visiting again from Maryland—says there’s a lecture on the Internet about the psychology of cursing by Harvard professor Steven Pinker.

“Let’s watch it,” my grandfather says.

Jane finds it on YouTube, and presses play. Pinker starts with a quote from Bono—“This is really, really fucking brilliant”—which led to a Supreme Court case on obscenity. Pinker went on to utter the F-word with Mamet-esque frequency, as well as the C-word, the S-word, and every other offensive word you can think of, in noun, verb, adjectival, and adverbial form.

If ever I was going to listen to a string of swearwords sitting next to a ninety-four-year-old, I’m glad that ninety-four-year-old was my grandfather. Not that he swears a lot. It’s just that he can take it. And, he is currently laughing so hard his eyes are watery.

He was—and still is—young at mind. He watches Colbert and South Park. He’s fascinated by new things. He was an early adopter before there was such a phrase. I remember when he bought a video camera when they were still shoulder-mounted behemoths that looked like they could launch missiles. He loves the computer, the Internet, and cell phones.

And his friends? They are all younger than he—partly by default, since there aren’t a lot of ninety-four-year-olds around. But also by choice. He’s always preferred young friends. I’m not sure he ever accepted being an old man. At his eighty-sixth birthday party, he switched the numbers on his cake so they read “68.” “Much better,” he said.

My grandmother was even more of an age denialist. She rarely associated with people from her own vintage. “All they ever talk about is where it hurts and what’s wrong with their bodies.” She preferred my generation. She came to my friend Douglas’s thirtieth birthday at a club downtown, the only guest born before the Korean War, much less Vietnam. She said one of the highest compliments I ever paid her was to call her an honorary member of Generation X.

I can’t cite a study, but I wonder if there’s a correlation between age denialism and longevity.

Checkup: Month 8

     Weight: 160

     Miles walked on treadmill while writing: 302

     Meals eaten in front of mirror this month: 18

     Miles run per day: 2

     Biggest health sin: 27 candy corns in a single sitting

It’s a mixed month. Some good, some bad.

Dietwise, I discovered purees, which I love. Carrot purees, broccoli purees, squash purees. I steam the vegetables, toss them in the food processor, and there they are, my brightly colored pastes. I find this adult baby food comforting, which I don’t want to overanalyze. I’d rather point out that there’s strong evidence that purees help you lose weight. They take up a lot of room in your stomach, making you feel full on fewer calories.

But my mental state isn’t so good. I’m mildly depressed, and I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s been the rash of health problems in my family. Julie’s stepdad had to have leg surgery, and her dad is having trouble balancing after his stroke a couple of years ago.

Maybe my mood’s cause is more superficial. Thanks to my bum shoulder and my inability to lift big weights, my chest muscles have shrunk again, so I still look like a recovering heroin addict.

I decide I need something to lift me from my funk. Which is why I chose to try out a fitness class called “intenSati.”

I’d been hearing about this eccentrically capitalized class for months. Friends of friends would not so much recommend intenSati as command it. “You have to do intenSati.”

So on a Tuesday, I convince Julie to join me. She’s agreed to come on one health adventure per week. She reminds me I should choose carefully.

“This is going to be worth it,” I tell her.

The class is held at Equinox—a fancy gym where an attractive spokesmodel is giving out free samples of a new blueberry-flavored energy drink.

The hundred or so students gather in the heavily mirrored aerobics room. We grab our mats, and wait for our leader, Patricia Moreno. Patricia is the inventor of intenSati, and one of the most cultishly adored trainers in New York.

She appears. She’s a beautiful, caramel-skinned woman wearing a head mike, a pink stretch top, and carrying a notepad. She’s also seven months pregnant, a fact that won’t stop her from deep squats or high kicks.

She flicks the lights to red, giving the room a soothing feel, or a developing-old-photographs feel, depending on your point of view.

“We’re going to have a great new program today!” says Patricia.

Whoops and applause from the crowd.

Patricia glances down at her notepad. She gives a five-minute speech about how you have to sacrifice to achieve your goals.

I glance over at Julie. Her arms are crossed. Bad sign. Julie doesn’t come to the gym for sermons. She just wants to expend energy and fatigue her muscles.

And we do. After the speech, we give every part of our bodies a workout—and that includes the vocal cords.

IntenSati, it turns out, isn’t just aerobics. It’s aerobics mixed with a Tony Robbins workshop and a Pentecostal service. It’s fifty minutes of thrusting, pumping, jumping—all overlaid with shouted affirmations.

“I am never giving up!” yells Patricia as she squats and jumps.

“I AM NEVER GIVING UP!” we yell back, squatting and jumping.

“Are you in it to win it?!”

“I AM IN IT TO WIN IT!” We bend down, touch the floor, punch the