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

discriminating. I better take advantage now, while they still let me. It’s a shame that male hand-holding is socially unacceptable in America (though not in the Middle East). Holding Jasper’s little hand on the way to school is such a joy, fleeting though it may be.

Typist’s Cramp

Thanks to Finger Fitness, my hands feel more dexterous and stronger than ever. Julie even complimented my skills when we attempted to tie plastic lanyard bracelets for the boys. If my upcoming triathlon included origami, I’d be set.

Ironically, though, this chapter has taken me a bit longer to type than usual. I switched my typing style after talking to Dr. Michael Hausman, a noted hand surgeon in New York.

Hand and wrist aches are more common than ever. New hand maladies pop up every day: Wikipedia lists BlackBerry thumb, Rubik’s wrist, Cuber’s thumb, stylus finger, and my favorite, Raver’s wrist, which you can get from repeatedly waving a glow stick in the air (see, kids, ecstasy really is bad for you).

Apple products haven’t helped. The new fad for touch screens has caused problems, including swiper’s finger, and whatever you want to call the cramps people get from pinching the images bigger and smaller.

But the most common cause is probably typing. “You remember the carriage return?” says Dr. Hausman. “The carriage return was your momentary rest. Now you just type on and on page after page with no pause and that causes lactic-acid buildup. I tell people they should get those annoying digital watches. And every ten minutes, have it beep. And then shake your hands.”

I took Hausman’s advice. Every ten minutes, my iPhone goes off. I have it set to the “slot machine” sound. I get a momentary dopamine spike before I realize I haven’t won any money and remember to shake my hands.

I don’t think I’ll continue the ten-minute alarms. Studies show that distraction is unhealthy. Lack of focus can cause depression and stress. In this case, I’m going to screw my hands.

This means I may be at risk for a repetitive stress injury. But at least I won’t get carpal tunnel syndrome, which is a separate malady that involves the squeezing of the nerve in the wrist. Despite common misconception, carpal tunnel is mostly inherited, says Hausman. One of the only activities that seem to be associated with carpal tunnel is using a vibrating power tool in a very cold room. “It showed up in people who were processing human cadavers—cutting off limbs for orthopedic use.” Hausman adds: “Jeffrey Dahmer was probably at high risk for carpal tunnel.”

Checkup: Month 23

     Weight: 158

     Miles walked while writing: 1,144

     Push-ups till exhaustion: 167 (admittedly with several breaks)

     Potatoes eaten per week: 2 (trying to eliminate, since many nutritionists think they cause weight gain)

     Biceps curls using Lucas as weight: 33

My triathlon is in two weeks. I’ve convinced my trainer, Tony, to join me, so that he can share in the triumphs, humiliations, and lactic-acid body aches.

I’m training every day. Also worrying every day. Mostly, I’m terrified of the arctic water, a longtime phobia. I have spent hours scouring the Internet for ideas on how not to become hypothermic. I found the world’s only electronically heated wet suit. It’s got two graham-cracker–size lithium batteries sewn into the neoprene. Could work. In my risk assessment, electrocution is better than freezing. But it costs a thousand dollars, so Julie put the kibosh on it.

I’ve had to settle for plan B. I’ve rented my neoprene booties, my neoprene skullcap, and my full-body nonelectronic wet suit. I took them all for a test swim in the JCC pool. As I walked out of the locker room, I got some quizzical stares. Was I a Navy SEAL on a mission to assassinate one of the white-haired women in the Aquafit class?

I slid into the pool feetfirst. Unfortunately the water was eighty degrees, which won’t help me toughen up. Regardless, while I was there, I figured I’d do some laps. I started my crawl. A fiftyish man switched lanes to get farther away from me. “Your outfit is making me uncomfortable,” he said. Which gave me a virile thrill.

In nontriathlon news, I got an update on the Jack LaLanne interview. Today his publicist left a voice mail.

“I’m sorry about this, but Jack has to postpone because something has come up.”

Ugh. I’ve already bought my tickets and made my hotel reservations. He can’t honor his commitment? What kind of a man is he? Something better came up, did it?

I dialed the publicist, ready to snap at him.

“What happened?” I demanded.

“Jack’s got health problems. It doesn’t look good.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah. Really not good.”

“Oh.”

“Things are shutting down.”

I’m simultaneously ashamed of my pettiness and stunned that Jack LaLanne is going to die. Jack LaLanne passing away? That doesn’t compute. He said it himself many times, “I can’t die. It would ruin my image.”

But the publicist wasn’t lying. A few days later, I read on CNN.com “Jack LaLanne, fitness guru, dies at 96.” There he is, a photo of him in his blue jumpsuit, his arms raised in the “check out my guns” pose, beaming.

First my grandfather, then LaLanne. Two vibrant men in quick succession, both gone at ninety-six.

I do an Internet search for “Jack LaLanne and Dying,” and find this quote: “I train like I’m training for the Olympics or for a Mr. America contest, the way I’ve always trained my whole life. You see, life is a battlefield. Life is survival of the fittest. How many healthy people do you know? How many happy people do you know? Think about it. People work at dying, they don’t work at living. My workout is my obligation to life. It’s my tranquilizer. It’s part of the way I tell the truth—and telling the truth is what’s kept me going all these years.”

In honor of Jack, I head off to the gym to work at living.

Chapter 24

The Back

The Quest to Stand Up Straight

MY LOWER BACK HURTS. Which doesn’t make me particularly noteworthy. I’m one of 65 million