Thanks a Lot, Maya

Awards season is my cardio. That said, the Golden Globes are my big warm up before the sweaty, squat-thrusting Academy Awards (the SAGs are the extra crunches I mean to do). The Globes allow me to make brilliant selections come Oscar time. I had done this routine for over ten years. But not this year. In an unprecedented upset, I MISSED the Globes. I  FELL ASLEEP. I don’t blame myself. I blame Maya Angelou.

Last Sunday, Maya Angelou dared to be rocking every moment of her eighty-three years. See, second to my awards season needs are my Oprah needs. I was thrilled to start watching Oprah’s new network “OWN.” I planned to devour all of its fabulous programming. Naysayers claiming it’s too much Oprah obviously don’t have my tolerance level. My favorite show is “Master Class,” where public figures inspire audiences with their life story. This was Maya Angelou’s platform and my seduction into forgetting to watch the Globes.

Angelou’s life story erased my mental note to judge Natalie Portman’s Globes gown. My mind swirled from each detail of Angelou’s life: Six-years of being mute as a child, her love of calypso dancing and writing, and vast teaching experience around the world. I felt like I was becoming a better person through osmosis.

You might wonder where the “fell asleep” portion came in. Angelou’s rhythmic cadence sent me into the best unintentional sleep I’ve had on my hard leather couch. The next morning, I felt like Rip Van Winkle. Had I slept for 1,000 years? Was Portman named best or worst dressed? Later that week, I re-watched the Angelou show with fresh eyes. She talked about finding the “rainbows in the clouds.” She eloquently states, “When I step up on the stage…I bring everyone who has ever been kind to me with me…Long dead. I don’t ever feel I have no help.” She ends by saying to “prepare yourself so that you can be a rainbow in someone else’s cloud. Somebody who may not look like you…Be a blessing to somebody.”

Suddenly, I was not critiquing the puffy red flower on Portman’s dress. I was super-charged about using my writing to inspire others, like Maya. Through my words, I aspire to be a rainbow in someone’s clouds. Thank you, Maya. But don’t think you will ruin the Oscars for me.

Yogurt for Dinner

Last night, I ate yogurt for dinner. That’s right, that dairy delight. Sometimes I go to Pinkberry (my fro-yo equivalent of Off Broadway for discount shoe addicts) and lavish my taste buds with one cup of coconut swirl with fresh mango. Or two cups. Make that three, but a “calorie-free” mini this time. I use yogurt as a healthy substitute in my beloved onion dip. Yogurt can also be a fabulous dill-infused sauce with salmon. Yogurt empowers me to eat what I want, how I want, and when I want. My body, my choice!

Wow, I’m getting a little Third Wave Women’s Movement. Perhaps yogurt is the new empowerment food. The “fourth wave” that no one sees coming until a frothy curl crashes on your head (and ruins the yogurt you were eating). I’m not the only gal excited about yogurt (though perhaps not this excited). French women have loved live active cultures for years. In fact, yogurt is celebrated in French Women Don’t Get Fat: The Secret of Eating for Pleasure. Author Mireille Guiliano told WebMD.com that “Yogurt is the perfect food because it is high in calcium, [and] has carbs, protein and fat, which are what you need in every meal.” In addition, a published study from International Journal of Obesity in 2005 stated that those who cut 500 calories and ate three servings of yogurt daily significantly slimmed down their waistlines. Bring on the champagne-flavored yogurt! We’re going to be slim, fabulous, and very French!

Alas, as with most parties (at least with the Mary Tyler Moore-esque disasters I threw in my first apartment), there’s always a party pooper. That pooper is sugar. I personally ran into this type of “yogurt discrimination” at my local Harris Teeter. I compared Greek yogurt brands and picked a winner. In my mind, I was fist pumping with raspberry Chobani in hand. My giddy smile met with a cold stare from cottage cheese. I counteracted the woman’s distain of my yogurt frenzy with, “This is a great brand! You should try it!” She tightened her eyes and cursed the next six months for me: “Yogurt has too much sugar in it.”

At first, I was in denial. My cheesecake-flavored yogurt couldn’t contain that much sugar! It wasn’t real cheesecake! Besides, excessive sugar in yogurt was the plight of children. As a kid, my mother bought “the good yogurt” instead of the crack cocaine hawked by zoo animals on the container. I was an adult and could no longer be swayed by polar bears. Then, I read that 12 grams or less were the optional sugar levels in each 6 ounces of yogurt (CBS.com). I ditched my cake flavors and reached for plain Greek yogurt. I added raspberries and (in a short-lived, nausea-inducing experiment) nutmeg, since I ran out of cinnamon. Trust me, those two spices may coexist in pumpkin pie, but they do NOT taste the same.

I became so frazzled by sugar that I had three kinds of yogurt fermenting in my fridge. Ones with too much sugar (which I whipped into yogurt fruit pops), ones with too little sugar (I made savory dips), and ones that were just right (that I still eat today with lunch).

Now satiated with my yogurt life, I wondered: Why did some stranger make me feel inadequate about something I loved? All too often, women tear each other down. We judge each other’s clothes, lifestyles, and even hairdos! Here’s one thing I know for sure: The only woman who can make you feel badly about yourself is your mother. She brought you in, she can take you out. Everyone else should respect and celebrate your choices.