Fat Chance: My losing battle with the Japanese BMI Index (by Adam Brownstein)

Each February the chilly weather systems ushered into Tokyo from the Sea of Japan inspire me to search for a future summer holiday.  As I sit in my darkened office drenched in woolens, a muffler and even a hat I dream of stroking the warm sand with my bare toes, Graham Greene spy novel in one hand and a frosty libation in the other.

Global pandemics have a way of clouding the crystal ball of travel planning, so I find myself moving back in time to the great seaside holidays of my youth.  The pleasant recollections are vast; architecting sandcastles on the shores of Nantucket Sound in Harwichport, Cape Cod . . . lazily gazing at the Indian Ocean after an early safari in Yali, Sri Lanka and surfing (badly) in sleepy Troncones, Mexico.

But the best summer beach jaunt of all time was my family’s trip to Greece in July of 1982.  It was a middle stop in our grand tour of Europe and Israel leading up to my Bar Mitzvah.  The resort my parents had selected was rife with amazing beachy trappings.  Vistas of the endless blue Aegean Sea, platters of grilled octopus washed down with cheap white wine or Orangina depending on your age segment and the like.  At the center of the place was an immense salt water pool, and at the center of the pool was the love of my pubescent life, an olive skinned, black bikini-clad goddess who I admired from afar each afternoon after lunch time.  

The sun drenched sprite was likely the kid sister of the Bain de Soliel Woman or Phoebe Cates.  The first time I saw her at the pool she was rinsing off after a swim and in the historical edit of my untempered imagination she was wearing stilettos, puffing on a cigarette and probably topless.  On the penn-ultimate day of our Grecian holiday, she actually issued me a knowing smile.  A precious gift to a pathetic twelve-year-old boy. 

But alas, the stories of unrequited obsession must move on, and so did mine.  After being interrogated for several minutes by the very intense security detail at Eleftherios Venizelos Athens Airport, we eased into our seats on our early morning El Al flight to Tel Aviv.  Picking at the breakfast plate of powdered eggs and fruit cocktail I summoned the courage to ask my mom some advice about how to woo the pool goddess if ever I was passing through Greece in the future. 

She issued a litany of suggestions between puffs of her Benson & Hedges Slims (such were the smokey joys of air travel in those days).  Her list spanned a wide range of behaviors.  Some were authentic and substantive.

“Truly LISTEN to her, Adam my dear,” she imparted.  “And be certain to ask her lots of open ended questions.”

Others were mind-blowingly shallow. 

“A dash of Acqua di Parma behind the ears or perhaps some Zizane if you’re feeling adventurous.”  

Some were facile with a touch of Mediterrean panache (perhaps brought on by the expanse of summer blue sea beneath the wings of the El-Al 747.  

“An ascot might be a nice touch.  Aristotle Onassis sported one, and he wound up with Jackie O.”

“Didn’t he also have like a few yachts, Mom?” I implored.

“Good point, Adam.  It wouldn’t hurt to have a yacht.” she concurred.  “And, most importantly, it wouldn’t hurt to lose a few pounds. Chicks will dig you if you’re svelte”

Ouch.  That last one really hit me hard.  

Somehow the stress of becoming a Bar Mitzvah had driven me to enjoy one too many snow cones at the Rinconada Park Snack Bar.  That, and my father’s 1982 discovery of Ramona’s Too Pizzaria had moved my official status from “kid” to “mildly zaftig kid”.   I reckoned that my mother was giving me a gift with this feedback bomb, and I was in a great position to do something about it.

As we touched down in Ben Gurion airport I resolved to embark on a regimen.  It included early morning tennis marathons with my brother, Todd.  His commanding groundstrokes had me dashing all over the court, burning up calories that were replenished with a light Israeli breakfasts of goat’s milk yogurt, Bircher Muesli and chopped prunes.  During our walking tours through The Old City of Jerusalem, Jaffa and the Rosh HaNikra Grottoes I was determined to set a brisk pace, prompting Moshe, our omniscient tour guide, to call me “Yael”, Hebrew for the Ibexes that raced in the craggy ravines of the Ein Gedi Nature Park. 

My diligence paid off one afternoon on the road from Nazareth to Tiberias by the Sea of Galilee.  As was the custom of the time, we stopped to pick up a hitchhiking private in the IDF who was heading our way.  She sported a shock of dark brown hair beneath her beret, soft freckles on her cheeks and a toothy smile that seemed to be directed right at me.  She might have been the future aunt of Gal Gadot for what I can recall.  As she nonchalantly fastened her seatbelt and safety-locked her Uzi, she encouraged me to practice speaking Hebrew.  I obliged and attributed her enthusiasm to tutor me to my new-found level of fitness.  

Since that trip, I have generally managed to maintain a reasonable level of fitness.  There were, of course, bumps along the way.  The Freshman 15 brought on by pilgrimages to Pat’s and The White House whence on a heater down the Shore.  A sobering introduction to Gino’s East and Gibsons when I moved to the City of Chicago.  But for the most part, I stayed the course.

In many ways, Covid has made it easier to stay healthy.  Oh the irony, right?! Adieu went twice-monthly business trips and the accompanying banquets of redolent chili crab at Long Beach in Singapore and juicy kalbi at Goo Steak 733 in Itaewon (all washed down with goblets of lager for good measure).  With homebound time on my hands I upped my running mileage, embraced a leaf-friendly diet and a general state of mindfulness that a once-in-a-century pandemic tends to usher in.  

So it was air of supreme confidence that I arrived at my doctor’s office for my recent annual check-up.  

“This is what it must feel like to be on the  Austrian National Ski Team during the opening ceremony of the Winter Olympics!” I surmised, filling out my reception forms in triplicate.  

Like many experiences in Japan, take automotive manufacturing and rotating sushi as prize examples, health check-ups employ a kind of kaizen approach.  Despite the extensive battery of tests the whole experience is pleasant and peaceful.  I always get a kick out of the barium lady, who somehow makes being twisted around like taffy feel like a trip to Disneyland. Following a suite of more than 50 discreet examinations and tests, the entire episode concludes with a brief consultation with my doctor, Baba-sensei.  

“Bu-ra-un-su-tein- SAN,” she mused.  “In general you are doing quite well.”

“I sure am!  I am ready for The Spartan Race!” I nodded.

“But . . . there is one issue that is concerning,” she added.

I reckoned that one of the tumor markers in my blood work had come back positive.  As my life flashed before me, I began to tally up the long list of my idiotic habits that my wife had suffered over the years.  She would soon no longer have to tolerate them . . .  nor me! (Humor somehow finds a way to be our parachute when we find ourselves in free fall).

Dr. Baba broke me from my deathly fog.

“It is your weight.  It is not healthy, Buraunsutein-san.” she quipped. 

I felt an odd arrangement of relief and umbrage open hearing this.  Pride pushed the latter to hold sway during the balance of my time with Dr. Baba.

“But, it’s so much BETTER than last year, right!” I asserted.

“Well, yes,” she accorded.  “However it is not the ideal weight according to the body mass index range for your height, I’m afraid.”

“I see,” I said.  “Well where should it be?  Maybe I can do better NEXT year!”

“Yes, of course,” Dr. Baba nodded, pleased that I was taking the feedback as an opportunity for personal development.  

She proceeded to reveal a graphical chart that laid out my weight and BMI on a curve relative to ranges with names like “ideal”, “borderline” and “uh-oh!”.  Casting my eye to the “ideal” range I was instantaneously struck with the notion that in order to make the cut for BMI in Japan I would need to be:

1. The son of a super model
2. The son of Humanitarian Rights Leader/NBA legend Manute Bol
3. The son of a super model AND Manute Bol (which would be amazing, I expect!)

In my famously awkward Japanese I attempted to explain this to Dr. Baba.

“De wa watashi no BMI ga yoi mono ni naruniha, Manute Bol-sama to Kate Moss-sama no umareta kodomodearu hitsuyō ga arimasu!”

“You should be so lucky to be the progeny of such wonderful people,” Dr. Baba demured.

And with that she patiently walked me through a diet of 1,500 calories/day that, along with my weekly tally of 20 miles would put me on the path to my Japanese fighting weight of 132 pounds (a figure I had not witnessed on a scale since the first Reagan Administration).  The recommend dinner for the rest of my life would, it seem, by a highly varied rotation of “salad”, “healthy salad” and “vegetable salad”.

“Soooooo, no POTATO salad?” I mused with a warm grin (again, Comic Levity enters the scene!).

“I’m afraid not, Buraunsutein-san” concluded the good doctor. “Good luck!”