Eat more of this.

When I was young, my strategy for fitting into my jeans was to exercise like a maniac most days. If I wasn’t drenched in sweat by the end of my workout and completely spent then I did not consider the effort a success.

The were times in my life, when the kids were very small and their dad left early for his commute to work, that I’d drag myself out of bed and run through the darkened streets of our town around 5 a.m. I’d enlisted my girlfriend who lived across the street to join me and we’d set out in our reflector vests — bundled in layers to ward off the frigid pre-dawn air or shorts and t-shirts to beat the summertime heat — and jog the same three-mile loop. We shared the challenges of raising small children and frustrations of decade-long marriages in the early-morning quiet and arrived home in time for our husbands to depart for work and greet sleepy toddlers to begin another day.

Many of those days I’d also make my way to a gym later in the morning to take a “sculpt” kind of class that added weight lifting to my exercise regime. I’d lunge around a room holding weights in my hands and jump up and down doing burpees and push ups and the result was that I stayed the same size for many years and ate pretty much whatever I wanted. I mean, within reason.

For years I enjoyed things like bagels and pizza on weekends and had a sandwich everyday along with a handful of chips on the side and can of Diet Fresca. I continued to wear a two-piece in the summer and while I probably could have looked better, I wasn’t a disaster.

Naturally – even though the exercising took up a fair amount of time most days – I assumed that I could maintain this routine for the rest of my life and look about the same.

But after a decade of running and jumping up and down, my body started to feel a little broken. I’d added trail running and spinning to the mix and competed in a couple of triathlons and found that some days my knees were really pissed when I tried to get them to walk down the stairs in my house.

I’d also noticed that no matter how many crunches or other ab exercises I did during class, my tummy was just not as flat as it used to be. There was something going on around my middle and some of my back was kinda squeezing out of my exercise bra. Perhaps my skin was just getting a little looser, I thought.

As I’s also once assumed that the weird indentation of flesh cutting through either side of my back was due to an undiagnosed case of scoliosis, I was obviously no medical expert.

In my early 40s, just as my 18-year marriage was collapsing, I discovered hot yoga and held onto it like it was my lifeline to sanity. I practiced several times a week when I wasn’t huffing and puffing through the woods and pouring out my tale-of-woe to my girlfriend. Since I’d gone on the divorce diet and stopped eating much for a while, I was pretty thin but remember being in awe of the woman who owned the yoga studio and taught a bunch of the classes. She was probably in her later 40s at the time and had a rocking body. One day after class I asked her what she did for exercise since I figured a bunch of down dogs and sun salutations couldn’t result in those toned arms and washboard abs.

“I just do this,” she said smiling — all good karma and namaste — and mentioned something about watching what she ate.

I was highly suspicious.

It just didn’t make sense, given what I thought I knew about staying in shape. To be fit required a combination of cardio and weights for an hour a pop and alternated throughout the week while not eating too much pizza, Doritos or Dunkin Donuts glazed donuts (the menu for my last meal, I’ll have you know). That was the formula that had worked for me although, I’d have been the first to admit that my diet was heavy on pastas and bread-y matter and lacked a lot of fruit and vegetables.

A couple of years ago, during an exercise lull for me as my gym went through a transition and the holidays had added a little more girth around my midsection, my girlfriend asked if I wanted to come over and try working out with some guy she’d heard from other mommies in town was really great.

“What the hell,” I thought and stood in her den while some goomba dressed in black straight up asked me how much I weighed and peppered me with questions about what I ate. I remember he talked a lot about sugar being “poison” and how great protein was.

“Whatever,” I thought as I laid on my back and lifted myself up to touch my right hand to my right toes 25 times and wondered how much time we had left listening to this guy.

The hour ended and he said he’d be back in two days and we asked him what else we should be doing on the days we didn’t work out with him.

“Eat more protein, please,” he said and told us that if we cut out stuff like pizza and bagels and added things  like Greek yogurt and egg whites, we could work out twice a week and our bodies would start to change.

Naturally, I was dubious as this went against everything I knew about fitness.

I kind of resisted the guy at first. I still ate Cheez-Its in bed and Honey Bunches of Oats for breakfast. They were my dietary staples back then.

But over time, and because I couldn’t stand watching him look at my ass and tummy and ask me what I’d eaten the weekend before, I started to comply. I slowly started to sip his Kool Aid.

I started making smoothies – experimenting with things like almond milk and chia seeds – for breakfast and swapping out rice for quinoa at dinners and always, always, always including some kind of protein in my meals. I gave up running and began walking instead a few times a week with friends just to move around.

And the bastard in black was right: my body started to change. My arms and legs became thinner and leaner than they used to be and my ass lost some of that excess side-ass that used to be there. I mean, my diet remains imperfect and that, combined with the slowing metabolism and exciting hormone-shit that plagues gals in their late 40s, my midsection still has a bit of a bulge.

But I am now a firm believer that it’s all about what you eat with a little bit of exercise on the side. So I got really excited when I noticed that this was the subject of the most emailed story yesterday over at The New York Times.

Who knew that annoying goomba in black was really onto something?

Even though I weirdly kind of like exercising, I’m glad I don’t have to do it every day and can use that time instead for other activities I enjoy, like writing and making money. And probably the nicest benefit from the new way I eat is that it’s trickled down into the food I buy and prepare for my children. Sure, there are still some chocolate chip cookies and tortilla chips in my pantry, but there’s also nuts and kale chips and last night our dinner included bok choy and mushrooms.

I like to think that — as with most things in life — it’s all about moderation. I don’t want to live a life with no pizza but am willing to save it for every once in a while rather than a few times a week if that means I can still fit in my jeans because, Jesus, being thin really does taste better than pizza.

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