less of me
I'm happy to report that I have officially lost 10 pounds. I have not, however, gone to the gym as I had said I would. I have driven by it a few times, pausing to consider its convenient location, its proximity to my apartment and its ample parking but no matter, the pants I put on months ago which spurred my purchase of a fancy new scale are comfortable again, a touch loose even. The fancy scale has become my ally in this quest for a healthier me. I step on the fancy scale and it tells me the truth. I have friends who can't even do that. I realize that some people are able to lose 10 pounds by simply shaking the water from their hair like a wet dog would and then taking a large dump. For me, the path has been arduous and I've learned a few things during this calorie-reduced journey.
One of my main handicaps is that I have a violent sweet tooth and the history of dental patch-ups to prove it. For a while, I told myself I would only eat sweets that I made. I quickly became adept at baking and would scour the office kitchen for rotten bananas. They'll just go to waste, I reasoned. I'd disappear down the elevator at the end of the day, black bananas in hand and return the next day with walnut chocolate chip banana bread. Preventing the silent demise of produce for naught was one justification for excessive baking. The other was celebration. I would celebrate the newly repaired women's restroom door with cupcakes. Only idle housewives with aging children lean to such frivolities. I convinced myself I would stop conjuring reasons to bake. I set about a life without sweets and pastries. Like all bad habits, the first few days were the worst. Once I got into the salty swing of things, it wasn't all too bad. But those first few days... I made the mistake of falling off the wagon a week ago. I had a slew of half-cupcakes at the office and I quickly regressed back to a devil-eyed pastry addict. I accidentally wandered into the Easter candy section at Target the other night, aisles replete with pastel colors and chocolates disguised as chicks or bunnies. I stood there, next to the cheaply made baskets and the egg decorating kits, breathing heavily and foaming slightly at the mouth. I was uncomfortable. I tried not to make eye contact with the shelves. Someone was going to catch me fondling the Cadbury Mini Eggs. I left the store out of shame.
With candy molestation curbed, I tried to cut out all excesses including large meals. I am aware of anorexia and its clutches on young girls across this country. Girls who subsist on a slice of mango and chewing gum for the day. I am not one of those girls. Anorexics are obsessive exercisers. I am not anorexic. I simply thought it might be fun to experiment with how little I could eat and still feel satisfied. Sadly, I realized it didn't take much for me to be satisfied for a few hours. All the excess food I had been eating because it was *there* was ending up *here* (I'm pointing at my ass.) Learning the size of my stomach was key in determining when to eat and how much. Finally, I'm having the 8 peanuts for dinner like I was born to.
Having become fixated on my eating habits, I began watching what other people eat as well. It's like when you buy a new car, suddenly everyone on the road is driving the same car because now it's part of your consciousness. Watching a 100-lb. petite girl eat two cheeseburgers as her meal, two meals in a row and hearing her tell the story of her afterschool Haagen-Dazs snacks as a child only made one thing clear to me. I am not her. I will never be her. If we were riding a train together, I could crush her if I swayed too far on a turn. While being profoundly saddened by this fact, it also dawned on me that this theorem could be turned on my own rotund form. If she was able to eat her weight in diner food and stay insultingly slim, I could pretty much throw in the towel with my diet since it lays largely in your genetics whether or not you will be a 1 or a 0. And by 0, I mean shape, not dress size.
It sometimes doesn't make any sense; this weight loss of mine, the 10 pounds that are no longer part of my body. I've added yoga to my already hectic schedule of sleeping and nothing. I am still on my nebulous course to skini-me. The control I have over what is happening on my meat and bones is empowering even if it confounds me. I can't imagine any MORE weight being lost. But this weekend, The Shrimp said to me "you just gotta believe." So, I am trying to think less of me while staring at a box of Duncan Hines Devil's Food cake mix, wondering what might have been.
One of my main handicaps is that I have a violent sweet tooth and the history of dental patch-ups to prove it. For a while, I told myself I would only eat sweets that I made. I quickly became adept at baking and would scour the office kitchen for rotten bananas. They'll just go to waste, I reasoned. I'd disappear down the elevator at the end of the day, black bananas in hand and return the next day with walnut chocolate chip banana bread. Preventing the silent demise of produce for naught was one justification for excessive baking. The other was celebration. I would celebrate the newly repaired women's restroom door with cupcakes. Only idle housewives with aging children lean to such frivolities. I convinced myself I would stop conjuring reasons to bake. I set about a life without sweets and pastries. Like all bad habits, the first few days were the worst. Once I got into the salty swing of things, it wasn't all too bad. But those first few days... I made the mistake of falling off the wagon a week ago. I had a slew of half-cupcakes at the office and I quickly regressed back to a devil-eyed pastry addict. I accidentally wandered into the Easter candy section at Target the other night, aisles replete with pastel colors and chocolates disguised as chicks or bunnies. I stood there, next to the cheaply made baskets and the egg decorating kits, breathing heavily and foaming slightly at the mouth. I was uncomfortable. I tried not to make eye contact with the shelves. Someone was going to catch me fondling the Cadbury Mini Eggs. I left the store out of shame.
With candy molestation curbed, I tried to cut out all excesses including large meals. I am aware of anorexia and its clutches on young girls across this country. Girls who subsist on a slice of mango and chewing gum for the day. I am not one of those girls. Anorexics are obsessive exercisers. I am not anorexic. I simply thought it might be fun to experiment with how little I could eat and still feel satisfied. Sadly, I realized it didn't take much for me to be satisfied for a few hours. All the excess food I had been eating because it was *there* was ending up *here* (I'm pointing at my ass.) Learning the size of my stomach was key in determining when to eat and how much. Finally, I'm having the 8 peanuts for dinner like I was born to.
Having become fixated on my eating habits, I began watching what other people eat as well. It's like when you buy a new car, suddenly everyone on the road is driving the same car because now it's part of your consciousness. Watching a 100-lb. petite girl eat two cheeseburgers as her meal, two meals in a row and hearing her tell the story of her afterschool Haagen-Dazs snacks as a child only made one thing clear to me. I am not her. I will never be her. If we were riding a train together, I could crush her if I swayed too far on a turn. While being profoundly saddened by this fact, it also dawned on me that this theorem could be turned on my own rotund form. If she was able to eat her weight in diner food and stay insultingly slim, I could pretty much throw in the towel with my diet since it lays largely in your genetics whether or not you will be a 1 or a 0. And by 0, I mean shape, not dress size.
It sometimes doesn't make any sense; this weight loss of mine, the 10 pounds that are no longer part of my body. I've added yoga to my already hectic schedule of sleeping and nothing. I am still on my nebulous course to skini-me. The control I have over what is happening on my meat and bones is empowering even if it confounds me. I can't imagine any MORE weight being lost. But this weekend, The Shrimp said to me "you just gotta believe." So, I am trying to think less of me while staring at a box of Duncan Hines Devil's Food cake mix, wondering what might have been.
posted by Katie at 4:08 PM
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