A Time For Love . . .

I was getting all set and ready to go full on self-deprecation mode with this. I mean, it has been nearly two years since I last checked in. And probably about thirty pounds in the wrong direction. How would I know for sure? I’ve contracted scale-itis. It stares at me with that knowing, blank, LED screen when I enter the bathroom and have to turn sideways to maneuver between toilet and tub. . . but I’m certain not to make eye contact for fear of feeling shamed by an inanimate object.

We might lie to ourselves and think “it’s not so bad” as we burgeon out of stretch pants and refuse invitations to go places, afraid of not being able to fit into our jeans, but deep down we know the truth. At least I know my truth. I feel it in my skin, in my knees, in my inability to sleep well. I see it in the mirror, in disgusted looks from strangers, in the eyes of concerned loved ones too worried about hurting my feelings to say anything about the weight gain.

But the longer we hide, the worse it gets.

It’s easy to douse ourselves with loathing. What am I doing? Why can’t I get it right? I know better, what’s my problem? I HATE MYSELF!!! But that only gets us to the bottom of an ice cream carton.

It’s love we need. It’s love I need . . . from myself.

When A Weight Loss Blogger Disappears . . .

The pounds have reappeared. Either that or they can’t find time to blog in between workouts.

Nah. It’s the former.

In the beginning you might be all RAH RAH about losing weight and shout it to the world, pretending that it gives you some form of accountability. But how accountable do you have to be to a cyberrific audience? It’s too easy to hide. You just stop posting, networking, connecting with fellow bloggers.

Until you start RAH RAH-ing again.

This is where the battle of the bulge is won. When you fall off, how quickly do you get back on track? How much do you beat yourself up? What type of vitriolic nastiness do you shower upon yourself? Or is this the time you cut yourself some slack and say, you know what? I screwed up and that’s okay. Now I must confess and start with a clean slate:

  • Juicer? What juicer? Oh, that contraption sitting on my counter collecting dust over the past three weeks? The machine I nicknamed Biff (for BFF) while juicing my way to vibrancy has been neglected. Surprised it didn’t unfriend me on Facebook.
  • Client sends nearly five pounds of gourmet chocolates as a thank you. Yes, I gave some away, but at the same time, gorged on the rest. I was reminded why moms say “too much candy will make your belly ache.” Ouch.
  • Why drink water when there’s alcohol?  My hydration has been lacking to non-existent. Oh swollen ankles, how I have not missed you.
  • Eating at home has not been an option the past couple of weeks – unless leftover casseroles, ham and brownies would suffice.
  • Ah, vegetables . . . almost forgot how to spell it.

There you have it. I have repented my gluttonous sins and am cleansed anew . . .

At least I will be after that New Year’s Eve party tonight!

 

A Slippery Sloppy Slope…

I’m sure as heck glad I dropped nearly twenty pounds so I could put ten back on over the holidays.

Hey, it’ll be a net loss.

As a matter of fact, I got an early start! After being so good for two weeks, I started sliding down a slippery sloppy slope . . .

It seems that once you make a bad choice or two, you fall victim to the default behavior that has gotten you fat in the first place. I know that’s what happens to me. It doesn’t help when the people around you believe that you will give up and revert to the old you that they are comfortable with. I talk about this more in The Push Back Problem

But crying VICTIM and looking for people to come save you from yourself is not the answer. They have their own problems and stuff they are thinking about. You can not depend on others to keep you walking a straight line. It’s your responsiblity.

While I contemplate all of this, I am also contemplating how much cheese I will consume tomorrow.

My choice. My cheese. My chub.

And my consequences.

A Glutton For Football…

A gluttonous mind screw, football is . . .

Beer and pigskin. Beer and nachos. And beer.

Crap.

Literally. I pooped all morning. Gas all day.

Yucky.

This is exactly what I wanted to stop doing. It’s why I UNJUNKED MYSELF two weeks ago. But here I am. Dealing with the morning after shame of guzzling what equates to nearly a 12 pack of brewskis – hey, those 20 ounce drafts go down smooth after the first two – and the inevitable midnight french fry tostito snacking marathon that follows. Let’s hear it for refined processed carbs!

Normally this would derail me. It would send me into a pizza laced tailspin rationalized by the “eh, I already screwed up, what’s one more day?” school of thought.  But not this time.

It’s okay if I’m not perfect.

Wait. I think I have to say it again . . . It’s okay if I’m not perfect.

Wow. That’s liberating.

Allowing yourself to be human is AWESOME.

If I don’t eat all the right things or go a bit overboard during a happy hour, it’s okay. What I have consistently drilled into my own mind is the fact that I am not dieting. I am learning a new way of healthy living. Mistakes will happen, realistic bumps in the road will happen, life will happen. And it’s all good.

Football gluttony is a part of that. And I enjoy it. DANG IT!

This is no longer a race to skinny.

It’s a life-long path to health.

Grab a beer for the ride.

 

 

Boobie Boobie Doo . . .

The good ol’ Dickey Doo . . .

You know what I’m talking about. When a guy’s beer belly is so large you can’t see his well, you know.

The female version is the Boobie Doo. And I got one.

I was sitting down and realized my stomach stuck out just as far, maybe even farther than my boobs. When there’s no discernible separation between the tummy and the teets, there’s a problem. I’m supposed to be shapely, but not in a sphere sorta way!

This happens when I retain lots of water on top of my fat. Which happens when I eat out too much in a week. Which happens when my doctor tells me that except for my weight, I’m in picture perfect health. Which helps me to rationalize the putting off of weight loss as I am shoving nachos down my throat.

Eh, I can do it anytime, I say! But my Boobie Doo says otherwise.

And Boobie Doos don’t lie . . .

Diet Havoc Wreaker Extraordinaire…

Dear Saturday and Sunday,

What do you have against diets, huh? Seriously. Do they cramp your style? Your ‘go ahead, let loose’ reputation?

Parties, tailgates, family dinners . . . it seems you have cornered the market on food-filled social events. Back-to-back days stuffed with nachos, burgers and beer. How can we forget the requisite smorgasboard lining the dining room and massive two-tiered birthday cake raised up on a pedestal in all its delicious glory?

And you dare linger into Monday with your sneaky leftovers attack . . . the NERVE.

I’d appreciate your sensitivity to those of us trying to drop the poundage.

Signed,

Every weight-watching woman on the face of the earth.

P.S. I will restart my diet Monday. I mean Tuesday. After I finish off the meatballs for lunch.