Wednesday, September 27, 2006

The Proof Isn't In The Pudding, It's In My Thighs

I am having a love-hate relationship with food - nope, scratch that - with sugar and carbs - at the moment. Gloominess is triggering the indulging or the indulging is triggering the gloom. I'm not sure of the whereabouts and that is why I can't seem to find my way out of the deep forest of Overeating where oompah loompahs are the ideal and YOU, my friend (and by "my friend", I mean "me"), are the Oddity.

Fact #1: My diet (i.e., cravings) are really dictated by what is going on at any given day in my life. And so each day is unlike the next. Will I stymie cravings easily with the "Get Lost" tea and "Fit and Slender" water drops? Or will I forget I have these placebos in my possession, decry their "false advertising," and yearn for the Dr Pepper, potatoes, rice, and chocolate bars as Must-Do-Or-Die? (Please send all pies to I dot M dot Pig at originalme dot com, the architect of my own private Chubby-O. Heh.)

Case in point: One day last week I popped over to the "greek deli" for lunch. Anyone who works in my neighborhood knows the greek deli and knows it as mm-mmm-good-eatin'. Think Seinfeld, Soup Nazi. Store-front, loooong lines, and terse (tonge-in-cheek) service. When I go here, I am just about the only girl in line. (In a galaxy far, far away, Shamrock would accompany me.) In fact, I think all the men in the city culminate here for lunch. (Ladies, forget, looking for men in DC? Put down your salad and your computer and hit the Greek deli!) Anyway, on this particular visit, and amongst the distraction of all these men, I panicked at the counter because I WAS going to order the chicken soup which is lemony and delicious - and broth-based - so I could be on par with my salad sisters. But, like I said, I panicked. So..."I'll have the heathly, delicious, yummy broth and hold the bread!" instead came out like,...."I'll have the big greasy slab of meatloaf with a mound of orzo, throw a few potatos on the side, don't forget the buttery bed and, hell yeah, wrap up the chocolate chip cookie with a sugar kiss!" And so I lugged the overflowing styrofoam container back to my office holding steady with two hands because of a) the sheer weight of all this food and b) the girth of container to hold said linebacker meal. And as I sat in my office and caught up on some blog reading enjoying the sheer genius of this greek feast, not once thinking about my thighs swishing together or my snap busting to break free UNTIL an email popped up on my screen from some heretoforementioned jerk by the name of Pompadour asking what I was up to that weekend. (Well, he segued into that, but the point...) And instead of hitting delete on Mr. Fly-By-Night I lost all appetite for the meatloaf, put it in the refrigerator for a rainy day (i.e., Must Eat All Fat In The Vicinity Day), perked up and ate an apple for lunch instead and plotted what outfit I would wear on the "implied?" champagne date. ("what are you doing this weekend? I owe you champagne!" Hence the implication?)

And so just like that I went from Ms. Piggle Wiggle, The Little Ball of Pudge, to Miss Piggy Get-Me-Some-Kermit.

And then when the weekend went by and there was no word from him (wtf? or, rather, yeah, I fell into that trap), I opted right back to the Sunday movie popcorn (with lots of butter!), a bagel (with lots of butter!), a baked potato (with lots of butter!), and not one, but two(!), Dove chocolate candy bars in the course of a day. Alright, I exaggerate, but I did have two candy bars, I didn't get butter on my popcorn, but I did have a fat baked spud with tons of butter. No bagel was actually involved in this pig fest.

And so NOW just like that I went from salad and fruit and whole grain and free-love to a stick of butter, a stick of butter, and a pound of sugar and self-loathe.

So it is the same cycle and I can not consistently get into a groove of healthy eating. And it is really not that I eat a lot, because I really don't. It is just that my choices are not the most healthful. Hey! Have I ever told you how much I love potatoes and gummy bears? (Please, I beg of you to send all pies to I dot M dot Pig at originalme dot com.)

And now on top of my own Self-Critiqueing and Mirror Bashing (I am not what I see in the mirror is what I tell myself to which myself responds: Yes, hon, that is all you), I am now paranoid that everyone else sees what I do.

Case in point #1: The other day I was in a dance shop buying ballet shoes and I decided to get a leotard too. The salesperson recommended a large for me because, as she said, "..don't worry because they run really small! Do not take offense to the size. It's like a bathing suit." "OK," I thought, "but I wear a size 4 or 6 in bikini. Have I changed that much since 4 weeks ago?" So I took her advice and pulled a size large off the rack and held it up to me. So for old times sake, I grabbed a medium too. And while I don't like the way the leotard looks on me, the medium will do just fine. In fact, the large was way too big. [Yes, editor, that should be an emphasis on "way", thank you.]

Case in point #2: There is this guy at work. (For those keeping score at home, Snow White's Ex.) He is a super nice guy and the other day he stopped by my office to chat which doesn't happen very often. We chatted about mutual friends. I blabbed about my new house. You see, what I thought was a chatty conversation. I had much to say! And then the next day, he came by my office again and started the conversation with, "You don't have to answer this if you don't want...." Which, holy Freddy Kreuger, scares the living daylights out of me with all the possibilities of that kind of preface coming from a very good friend's ex-boyfriend. But he was merely asking me if everything was ok with me because I seemed a little "down" yesterday. Which is weird, but then again, not so weird. He was the one person who really helped me after my dad died as he had just lost his brother the year before I lost my father and he is just one of those people you find it so easy to talk to. So he is just that kind of guy. But, my point - and remember I am not always the most rational formula in the math book - is I automatically assumed he meant that I looked like I packed on 30 pounds and was headed down a path of self-destruction. Dare I ask him if this is an overeating intervention?

Case in Point #3: When I told a friend the other day that I was taking ballet, she responded with, "You're taking ballet??" Emphasis on "you're" in a very questioning tone punctuated with double question marks, exclamations, and cookies and pies. Then that makes me paranoid that what she was thinking - what everyone is thinking - is "How absurd, you don't have a dancer's body, what are you doing in Petite and Limber Land?" And I would just respond, "Apparently stick figure was not a requirement for the class."

So, you see, when you are in a funk as I am, the food trap I have described as my own personal journey of despair leads to negative (irrational) body issues. I can almost see how eating disorders come about. In all seriousness.

My lawyer's want me to point out that I am not poking fun at food addictions, eating disorders, or the Overweight. All opinions are my own and relate to my own personal body space - my own personal issue - which is about 10 pounds heavier than I would like to be. Do you know how much 10 pounds is?! That is the weight of my Greek Deli fare (see: above) that I did in fact find a rainy day to empty said contents into my "dancer's body." 10 pounds later! In which I pose a question to my lawyer's: Can we sue the greek deli as the sole responsible party to my overindulging as they knew (not me!) that by eating 10 pounds worth of their, albeit yummy, food that I would gain 10 pounds too? That 10 pound styrofoam take-out should post a box with the surgeon general's warning that the "contents will cause pudge." Or, should we sue Pompadour and men of his ilk who drive poor little ole me over the ledge of overeating and into the arms of greek deli meatloaf and chocolate chip cookies to overcome the sting of their rejection? Is that the root of the evil? Because I am not responsible for my own actions, oh no, I am not!

Ok. Ok. With all this Living in Chubbyville talk, you, dear reader, might be yelling at your screen right now. Don't worry, I have heard those shouts and I saw those eye rolls (which makes me very self-conscious so if you can look away when you do that you might not hurt my feelings). So I should point out that I do get off my butt. I have been a little more active than shoveling food in my mouth (arm curls), catching gummy bears in my mouth (basketball), and walking to the Food Store to replenish the cupboard/belly (so, equivalent of say, the marathon?). In fact, Dear Prudence and I have been walking to work every morning which is a 2.5 or 3 mile walk. I've got the ballet going on. Trying to do a little Pilates in the evening as I watch the boob tube. Plan to start my laps at the pool again real soon. Plan to start running. (Did you catch that? I went from "doing" to "trying" to "plan to"....the thought that counts!) Anyway, I understand the importance of exercise. So there's that.

But mentally I just can't get it all together. And that is where I am folks. There's got to be a better way of coping. One that doesn't involve eating all these pies somebody keeps emailing me.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Cock(y) And Bull(shit)

Today.....could it be? Can it be? Shield thy eyes. We got sunshine! Pick up your jaws and wipe your lenses, because, yes, sunny-come-lately, we are witnessing our first sunshine in one whole week! Which, a week with cloudy/rainy weather is a sad, depressing state for yours truly. But I think I am slowly coming out of my funk that has a lot to do with nothing and a little to do with everything.

You see, I have not been excited about anything lately. Slightly depressed? Yeah, probably. The only thing that keeps me away from going to a doctor is my fear of The Drugs. Don't get me wrong, I'm not all Couch Jumping Crazy about it. But I do believe that what works for one may not work for another. My blood bleeds tie-dye. I have always chosen more natural remedies for my ailments. And when I do have to take an antibiotic, I'm pretty paranoid about what it is doing to my body. But, dude, pass the Crisco! My arteries are fine! You know what they say about a spoonful of sugar! And, as they say, Chug! So, really, it is just something for my handbook.

So what am I doing about my sad state of affairs? (Which I am really being melodramatic as I am prone to be and, well, for purposes of this post. Translation: There are no razor blades in my medicine chest.)

1. Drinking champagne this weekend! You may be thinking, chickie, lay off the alcohol, and, well, I say, read above!! Bubbles fall under natural remedy - sad head and achey heart needs effervescence to perk it back up! Dr. Me says so. And I know just the person who will oblige me the champagne this weekend. And his name is NOT Pompadour.

2. Ballet! I have signed up for a ballet class with Dear Prudence and we had our first class last night. I am sure I can plie and entendre my way to happiness. And get kick ass legs to boot. Rockettes here I come.

3. Back to knitting!

4. And, well, Saturdays in the fall, you can find me in some bar with 55 TVs blaring every gosh darn college football game in the universe. You really should check out the Mars Orangemen. They glow in the dark! Ha! That, with no drugs. Yes, I'm coming out of the funk just fine here, folks. Laughter follows, or, halts.

So, alright, I know you have just sunk back into your seat with relief that slitting my wrists isn't on the list. Are you crazy?!?

But, to bring it right back around to what has haunted me in the past few years: What am I doing? Where have I really been? Where am I heading? So I have been assessing the "mistakes" I keep making since the Yukkell....not to say he wasn't a bit of a mistake himself. And, by golly, I found the common denominator among the past 3 guys that I would say "wrecked" me (again, with the drama, to which I say: It is my stage!) in the last year.

Last Friday night as the rain poured down hard in our nation's capitol, I whined to Mav about being lonely (she - and my mom - have had to put up with my whiney ass all week, so a medal of friendship to her! will you settle for a ML, Mav? Oblige me the champagne??) And good friend her carried her ass over to my house in the pouring rain so we could polish off some beers and rant. I would like to point out for the record, that friendship is a two-way street and while she was doing something for me, I'd like to think I was also helping her out of a precarious situation. So we helped each other that night. In different ways. But then I pushed her right back into it later that night. Oh boy. But not the point! Or not my story to tell!

So, the topic turns to Pompadour and as we are hashing what went wrong, she confesses, "I got to be honest, Boa. I didn't really like him. He was a bit cocky and could never be serious. What was he hiding? Always the center of attention and just full of himself. Who orders egg white omelets in a diner and cottage cheese in a market in a redneck Delaware town and gives both people a hard time about not being able to serve these items? And actually being rude about it. But I didn't want to say anything to you because you liked him."

And then she tells me that Hollywood didn't like him for the same reasons - the only two people in my life who had a chance to meet him. And, well, that tells me something.

Eureka! That one word - cocky - was the common thread between, what I am now calling, My Cock-A-Threes (in ascending order): Pompadour, Johnny Jerkface, and the Wedding Date Canceler, hereinout, simply, Carson. (And I will refrain from his last name because he would be That Guy who googles himself on a daily basis because he is pretty big shot in his career and pretty much all over the Internet.) So they were all a bunch of cocky, conceited, self-proclaimed bigshots. And that is not the sooth-saying ginger and Bitter talking. But you can pour me another drink. It is really just the facts.

Because when I sat on Freud's couch, he was like, "It is not you, pretty sweet fun little brat, oops, I mean, girl. Did I say that out loud?" And then I was like, "My parents fault...they spoiled me rotten. Truth. I blame my parents for giving me everything I ever wanted. And if my dad had Donald Trump's money, the world would hate me, and Paris and I would be best frenemies, because I would be Queen Bitch. And only chihuahas with diamonds would like me. Because I'd have to, literally, buy my friends." And then Freud is like, "Try to stay on topic, lunatic." So then I remembered the seed that planted my attraction to cocky guys. Freud wanted to know more.

The second grade. The first guy I ever fell for. His name was Scott Basso and I just thought he was the bee's knees because he walked around the schoolyard rapping, "My name is Scott Basso. That rhymes with asshole."

Only my dad cussed around me! (Special to Freud: See, parents fault again!!) So I thought Scott was uber-cool for school. Like, I'm sure his bike would have fire decals on it and he didn't have a bell, but like, a frog horn attached. And he ate bugs and he tattooed his cereal decal from the Count Chocula cereal box on his forearm everyday. And dude he went to jail, i.e., the principal's office, a lot. He was That Guy. And I had a crush on him. Actually.

But, to him, I was always the Girl Who Ate Butter Sandwiches. And I was terribly shy back then.

So I am done with that type of guy. Seriously! Check back in a future date. And as I wonder what happened to The Cock-A-Threes, Mav put the Missing Pompadour Case to a close today as we were having this conversation about Baby Suri. Which, really? I'm still not convinced she exists.

Me: The question of the day: Is that a toupee on Baby Suri? [Ed. note: Seriously, I am not even straining to be funny here. That seriously looks like a toupe if ever I have seen one.]
Mav: It sure is. That, or a pompadour.
Me: That's funny!
Mav: Yeah, at least you know what happened to him!

Aside to Freud, did I just date Baby Suri? Or did that guy get the biggest role of his life?? Did he have Tom Cruise syndrome? Because he was kind of intensely "all over my shit."

We will leave Freud to contemplate that doozy! But I think we are on to something!