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.

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