I woke up a total grump this morning. Partly this is because they gave me the stinking tetnus shot in my right arm (because I am left handed). Except I normally sleep on my right side, and since my arm hurts like a son of a bitch (the shot was way worse than the injury itself), I haven’t slept well in a couple of days. Add to that that the ER has total fail because the Dermabond they used to hold my nose together totally got sweated off IN MY OFFICE yesterday afternoon because it was 98 degrees and my desk is beside a 4’x10′ window and I start sweating any time it gets above 72. No vigorous activity my ass. So I’ve been by Walgreens to get some liquid bandage that feels mostly like I’m holding this gap together with clear nail polish. Don’t get me wrong, it works. But that claim of “flexible”? LIES.
Add to that, I had a totally unpleasant epiphany this morning. The reason I was able to get down to last year’s low was because for six months, while hubs was down with a broken leg, we had no social life and didn’t go out to eat, or to other people’s houses to eat, and I had complete and total control of our diet. As soon as we went back to “normal life,” my weight started going back up. Not like we go out all the time now, but a couple of meals not at home completely ruin my progress for the week. Because I’m a short chick, who’s over thirty, and sadly my body doesn’t require much in terms of caloric intake, and it takes for-freakin-ever to burn much, and ONE MEAL totally blows the calorie deficit I’ve managed to create for the week. So I wind up with this pattern where I lose x amount of weight during the week, then have a social event with friends or family and gain it all back again. Which makes me feel like all of the exercise I do and the other hard work is for absolute nothing.
And that is not only crazy making, but it makes me blow my top, TNT-explosion FURIOUS.
Not at my friends and family (at least when I’m being rational). It’s not their responsibility to cater to my dietary restrictions since they aren’t life threatening via food allergies. But damn, how am I supposed to pick the veggie tray (if it even exists, which it usually doesn’t) over chips and cheese dip? I have zero self control when faced with yummy, delicious food. It is my KRYPTONITE. I do fine at home because I simply DO NOT bring this stuff into the house. And it’s not like we eat tasteless crap. We eat healthy and mostly it’s delicious. But the rest of the country mostly doesn’t operate on this principle. The portions are out of control, they use full fat everything, and even their “healthier” options are not really healthy (and ARE tasteless and nasty–why should I waste good money eating shitty food out if it’s going to be gross?).
Susan made a post this morning about how she is failure’s bitch and holds me up as an example of awesome because I have self-discipline. And I do. I work long hours. I get up early even though I’m chronically underslept. I do the freaking workouts several times a day even though I really actually hate working out. I pick up my house and do my dishes and make the damned bed even though I’m usually wiped out. I have self-discipline in SPADES when it comes to absolutely ANYTHING but food. But when it comes to food…I am failure’s bitch (go read her post, it’s funny, and that joke will make more sense).
In Simply Irresistible they say men think about sex something ridiculous, like 360 times a day. That’s about how much I think about food. I enjoy food. It’s one of my chief pleasures in life. If I’ve had a crappy day at work, I can come home and make something wonderful, and I feel better. Totally self-medicating. Because I get no personal satisfaction out of 80% of the stuff I do with my day (hence why I call them the Evil Day Jobs). So I look for satisfaction elsewhere, and food always delivers. I love the sensory nature of food, getting lost in the scents and the tastes and textures. I love inventing new recipes and sharing good food with others who enjoy it too. One of my favorite food related memories is when my husband’s pack of boy cousins (five of them ranging in age from 12 to 18) were staying at our house and fell on whatever it was I’d fixed them like a pack of starving wolves. I love seeing my food enjoyed and I love enjoying it myself. And I have a SERIOUS problem with entitlement. I love food, ergo I should be able to eat as much as my husband, who is literally twice my size. Who, if he did what I did, exercise-wise, would probably drop like 50 pounds in a month. Because he’s a man.
And when I eat at home, I usually manage pretty well. When I’m IN CONTROL. It’s away from home, when other people cook (when it’s rude to not eat what they fix, or to bring all your own food because they didn’t cook something healthy) or at restaurants that’s just the kiss of death. Over the weekend I mentioned that Mom and I had Sonic for lunch, and I made the concession to get a plain, single patty burger (even though burgers just aren’t RIGHT without cheese), medium fries and a coke. And blew my calorie load for the WHOLE DAY. What the hell am I supposed to do when a SINGLE MEAL uses up 90% of my piddly 1200-1400 calories (because of that short, woman over 30 thing)? Not like I eat fast food often, but ANY meal not at my own house tends to fit those caloric parameters. So I often feel like I have the option of being social and a part of the family and being fat (or at least perpetually 10-15 pounds over where I should be) or being a thinner recluse. It’s like the two are totally mutually exclusive.
I don’t actually expect anybody to have any answers, but I definitely feel like a fail right now at Goddess In Training. Susan is tasking me with learning to be more Zen about food. In the meantime, I’m waiting for my nose to heal so I can go do some vicious workout and work off some of this frustration.