Saturday, October 24, 2009
No fries, no burgers, no fish fillets . . . everything that I have put in my mouth for the last four days required me to either take out a pot, pan, or my keys to drive to a restaurant. Even then, I actually had to walk inside of the establishment to place an order.
Eating better has caused me to feel better in just four days. Also, I'm realizing that I really like food. You might assume that someone who needs to lose half of her body weight would already know that, but I didn't. I knew that I liked eating in large amounts, but I didn't know that I liked eating good quality, good for me fare.
Really, the last few days have brought me Ratatouille fireworks experiences. Remember that scene in The Matrix where the woman eats that err-- breathtaking slice of pie? These few days have brought me meals nearly as good. Tasting the fresh foods and better ingredients was like a Maxwell concert in my mouth.
If you don't know, Maxwell sings "Pretty Wings"-- a recent Billboard favorite. His concerts are like getting tied down and then being kissed in all of the right places: You're not going anywhere soon, and you don't want to either.
Maybe food shouldn't be so delightful to me, but good food is. My eyes start aiming to they sky, my shoulders lift, and I even start to hum.
What's so wrong about finding joy in a gelatin or pleasure in a parfait (so long as it's healthy)? Can that be so bad?
Here's to finding out.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Eating wise, today was a little bit better. Instead of being so hungry that I could eat a horse, I just nibbled on a little donkey instead. And, like an ass, I stubbornly refuse to completely admit guilt in this weight problem I have. Denial is not a river in Africa, it is a tiny creek that I have found my way up only to find that I have lost the paddle.
Who can get me out?
I guess I literally have to pull myself up by the bootstraps and tug, tug, tug until I get this thing down. Losing weight will truly mean taking one tiny baby step for me, one giant leap for my lifetime.
My first baby step is more like a funky chicken step, a funky fried chicken dipped in honey mustard sauce and one step away from making me salivate step. A buy it at KFC, Popeye's, McDonald's, Hungry Howie's, Dick's Wings, step away from the glistening, well-seasoned chicken step. For the next three weeks, I aim to fast from fast food. Hopefully, as I climb out of the valley of the shadow of poor health, I'll start to feel more energetic, more clear, and more full of life.
Here's to learning to eat to live and not the other way around,
Monday, October 19, 2009
OK, OK, I just left McDonalds's, which I normally visit after a long day at work taking care of other people's kids. This night, I visited the clown's stomping grounds to get a late night meal because I knew that I didn't really want to cook anything so near my bedtime.
Granted, I am aware of weight loss experts who advise dieters to stop eating two or more hours before bed. However, I am not aware of an expert who can tell my stomach to stop being hungry within that same time frame. So, I just eat what I want.
I tried to behave by getting a fruit and walnut and a small fry, but when I got home I remembered last night's leftover curry and downed that too. At least it was vegetarian, maybe that will help me cut some calories.
At a quarter till nine, I'm finally full, but I'm still wondering. How can I help myself get over the need to eat so late? My body sleeps better without the late night munch marathons, but I don't know how to get over that gnawing yet.
To make matters worse, I've just watched a YouTube video about the weird science behind McDonald's meals. Apparently, they don't decompose. You can see the lady of the four-year-old burger here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4IGtDPG4UfI
I'm so not loving it.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
It's 2009. There is still too much booty in my pants and too much muffin on top. Last winter, I lost a grand 30 or so pounds that made me feel healthier, look better, and shine with accomplishment. Then I gained it back.
Now, I'm down in the sewer of disappointment, and there are no Teenage Turtles with pizzas to save me. I did buy the pizzas, but when nobody came, I ate the Dominoes myself.
That's how I got myself in this mess. . . pizzas, pies, pastries, potato logs, pastas, Popeyes. Those are a few of my favorite things. They taste great going down, but then I have to deal with the aftermath: the heartburn, the reflux, the upset stomach, the pregnant woman belly that keeps me pinned to whatever surface I lie on. (Do you know how hard it is to get up with a jiggling medicine ball consistently strapped to your midsection? If you don't know, never find out. If you do, I feel sorry for you too.)
Here's the point: all of this eating I'm doing is killing me. But I still don't know if I can stop. I'm choosing between quarter pounder combos or another quarter century of living. The choice should be obvious, but it's clouded by my desire to have my cake and it eat two, four, and six times over.
I'm hungry for something. I just hope I find it before I run up a tab I can't pay. My ankles, knees, back, and hips have started to creak already. What's next?
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