My weekend was lived in treats, with an accidental emphasis on eats. I’d of course vowed to be mindful, keeping a food journal of everything I ate, on a weekend full of company and frosting. FAIL.
And yet… mama still managed to hit the outlets in search of spring. Trying on clothes is something I used to love. I want to get back to her but know it’s a long damn road, and it’s one I can’t seem to get on alone (Phil always says he’ll play along, but ends up whining and begging). I don’t want dieting and planning my next meal to be all-consuming, but I also don’t want a program I can’t stick to for life. Bottom line: I need to buy a bigger house, so I can accommodate all my fat through thin wardrobes. You know, that, or actually stick to something.
I’ve been doing this all my life, running toward and away from mirrors and dressing rooms; I know all the slapdash steps to the dance with chubbance ubbance, and it always goes like this: I begin as determined as an adolescent boy is to see a glimpse of bush. I’m dedicated. Purposeful. A plan set into motion with promises and cleaned cupboards. It works. I’m lighter. I’m in it now, really working it. Exercise I actually enjoy! Water aerobics, tennis, elliptical, walks, rowing, Wii fat. There’s a rhythm and routine, and it’s all quite manageable. Clothes fit. This is fun, think I’ll work even harder now.
Wagon, meet Off. Because somewhere in there, amid the non-food reward system of stickers, clothes, and body pampering, lives an asshole troll inside me who honestly believes in the craphouse phrase, "Everything in moderation."
NOT WITH ME, YOU ASSMUNCH! Then the slip settles in. A bit here, more there, who’ll notice. It won’t really matter. I celebrate. I eat past hunger and for every reason except for it. And we’re back to determined bush seeker mode again. The circle of life. I’m Pumbaa.
Accountability to just anyone doesn’t work. It seems I need to be held accountable by a terrifying dickhead. I know this because the only time I’ve managed to break the pattern was to visit the Diet Dictator, Dr. Dick, who’d berate me until I cried. He worked. Fear works. Weight Watchers, and the general crowd of it, doesn’t. I need someone sadistic. Someone I fear. That works. The Hate Diet works.
I need to make two scrapbook pages: one of all the clothes I want to be able to wear again, capturing a tanned poolside Cannes life I’ll never live (especially as a redhead), and another page dedicated to the people and things I hate. Photos of my cellulite, double chin, the most unattractive moments of me and my back fat. Then the people for whom I’ll get and stay thin for, just to spite them. Because the whole, "I want to be a thin healthy mother," thing sounds good, but it doesn’t kick my ass into gear the way rage does. The problem is that I only have 2 people on my list. I need to meet more assholes. Who has a mother-in-law to loan out?