Weight Loss Matters Posts

Ever since that prime rib Christmas dinner I’ve been waddling around in my least-restrictive clothing, miserable and bloated, feeling very much like some fat-riddled sausage crammed into a casing that’s three sizes too small.

That, of course, hasn’t stopped me from sitting down with my family at each and every meal and, although I’ve tried to restrict my portion size, I’ve fantasized about telling my husband and kids, “Oh, Mommy’s not going to join you for this meal. She’s just not hungry.” Unfortunately, that wouldn’t go over with my family and might very well set a bad precedent for my youngest child who’s constantly trying to skip meals in favor of sugary snacks all day long.

So I’ve sat with them. I’ve eaten with them. I’ve left the table feeling like I’m going to explode any second, and I’ve lain in bed at night imagining all the food we’ve had over the holidays turning into a large, fossilized lump in my stomach. That, at least, is what it feels like it’s doing.

I think it was Audrey Hepburn who said, just as she began acknowledging her anorexia, that she resented food. Though I’m about the least likely person to ever become anorectic — I enjoy cooking and eating far too much for that — I certainly do understand her resentment.

People who abuse alcohol or drugs have it, in that sense, a lot more easy than someone who overuses food. They know that breaking the cycle of addiction means going cold turkey, on their own or at one of those drug treatment centers. But with food? You can’t just decide “I’m never going to touch the stuff again.”

You’ve got to have food, got to deal with it at least once every day or so. Then, when you do you’ve got to somehow find the self-control — which you didn’t have just the day before — to know when to stop, when you shouldn’t have one more bite. You’ve got to force yourself not to think about it, not to want it, not to give in to the little voice inside your head that quickly begins screaming “Oh, but I only want ONE little bite of cheese! Please? Just one? C’mon, one bite won’t do any more damage than you’ve already done.”

I’m fasting today. I’m doing it to give my system a break and to hopefully purge that huge mass of holiday food that’s been congealing in my gut for days now. But I’m also doing it to remind myself that I can, that I can just say no to food, even if it’s only for one day.

Like just about everyone struggling to lose weight, I constantly find myself engaging in mental gymnastics that really, if life were fair, would burn a bazillion calories and hour. It goes like this:

I know the only way to lose weight is to burn more calories than I consume. Since I hate to exercise and spend most of my day either at the computer or at the desk in my family’s homeschool classroom, the only other way to accomplish this is by limiting myself to, say, one Cheerio per week. With water, not milk. Yeah, I burn that few calories per day.

Unfortunately, I have absolutely zero willpower when it comes to making food choices, and that’s where the mental gyrations come in. I find my stomach trying to convince my brain that because I had onion, tomato and lettuce with my cheeseburger on a multi-grain bun, I really did something good for my body. After all, that’s a serving of veggies, dairy and protein, and two whole servings of grains. I’m supposed to eat that stuff, right?

Of course, the truth is usually far too obvious the next day as the dial on my scale ratchets up a notch (and so does my belt). That’s when I engage in even more mental gyrations as I try suspending my disbelief over various diet products that promise I can eat all I want and still lose weight thanks to their magic pill, gizmo, subliminal tape or whatever.

Yes, I know better. But look, I still half believe in Santa Claus so the fact that I get my hopes up over new diet products shouldn’t come as that much of a surprise.

Thanks to that whole Santa thing, I was unbelievably busy over the weekend getting our house decorated for Christmas. We have so many decorations that it takes two full days to put everything up — on top of which I also had some shopping and gift-wrapping to do.

As a result, I didn’t get to the grocery store and our cupboards, fridge and pantry were all but bare. Oh, there were plenty of the things my husband and son like to eat: PB&J sandwiches, deli meats, bread and a smattering of fruits and vegetables. But we were completely out of the things that I like to munch on: Blast o’ Butter popcorn, chips, pretzels, crackers, bacon and cheese. I can’t count how many times I opened the fridge over the weekend in hope of finding something to nosh, then wound up settling for carrot or celery sticks and cantaloupe cut into chunks the size of cufflinks to make it stretch.

Meanwhile, since our boxes of Christmas decorations were crowded together in the kitchen — blocking my way to the scale — I didn’t set foot on the darned thing all weekend. Then Monday and Tuesday were packed with appointments and errands, so I still didn’t weigh myself. I did, however, manage to go grocery shopping, but last night I was too tuckered to bother cooking dinner so the boys had PB&J (again) while I had a bowl of soup.

I woke up this morning knowing that I really couldn’t go one more day without weighing myself. After all, I’ve seen my weight jump up 5 pounds in one week when I haven’t been vigilant about stepping on the dang thing. I dreaded what I’d discover this morning, but I just couldn’t put it off any longer.

The good news: I lost three pounds. Three!

I see a lot more PB&Js — and an empty fridge, cupboards and pantry — in my family’s future. A lot more.

Last week when I informed my husband that I was cutting gluten, dairy and red meat out of my diet, he was surprisingly supportive. After all, he’s suffered from my allergies almost as much as I have, with both of us losing sleep as I’ve sniffled, sneezed, coughed and hacked my way through many a night.

Since then, I’ve served a number of dinners that have undoubtedly pushed his patience. The man does love red meat, after all, and if left to himself would gladly eat it three meals a day… plus snacks. Going without it for one night? That’s fine — he knows he can make do the next day with a double cheeseburger at lunch. But seven days of it? That, as he’s since told me, is just downright cruel.

Yes, I know I’d initially planned to serve him red meat on the side. He’s reminded me of that fact, too. But as the person doing the cooking as well as most of the dinner dishes, it only took one night for me to realize that making a separate dinner for him (and a third for our son, who eats dinner most nights before we do) was just too much.

As his patience has worn thin, so has his support. The first night, he smiled and complimented the spinach and soy cheese frittata I’d served alongside a tossed salad. The second night when I served chicken pad thai (which uses rice noodles), he cooed over the tiny bits of grilled chicken breast without pointing out that I used 1/4 the “normal” amount of meat in favor of including more vegetables. The third night? Well, that’s when he started playing dirty.

Out came the ice cream, chocolate sauce and marshmallow topping… with a dusting of crushed Oreos, all of which he proceeded to eat while making little cooing sounds as we watched a movie together.

But you know what? I can play dirty, too. I told him that if he manages to do a month’s worth of meat free dinners with me — without binging on no-no snacks in my presence — I’ll return the favor by letting him watch football each Sunday without bitching about it. (No, I’m still not going to agree to spending money on Cowboys tickets but he can watch them from home all he wants.)

What I didn’t count on was how sneaky he can be when he wants to: he’s planning to invite his friends over to watch football this Sunday, and pointed out that I couldn’t tell them they weren’t bringing nacho chips and dip into my house.

Grrrr.

My scale died yesterday.

We had a nice little ceremony for it during which I held open the garbage can lid while my husband dumped the scale and its various pieces into the bin while I said a few thoughtful words.

I’ve mentioned before that I used to keep my scale in the kitchen, since there wasn’t a good spot in our bathroom for it. It had a good life there, for the most part, and seemed to enjoy its spot near the refrigerator door. Sure, there were times when my husband kicked it out of the way, but I always found it and brought it back where it belonged.

My son loved it deeply: being able to stand on the scale gave him the extra 2 inches he needed to reach the Popsicles in the freezer. Yes, sometimes he was overzealous with his affection, jumping up and down on the scale to watch its needle spin crazily, but those moments were so full of laughter I can’t really begrudge them.

Now, there’s no more laughter. My scale is dead and gone, and I’m in mourning. It’s too soon to think about replacing my scale, really, so I’ll be using my diamond rings to judge my weight for a while. I’m just going to have to try live with the memories of it, and hope that someday I’ll meet a new scale I like. Oh, it’ll never take the place of my old one, but at some point I’ll know when the time is right to bring another scale into my life.

And that one better lie like crazy, or it’s going to wind up in the trash bin right alongside it’s predecessor, damn it.

I hate my scale. I hate my scale. I hate my scale.

No, the numbers weren’t up this morning when I stood on it. But they weren’t down, either, despite having actually — gasp! — exercised four days this week, consumed more water than a fish, and watched every little bite that went into my mouth.

OK, except for last night but that dinner was so spicy that I’m pretty certain I burned off most of the calories flopping my hand around like a fan to keep my face from sweating.

Look, I wasn’t expecting the numbers on my scale’s dial to start moving downward so fast they’d set off radar detectors or anything, but I was expecting some loss. Even one little pound would have been nice. One measly pound. But nooooooo.

I hate my scale. I hate my scale. I hate my scale.