Today I am going to write about something particularly personal and very, very sad –
I’m kidding, a little. I am a “normal” weight for my height (I totally checked, you guys). I usually don’t worry too much about weight. I don’t even own a scale. I have stayed within a pretty consistent range since oh, I don’t know, my early twenties when I was drinking beer like it was my job.
Lately, though, I’ve notice things are fitting…um, not quite as comfortably. Then I went for an annual check up and was shocked (okay, maybe not shocked, but displeased) to see that I am presently about ten pounds from my “feeling good about myself” weight.
During the week and a half that my dad was in the ICU, and for a couple of weeks after his death, I had very little appetite. Then, something shifted and I began to feel some perverse entitlement when it came to sweets and wine. It was if I was saying to the Universe, “YOU OWE ME THIS…(cheesecake, brownie, cabernet….).”
I guess people call that “eating your feelings.” I know this is totally normal. However, as it turns out, feelings are some heavily caloric shit.
Anyway, here I am, wanting to shave off ten pounds.
Side note: Apparently, I’ve been feeding my feelings to the dog too. When I got back from vacation a couple of weeks ago, the boarder told me Louie is too fat.
I know, Louie, life is cruel, and it turns out, feelings are fattening. I’m disappointed too. Now we know.
So, here we are dieting together, Louie and me, equally miserable and both looking wild-eyed as if it’s been days since our last scrap of food. Louie adopts this expression immediately after having inhaled a meal. (For me it takes at least an hour.)
I’ve decided that I will have veggie juice, smoothies or salads for breakfast and lunch, and then have a full dinner at home with the girls. I don’t really want the girls to know I am “dieting”. Plus, by the end of the day I am f’ing starving, and I don’t want them to wonder why Mommy is crying in her salad. (Low fat dressing makes me very, very sad.)
Fortunately, I have a friend with a juicing business. That makes this a little less painful. So, cheers to bathing suit season, y’all!
PS It’s really good juice. It’s just not, you know, a cheeseburger…with bacon. Sigh.
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