Secrets From A Fat.. SO?!

Archive for the category “Food”

Big As You Feel

I long for the days as a kid, where I would eagerly waited to be big. My “bigness” was a trait I adored. I was the one my friends relied on to grab the cookies on top of the fridge and I could get to the top shelf in the hallway closet where anything from Christmas Presents to art supplies were stored. While being bigger came with it’s challenges, like not being able to play dress up with my friends or finding places to hide for a hide and seek challenge, for the most part, I enjoyed my “bigness.”

Being big meant that I was growing up, and like most kids, I couldn’t wait to be older. Being big meant that I would get more and more grown up privileges that I longed to earn. Being big meant that I could stay up later and watch TV Shows I wasn’t allowed to watch before. Being big meant that I could ride public transportation without supervision and be out on my own. Being big meant that I would have my own money to buy things like Christmas presents, or things for myself, without having to ask or explain why. Being big meant that I would someday get to travel and write my own life filled with stories and memories that I only got to hear about from all the grownups around me.

But being big also meant to me that I was unique. Until fourth grade, I was always the tallest girl in my class. But as I lost one status, I gained another kind of “bigness”, except this one was around my middle. Early on, I found ways to put positive spins on my incessantly never-ending growing body. When my mom started taking me shopping in the juniors department, I told myself that I got the cooler, more grown up, clothes. My mom helped me make sure my clothes were hip and tried her best to make me fit in. Instead, the more my waistline increased, the more socially awkward I became.

Because I couldn’t quite fit in, I found ways to tell myself I liked being different. In fact I realized by sixth grade that, if I couldn’t be exactly like my friends, then I wanted to be as different from them as I could. I wanted my own tastes, my own interests and my own quirks that made me stand out from the crowd. I wanted to be different so badly that I had placed a semi-barrier between me and everyone around me so slowly, but surely, I had distanced myself from ninety-nine percent of the people I knew. By the time I reached high school I had packed on a good two hundred pounds. I was wearing size sixteen jeans and I had grown very tired of my bigness. No one refered to me as “cute” or attractive anymore and all I saw was BIG.

My bigness had turned me into a self-conscious recluse. I didn’t like going out very often because not only was my bigness the only thing I thought people saw when they looked at me but, I felt like an elephant in a room full of mice. I was constantly going out of my way to try to make myself smaller because it felt like my bigness was constantly getting in the way of other people. “Excuse me” as my backpack and I bumped into strangers on the bus. It didn’t help that I was growing up in Los Angeles, the universe of superficial people. It was just added pressure because I didn’t know of any other socially awkward bigger girls like me.

But one of the many thoughts that have been mulling over in my mind lately is, what if big is just relative? My whole life it feels like, or the last decade or so, I’ve been the fattest girl in the room. And I felt like that’s the only thing anyone ever saw when they looked at me. Fat, fat, fat, fat quiet don’t give two cents about girl. I thought was no way a guy was flirting with me unless he was old and creepy. I was so sure at what I saw in the mirror, and while I didn’t think I was ugly, I didn’t think it was quite possible for any one guy, not even my ex, to truly find my body attractive. The only thing I thought a guy could ever love about me was my goofy personality that I worked so hard on making loveable.

When I was five, my grandpa was the biggest person I knew. Not only was he wellover six feet tall but he had the biggest, most impressive belly I had ever seen. The older I grew, he was still large, but he was no longer the giant I had imagined him out to be. It wasn’t like he had shrunk, it was more like my perspective had just readjusted. But even as a giant at five years old, I didn’t love my grandpa becauseof his size. I never saw my grandpa as ugly or unloveable or even clumsy because of his size. Just because he was big, it didn’t make me love him any less. His bigness was not the only thing I ever saw in him.

And as I grow bigger and bigger, so does my perspective. Now, at a fluctuating two hundred seventy-five pounds, I wouldn’t have called my teenage adolescent self  fat back then, just clumsy. As I start to shift my perspective now though, I still see myself as a really big girl but, I don’t make myself out to be the giant I originally perceived myself to be. That’s because I’m not. And neither are most people. Like my roommate Devyn explains about how the same aura color can mean different things on different people, so does the numbers on the scale for different bodies.

I have no doubt in my mind that I am fat, and that I need to lose weight to be healthier. That isn’t the point I’m trying to argue. What I am trying to get across is that, what if we were to just readjust our perspective that fat doesn’t make you unloveable. Fat doesn’t make you unattractive. Fat isn’t the only thing people remember about you. Fat doesn’t make you clumsy or mean that you have to make excuses for your size. And here’s the hardest one I had trouble for the longest time believing… that fat is beautiful.

I’ve learned that people aren’t going to remember me anymore as that fat quiet nice girl with brown hair. Because I can literally “put my fat behind me”, I realize people see and will remember me as I am. People see me as the friendly big girl with a pretty smile who likes to laugh, who is silly and who is sort of a brat. Maybe that’s how people always saw me before, and I just didn’t want to believe it.

 The weirdest thing is how most days, I don’t feel big as I actually am. Like an old man who still has a young mind, my body (or mind) seems just not to care of its actual physical size. I squeeze pass without embarrassment when I need to get by. I hold my head a little bit higher and sometimes I sway my hips just to feel my feminine curves and remind myself that I do have a waistline. While I do desperately want to lose weight to feel healthier, and yes attractive, I don’t let it stop me from just accepting who I am now. I’ve beenable to take the “weight” off my mind and stop comparing myself to other people. I am enough.

Advertisements

Falling In Love at a Coffee Shop

I process emotions differently than most people. Like for instance, most of the time, before I become upset, I have to take time to process the events that had taken place. I have to have time to go back and re-visualize what exactly what just happened. Sometimes I’ll re-visualize the same scenario a hundred times. I have to have this time to process. I have to ask questions that begin with ‘what if’ and end with at least trying to see the other person’s perspective. When I’m caught in this in between of a frozen moment, I can tell you I’m fine, smile, and seem like everything’s okay. But inside, I’m numb. Inside, I haven’t allowed myself to process what you just told me. And why do I do this? I guess you could say part of the reason is that I am subconsciously self-conscious about the environment that’s around me and another part is that I’m not quite sure how to feel. Which is a good thing I guess because being in the front line of my over emotional self, there are very few survivors. It’s enough to make more than one man run away with his tail between his legs. So I put up a barrier so I can process my emotions alone, and rationally.

It’s enough to make a woman feel unloved, emotional, obsessed and quite frankly… nuts!

I have a different process of understanding information when I’m learning. Sometimes I’ll be reading a paragraph from a book I’m reading and, just not understand what it means. I’ll put the book down for a few days and subconsciously harp on it till I have that ‘ah-ha’ moment. I’ll subtly ask for second opinions from those around me and keep my eyes open for answer’s. At any given moment, I’m trying to process a hundred different ideas, thoughts and voices within just a day. I just want to know why and how, I just want to understand. I want that ‘ah-ha’ moment.

My ah-ha moment today was about food that loves you back. What? Your probably asking. Food that loves you back? Okay, Sarah, your probably thinking, you actually have lost it. Or maybe you’re not thinking anything and just waiting for me to get on with some cheesy monologue about how we’re all beautiful inside. Sorry, but this trip the train is not stopping there. I don’t really believe food can physically love you back. Or at least not love in the typical sense of the word love. A few years ago I read a book about how French women can take three bites of a dish and be satisfied. While I thought this was a gross exaggeration back then, and I still do, I understood the meaning behind it. When I take sinful bite of chocolate raspberry cheesecake or the first bite into an eclair, I black out into ecstasy. I let every flavor be savored and relished. I swallow and the moment’s gone. For a moment, just a moment, I’m utterly content. Then I want another bite. And another. And another. Eventually I become numb, not completely, but I still search for that sense of completeness I had within the first few bites.

It never happens. Sooner or later, I become full, but not with satisfaction. I don’t feel that love that I had with the first bite. A couple of days ago I read about cultivating a relationship with food. At first I didn’t understand. They wanted me to let food love me back. “Huh?” I thought. I didn’t think they were crazy, I just didn’t understand. I didn’t understand how someone could develop a relationship with food. If anything I thought I needed to break up with food instead of falling in love with it! But, what the hell, I thought. I’m game. I’ll give it a try.

At first I didn’t feel anything different. I felt like me. I didn’t feel like my hot pocket was loving me back and honestly I felt very silly. So I finished my hot pocket in silence while I caught up on my weekly TV shows and tried not to think about how my hot pocket was not in love with me. But what can I say, I’m stubborn. I wanted to understand because I felt like I had a vague notion that deep down inside of me, that I did know what this author was talking about. And because I’m stubborn. Obviously, food can’t physically love me back. I knew that. So I needed a different approach. When I eat a hot dog, or a frozen dinner, I never feel fully full, or satisfied. I feel bloated and full of empty calories. And so I sat back and though. When do I feel satisfied? When don’t I feel bloated and when do I feel contentedly full? And the answer to all of those questions popped up with Chris. Or Chris’s cooking to be more exact.

I feel full around Chris’s food. Maybe I’ll be a cornball and say I can feel the love Chris puts into his food but I think the answer is much simpler than that. Chris cook’s in a way that many of us have simply forgotten, with natural ingredients. He cooks with his soul, and not just in the impatient rush that I’m always in to just eat. When I eat his food, I eat it slowly and I enjoy it. Maybe not the same orgasmic level of a chocolate raspberry cheesecake but enjoyment all the same. I feel like Julia Robert’s in Eat Pray Love when I eat his food. I shake my head back and forth, smile with my eyes closed and make lots of mmmmm’ing noises. I can feel it nourishing my body the way a microwaved hot dog can’t. It’s not a feeling I can justly explain unless of course you’ve felt it. I guess you could ration it off as love. I asked myself, is this what the author meant by food loving you?

But I had to make sure, I had to cover my bases and I had to try this theory again. When my mom asked me if I wanted anything from a fast food restaurant, I said sure, thinking it would be a great opportunity to retry. I had felt nothing with the hot pocket’s and I had to know for sure what food loving you meant. I took the burger, fries and soda upstairs to my room and sat on my bed. I didn’t let my eyes glaze over and forget what I was putting in my body but actually tasted what I was eating. I ate the fries first and besides the unusual blandness I felt nothing. I didn’t feel any love but I didn’t feel well… anything! I tasted icky bland starch but I kept on eating. When those were done I started on the double cheese burger. I was a couple bites in when I realized I had to improvise a new tactic. Instead of waiting for the food to love me, I tried to love it. I took a bite and tried to love it and let it satisfy me the way the cheesecake did. But it never happened. That moment never came. And all I was left with was regret, shame and feeling bloated. I had tried to let the flavors of process meat and cheese satisfy me but in the end, it just didn’t do the job.

Letting the right food love you is like getting a heartfelt hug from a friend who you care about. And trying to make the wrong food achieve the same purpose is like letting a frienemy pick out your wardrobe. I know those are cheesy and weird examples but it’s the best way I know how to describe them. And I know that I need to find a way to make these choices more often. I know now that I need to develop a relationship with food. The rest will play out in time.

Visions of Sugar Plums

When I was thirteen, I told myself that I would one day be rich. I didn’t know when that day would be, but I believed whole heartedly that it would happen. I believed it the way a VH1 celebrity brags about knowing they’d be famous in high school. Unlike most girls, I never wanted to marry into money. I wanted to be rich and successful on my own terms. And the funny thing is, even though I’m almost twenty-five, I still believe I will be.

I have dreams and ideas that I know will make me successful. These dreams have never been about the dollar signs, how much I can make profit, or even about being the best in the business. Being rich was just what would inevitably follow what would happen after becoming successful. I have the drive for what I want to do, and the passion to make it a reality. It’s not about claiming to be the best in the business but I know that I am talented and I know that my dreams make me happy. So being rich was just something I knew would one day happen to me because I could already see it happening to me.

Age 17 About 220lbs

But I’ve never once told myself I would be thin. I could never wrap my head around the vision. I’ve been fat for so many years, that I can’t even remember what it was like as a kid to slip on pants without a stomach being there in the way. I can’t even remember what it was like to slip on smaller fat clothes, clothes that are still fat, just to a lesser degree. But lesser fat me is an image I can picture because I’ve seen pictures of me what I used to look like. And that is the person I can strive to look like again, but never someone even at a thin 150lbs at my 5’6 frame.

I don’t know why I can’t have that same confidence about being thin as I do about someday being rich. I guess you could say, I always hoped being thin would happen but never really imagined happening. The same way when you buy a lottery ticket, you don’t really imagine winning, but you still buy a ticket anyway, just incase. I just kept being hopeful that without doing any real work involved, that my lucky number would come up!

But it’s not as simple as that. Life never is. The real reason why I’ve always known that I would someday be rich is because I know that I have the dedication and passion to put all the sweat, blood and tears into making them real. It never mattered to me how long it would take to make being rich a reality, because I saw myself at the end of that tunnel. Is it because I am having such trouble seeing myself at the end of that weight tunnel, I am subconsciously holding myself back? Their are questions I’m afraid of answering. I know some of those questions like, will a guy truly ever find me beautiful if he can’t love me fat?  are subconciously make me hold onto weight.

But, the more faith I instil in myself, the more I work through these questions and seem to just let go of all the nagging doubts. The more I seem to be coming out on top. Maybe it’s because I spend more time just trying to find an internal balance rather than obsessing about losing weight. I seem to find myself constantly wondering, did that get just smaller or am I imagining things? Of course I still think about weight and Chris has been great at keeping my mind upbeat and positive. I don’t know if it’s possible to think yourself thin, but I’m trying! I don’t have that vision of actually knowing I’ll be thin the same way the same way I know I’ll be rich, but who knows. Maybe one day I will!

Don’t Think About Pink Elephants

First off, I can’t believe this is my thirtieth entry! I know thirty entries is not that many in the retrospect of blog entries, it’s roughly a month’s worth of entries, but it means something to me. It means that I have stuck with writing for four months instead of writing for a few weeks and giving up. What’s mostly been keeping me writing lately is not having the pressure to write everyday and writing when I feel inspired.

But today represents thirty entries of thoughts, ideas and most importantly, confessions I’m releasing. I’ve talked about my weight, boys, spilt guilty secrets, talked about my family, my not so impressive cooking skills, alter ego’s but, most of the time talked a lot of silly nonsense. And that’s only the gist of what’s been said in thirty entries! I just want to thank all the reader’s who have stuck with me so far and read all the entries but also welcome to the reader’s just tuning in. It really means so much that your here. I know not all my words have been pretty, or confessions people wanted to read, but I try to make up for it with my silliness. Thank you for those that stuck with me and watched me grow. I still have a lot of learning to do. So, with that being said, today’s blog entry.

—————————————————————————————————-

In the movies, when one actor yells to another not to look down while crossing some dangerously high cliff or bridge, the immediate effect for the other actor is to look down and freak out. Donkey shrieked in fear, “Shrek, I’m looking down!”Well, that’s how I feel about food, particularly soda. I don’t know why I am so addicted to this particularly drink, but I suspect it has to do with the sugar. Because I don’t really like the taste of carbonation in any drink besides Coke, Pepsi and Apple Cider. I know, I’m weird, so sue me.

Drinking soda has gotten to be a problem. I crave it everyday. I don’t get headaches like I hear other people do when they cut the caffeine out of their diet but, I do feel a drain on my energy. I feel tired all the time. I feel sad, like I’m one of those girlfriend’s who abandon’s her best friend for her new boyfriend. I don’t think that thought can truly be felt by anyone except by those who have felt addiction. I start to miss soda and let it fill my every thought till I finally cave and tell myself ‘Oh just one won’t hurt.’

But,  it does hurt and it hurts because instead of letting the addiction fade out of my system, I reintroduce it and setup the cycle for addiction all over again. And it’s hard. It’s hard not to think about soda. It’s hard not to think about food. But like I promised myself last entry, I would talk when I was going through cravings. Although I don’t have much of a support system yet (I’m working on building that), I am letting myself feel the urges instead of repressing them. I am asking myself “why do I want this” and I am expressing the urge when I want to throw in the towel, with Chris.

And do you know what Chris tells me every time I tell him I want a soda?Don’t think about pink elephants.

“Huh?” I asked, not comprehending the first time.

“Don’t think about pink elephants,” he plainly tells me. “Now you can’t stop thinking about pink elephants.”

This wasn’t exactly true, I was thinking about pink elephants drinking soda, but his logic clicked. I still had the craving for forbidden food, but I was thinking about pink elephants. The point is, when you tell yourself not to do something, whether it’s not looking down or not thinking about pink elephants, it’s almost impossible to stop yourself.

Today I put this logic into practice when I almost bought myself a coke slurpee. I wanted that slurpee. I could feel my body tense in anticipation at the first cold caffeinated sweet sip and the sigh of relief afterwards. No, I did not just pull a Meg Ryan. But I let myself feel the craving and how badly I wanted it. Then I gave myself choices. What about orange juice? No, too expensive. What about apple juice? Same sugar quality as drinking a soda and twice the price at a convince store. Milk? Not while I have a cold. Water? Not in the mood. I told myself that I didn’t have the money to be spending almost three dollars on a drink I could get for half the price from a slurpee.

So, using the logic of not having something because it was too expensive or too much sugar, I walked past the soda section of 7-11 and to the juices, just to be proven wrong about what I told myself I couldn’t have. And lo and behold, there was an apple juice for cheaper than a slurpee would have been and made with real sugar and not high fructose corn syrup. Sure, it was in a much smaller quantity and not really that much cheaper, but it was good enough logic for me. I knew I didn’t need the massive size a slurpee would have brought, and for me, that was enough. It was enough of a reason to stick with my choice of apple juice.

Sure, it was sugar. But the point is, it wasn’t soda. It made it easier to resist the single can of Diet Pepsi I saw floating around for grabs in the break room at work. It made it easier to try to apply this logic to other parts of my life, and job. It made it easier when I get that craving again, I can ask myself why do I want this? How can I substitute this for a healthier choice? Then most importantly, think about pink elephants.

Keep It Simple, Stupid!

“I put my heart in your hands… and together we can do what we could never do alone.”

A wise man once told me that over eating is the worst addiction you can have. Worse than any narcotic, alcohol or nicotine addiction you could ever have. Because while over eating rarely leads to dangerous shock withdrawal symptoms, you do need to eat to live! This man then pointed out to me, what if you needed to drink alcohol to survive everyday? Like water! Overeaters have to eat because we must eat to survive! Our bodies cannot function without food. It’s not exactly a disease you can quit by going cold turkey. In fact I rather have that turkey smothered in hot gravy and eat the whole bird please!

We all know about the dangers of eating out. We know that our portions are over sized, covered in grease, fat, and honestly, who the hell knows what else! But what about when you’re at home? While the over sized portions in restaurants are enormous, there is at least the clink of your fork hitting the bottom of the plate to let you know it’s empty and knowing you’ll have to fork over your wallet if you want more. When I moved to Portland, I was introduced to my god mother’s home cooked meals. The problem with that is that there was always the promise of not only seconds, but thirds. Hell, sometimes fourths! It’s after you’ve eaten the entire casserole dish set for eight or till you’ve eaten the whole package of hot dogs, plus fries, some chips, three sodas and half a pint of ice cream do you realize, god I shouldn’t have eaten that.

Maybe because when fat people are out in public, we’re shamed if we’ve eaten the whole plate, or if we’re not shamed, know we can take it home, eat it secretly eat it there and then have more. I am ashamed to admit that when I was living with the ex I was ashamed how much food we went through! And it was mostly eaten by me. That doesn’t include the two or three nights a week we ate out nor when we went over to his parents for dinner. We didn’t eat to live, we lived to eat! It’s no wonder that in just under seven months of living outside my parents home, I gained almost thirty pounds!

I technically live at my parents house now, at least until I move in with my future roomies. But my time is divided up between traveling back and forth from their house, work, and Chris‘s. In a given week I spend about a day or two a week at my mother’s house. Without dwelling too far into my parents home life, I find whenever I go “home”, I find myself habitually living to eat again. I don’t know how it happened, but ever since I met Chris, I’ve slowly transitioned myself to eat to live. It’s something I always wanted to learn how to do, but whenever I try, I almost always end up bingeing so badly after a couple of weeks that when I do fall off the wagon and crash, I regained the three or two pounds it took those two weeks to lose. I mostly have Chris to thank for learning how to eat to live.

While he’s never once commented on my weight (smart man!) or judge me on my food choices, he’s both unintentionally and intentionally helped me lose weight. I on the other hand, feel like the bad influence and have made him slightly gain weight! It’s not just how he always lets me have first plate of food, it’s the fact that I always feel full around him. Maybe it’s the fact he cooks so well, as it is his given profession, that I feel fuller faster and the need to eat less? Who knows. What I do know is that it’s nice to finally have someone fighting in my corner. I know that I am strong enough to accomplish anything I set my mind to, but its nice to know I have someone sitting in my corner to catch me when I stumble. Someone who when I declare my intention for the millionth time to restrain from soda’s will say, “I’ll give up soda too, for you.” Simply because he knows how hard it is for me to resist the temptation when it is around the house.

I’ve never had someone do that for me, in any relationship. Someone who, when I ask, “Hey, can we do grilled chicken salads for dinner tomorrow night?” Automatically say, “Sure, I think I can make that.” etc and so forth. I haven’t quite mastered this whole, eating to live thing but I’m starting to. And I think it’s because I am finally getting the emotional support that I need. I never realized how much my eating depended on not only my own will power but the support of those around me. I always felt that if I could, by myself, only gather that will power to just stop, then I’d be cured. But no, the answer is simple. The answer is love. Okay, that’s cheesy but often the simple answers are. And as I’ve been told, keep it simple stupid!

The answer is love. Loving not just yourself but having people who love you enough to truly see what you need and not what they think you need. On my way home yesterday, I began to think about faith. I am not a big believer in faith. I don’t believe in God but I’m not an atheist. I know that there is something out there and that we are all connected to it through our energy. That I can believe. Love is something I can believe in. Not co-dependant Twlight EMO love but real unconditional love. Love enough to love myself and all my flaws. Love enough to believe someone else will too. Love enough to let other’s live their own life and help where I can. Love enough to let unrequited and old wounds go. Love enough to let new love in. And as I was thinking these thoughts yesterday and listening to Paramore- the Only Exception, I saw a bluejay. Without going into too much detail, the running joke is that whenever my family see’s a bluejay, we say hi to grandma, because she insisted that she was going to be reincarnated into a bluejay. At that little sign, I knew I had come to the right conclusion. Grandma flew away as I said goodbye and I smiled. I think that this something I can jump on board with.

Weight Wait, Don’t Tell Me!

You could say that I’m obsessed about my weight. I think about it… a lot.

It’s a constant conflicting battle I’m fighting with myself. On one hand I absolutely refuse to jump on any weight loss band wagon or diet trends and on the other hand I find myself in a constant war of fat. If Pat Benatar’s battlefield is love, then mine is definitely about weight. It’s a constant struggle, over the way my pants fit – or don’t fit, what or how much to eat. The angel and devil sitting on my shoulder usually have to rationalize my behavior. I am happy with the progress I’ve made so far and even more proud of myself for not gaining any weight back.

But I still unjustly and harshly over analyze every single curve, every roll and the way my butt wiggles. And it’s not fair to my body. My body didn’t just wake up one morning and decided, Hey! Let’s get really really fat! No, that was me. I put every morsel, sometimes sinfully delicious, sometimes shudderingly gross food, into my mouth. No one made me do it. There was no one holding a gun up and saying “Eat or Mr. Snuggles gets it!” Sometimes I ate because I was hungry and at other times, I ate because I was bored and thought I was hungry.

And I know I am one of those weird fat girls who likes knowing her actual weight number. I’m one of those girls who can call herself fat without meaning it in a degrading way. Some people find that sad or that I’m trying to pretend to be strong. Or saying that I’m okay with who I am, fat and all, for shock value. And I’m not. Or maybe I’m projecting those opinions onto others. Maybe it has nothing to do with what I think they’re thinking and simply they just don’t know how to react to such a bold statement like, “I’m fat. And I’m okay with that.”

A delicious grilled chicken salad Chris made from scratch

The normal response among woman is to degrade herself when she isn’t perfect and to expect sad sympathy replies and nonchalantly shrug the cries of compliments off. But when I say that I’m not purposely trying to lose weight, just eat healthier, I’m not sure people know how to respond to that except for a confused and half-hearted cheer of, “good for you.” And I wonder if they truly believe that. Because how often has that line been used before? Yes, I would like to lose weight and hope I do. But it’s not my goal.

 I’m not looking to brag about my healthy eating either. But when you shop where you work, it’s kind of hard for people not to notice what you’re buying. It’s just in our nature to be curious what the people in our life are consuming. I know I don’t have to rationalize anything to anyone, but it’s in my nature to try explain. Especially when I explain to a coworker I’m trying to eat healthier, then buy a couple greasy corn dogs a couple of days later.

I see it as, be a little bit of an angel, and be a little bit of a devil. I feel like that’s just me as a person and not just with food. I lean on the angel side a bit heavier than the devil with my personality and I lean on the devil’s side heavier than my angel side with food. And I’m learning how to balance the two out.

It’s hard to believe that as obsessed with weight that I am, I only weigh myself about once a week. I sneak onto the scale, do my secret ritual, and accept its results until I start all over again the following week. Because of course I hope to have lost weight. For as much as I want to reap the benefits of having a healthy colon and as much as I pride myself about eating less processed and chemical foods, I want some of the physical benefits. I want to be able to sit on a transit bus and only take up one seat. I want to know what it feels like to run for miles before getting winded; instead of from the mile and a half of a somewhat up hill walk to my bus stop. I want to go into a normal clothing store and know that they have something I can wear.

But it’s not about dieting. I am not looking to stay on a plan for a few weeks or a few months and then suddenly go back to old way’s. This is about learning to like myself and how to bring my alter ego Lilly out from just this idea and merge her with me. Now that it’s summer, I would love to incorporate exercise into my life. I don’t mean to become a gym rat. I like the idea of yoga, swimming and eventually running.

We hear about healthy living, from the thin. We hear it being preached by just about anyone but I wonder, how many of them are actually as virtuous as they claim? It’s hard to be around people who brag about all their diet or healthier eating tips because I wonder how often they swallow their own words. Because it’s hard to not hear the smuggness in their tone. Why do we have to change who we are? What is so wrong with just being happy with the way you look? Why do we need to let other’s constantly make us feel like we have to improve the way we are? Why can’t we just be good enough?

I am good enough. I am not looking to change myself because of what society tells me I should look like. I am trying to change myself because how I’m not living, is killing me.

A Spoonful of Medicine

-This entry is a little post dated-

I begrudgingly look down at the cup of fruit I’m eating for breakfast. I really don’t want to eat it because between the battle of fruits and veggies, I’ve always chosen my veggies. So while I imagine little faces on my fruit screaming “neener, neener, neener” at me, I know they’re the good medicine my body needs to be healthy. So I resentfully put the too bitter blackberry into my mouth, and slowly pick my way through. About halfway through my cup of fruit, I’m ready to throw in the towel. I feel full already but I push my way through because I know it’s an illusion. I’m about to start a nine our shift and I know what I just ate will burn off in about an hour. Besides, I just shelled out two-fifty on an already extremely tight budget. After watching my godmother and mother waste on food in a month is enough to feed a small impoverished village for a year (no exaggeration), I hate waste.

 When my much beloved cat Spice died last February, the vet pulled me aside and privately said, “A sign of a sick pet is when they stop grooming themselves.” And I remember how her furr had lost it’s shine, slightly matted on the side. I remember the sparkle had left her eyes. As I sit here this morning, my body trying to gag on a foreign concept of fresh fruit, I thought, couldn’t that same logic be applied to humans? Is it really that simple, that for years I haven’t put much of an effort into caring about simple things as styling my hair or putting makeup on because I was internally sick?  Besides the grapes and watermelon in this batch of food, my body is literally trying to reject the healthy food I’m putting in my mouth.

I think I’ve been sick for a long time. Like an ICU patient, I think I’ve finally been transfered out of intensive care and into rehab. The days I would take time to care about my apperance, usually fell to the first day my ex would be coming down to visit. Once every few months I’d get the urge to “doll myself up” and feel pretty. Shouldn’t that have been a sign? And if we’re going by that logic then am I starting to recover?  Because since my early preteens, most of the time I didn’t really care how I looked as I left the house. I mean I threw my hair back in the same ponytail that I still wear.  But now while most days I don’t style my hair, I do put makeup on and make an effort in my apperance. Does that mean I’m starting to fix the internal problems? It’s a good question.

I think so. I think when a person is internally sick, both the internal and external symptoms need to be treated. When we’re sick, we let ourselves go. We stop caring. We stop using over-indulgence as an occasional treat. We hide. From ourselves and everybody as well too. We pretend we don’t care. And when I say we, I really mean me. But maybe you too, who knows? All I know is that change is slow. Change takes time. All I can do is take one step at a time. I’m compromising with my body too. While it really doesn’t want to eat this cup of fruit, I reward it with a whole wheat bagel and a banana on my break. At lunch I pick up a turkey sandwhich instead of making a bee-line towards the deli and ask my body weither it wants a soda or a candy bar. Of course this is only just one day, one of my better days. But each day I’m trying. Each day I’m trying to get better.

Dominos Pizza

I may be an extremely stubborn person, but I don’t often have a problem having admitting when I’m wrong.

I had seen the commercials for the “New and Improved” version of Domino’s Pizza ever since they first came out but I remained unmoved. I wasn’t calling them liars but, I remained a serious skeptic. Growing up, Dominos was greasy spongy cardboard. I hated it. I liked pizza but I couldn’t understand everyone’s great big fuss over it. I remember at my middle school, some five hundred odd students all rushing the lunch lines at exactly the same time just to buy the luke warm “deep dish” Domino’s pizza. Bleh. Granted, I took that partial as cafeteria food but even when my best friends family would order it for dinner, my heart was just some how not in it. 

Pizza may have never charted anywhere near my top favorite food groups as a kid (I know, strange), my loyalty rarely strayed far from Pizza Hut. When I was in elementary school, pizza meant a bunch of kids after school pooling our cash together for two or three large pizzas from Pizza Hut. Or the type of food ordered at sleepovers. When I entered high school, I had a brief affair with Bellagios and Papa Murphy’s. For the first time, pizza didn’t have to mean coated in grease to taste delicious. It tasted… fresh. I could actually taste the ingredients instead of fat mixed with cheese. A concept that was foreign to me as my clothes were to making it off the floor and into the hamper. But then Pizza Hut swooped in again and won me back with their melted cheese filled stuffed crust.

So when Chris insisted I try Domino’s new pizza I was more than skeptical. I wanted to be proven wrong but I just wasn’t trustful of Dominos. But I did trust Chris’s judgement so I grudgingly went along. Which made me realize, while I’ve always prided myself to being open to change, I was so stubborn on food I insisted I knew I didn’t like that it takes the benefit of the doubt from someone I personally knew for me to actually be “open to change.”  I put my big girl boots on and prepared myself to eat a humble slice of pizza pie.

Instantly, I was impressed with Domino’s very interactive website. While a good website doesn’t always guarantee good results, and vice versa, I was thoroughly entertained with doing nothing more than selecting pizza toppings and watching them appear on my virtual pizza. And after I was done placing my order, I could not only watch who was making my pizza, the status of where my order was but select different themes to have it play to. My favourite is the baseball theme. If nothing else, Domino’s had definitely stepped up their marketing game. Chris and I watched our order be taken by a guy named Jorge and we cheered Jorge on every step of the way. I had never had so much fun placing an order. Usually when we order pizza, the order is just placed and thirty minutes later a group of people are grumbling, “What is taking sooo long!”

When the pizza arrived I excitedly raced over to grab a slice and am happy to say it was above my expectations. I am by no means a food connoisseur or a “foodie” so I can’t really sit here and gracefully or accurately depict my food for you. But everything from the sauce to the crust had been redesigned. I am not proclaiming Domino’s reinvented the wheel, but they definitely threw the gauntlet down to the major pizza chains out there to step up their game. Et tu Pizza Hut? And while pizza has yet to still make it into my top list food groups, I can definitely say as long as Domino’s can keep up their game, I will definitely be a returning customer.

Post Navigation