The Diet Naked Blog

A rant aimed at you, but not you or you

I am super sick of diet-website spammers who pose as real people commenting on my blog.

Everyone wants a piece of the million-bajillion dollar diet industry profit, I guess.  I don't know why they think my blog comment section is a good place to find that piece of the pie.  (Mmm, pie.)

Personally, I already know what to do.  I've done it before.  If you have never struggled with emotional eating, if you've never been more than six pounds overweight, if you are an employee of a website that promotes some crazy (or not crazy) diet plan . . . seriously.  We don't want your secret, magical formula or super-dee-duper diet cookies or your three-step plan to great abs.  I don't even want any faux cheering from people who don't know me and who certainly don't "love" my blog as they claim.  (I'm also sick of the emails from these folks.)

Meanwhile, back at the ranch I am trying to eat like a person who wants to be thinner.  It's hard.

Back to basics

Okay.  The crisis is over.  The quick trip to NYC wearing bigger clothes than I had to wear the last time I flew to NYC has come and gone.  And no one declared how much fatter I look.  Because they are all polite.  I am grateful for social rules which prevent people from asking, "Wow, have you gained weight?" in the same way they say, "Wow, have you lost weight?"

The funeral is over. 

Aside from an upcoming dinner with friends I haven't seen since I grew fatter, the horizon looks clear and boring.  I hope it will be boring.  I'm weary from all the activity in my life.  The regular stuff keeps me busy and when something else comes up, it nearly wipes me off the map.

Anyway, as several commenters said in the previous post, enough analysis and angst.  Time to just do the right thing. 

When I do the right thing, the weight has no choice but to go. 

Also?  I've been walking this week, only two miles a day, but next week or the week after I'm going to resume my 3.5 mile walk on the trail that always takes my breath away, in a good way, of course, although while walking it I always wish someone would come by with a golf cart and give me a ride back to my van. 

I really hate being fat.  I hate it.  Just so we're clear on that.

And if I hated it more than I love ice cream, I'd be all set.  I need to work on that.

Reasonable and ridiculous reasons to eat crazy

I have careened from one eating occasion to the next these past months.  A long time ago I declared that I didn't "cheat" because when you add up all the occasions for cheating, you end up with practically every other day. 

But I haven't taken my own advice, nor did I do what it reasonable.  Instead, I have bounced from one ridiculous reason to eat to the next . . . today, I ate at the fair.  Fair food, processed, fatty calories.  I even brought some home.  (Fudge!)  And my jeans feel tight in response, in almost instant response, in fact.

If I continue to eat whenever it seems reasonable to do so, I will continue to wear tight jeans in a size bigger than I want to wear. 

It's ridiculous.  I'm a grown woman.  I ought to be able to quit eating in response to calendar cues!

Perspective

I had to go shopping today to find a red, white or blue shirt.  I'm not so keen on shopping these days since I have to face my chubby torso under unforgiving dressing room lights.  I wouldn't have gone, but I really needed that shirt.

Today as I tried on a white blouse, I regarded myself with more forgiveness and perspective than before.

Before what? 

Before last week when a soldier I know was killed by an improvised explosive device (IED) in Afghanistan.  It wasn't so long ago that we had a going-away barbecue in his honor, not so long ago that we said farewell.  I'd only recently met him and his wife and they were both so vibrant, so excited about their lives together.

He was 24.  They were married in December.  She is pregnant with their first child.

And so my angst over my waistline and pudgy body seems absolutely petty. 

Not that I am excited about being fatter than before or that I can accept being breathless and out of shape and heavy.  I'm not.  And taking care of the body God gave me matters.  Improving the quality of my life matters.  My health matters.

So I will wear a new "Size 1x" blouse to a funeral on Tuesday.  (I bought white--everyone is supposed to wear red, white or blue to the funeral service.)  I wish my shirt were a size L, maybe even a size M.  But ultimately, who cares about my blouse or the size of my pants? 

And yet, life will go on.  I'll continue to rant and lament and ponder all things weight-related here.  This has been a sobering reminder, though, that life is short, sometimes unfair and that some things are more important than the number on the scale.

I am grateful for life even as I am sad and sorry for everyone touched by the loss of this soldier.  His name was Andrew McConnell and he was an American hero. 

I can't think of a title right now

"So, hey Mel, what's happened in the last eleven days?  Did you lose eleven pounds?  Did you drink a lot of water and feel your waistband loosen?"

No.  And no and no.

But I did throw my daughter a party to celebrate her 7th birthday.  I bought a cake from Costco.  And then I remembered that Costco cake is my crack.  Not that I've ever had crack.  If I had crack, I would be skinny.  I'm guessing.  I also might be missing some of my teeth and living in a run-down hotel room.  

Cake is my cake.  How about that?  Frosting is my nemesis, my enemy, my weakness.  One of my weaknesses.  So you get the picture.  There was cake.  I ate cake. 

Then the next day, I ate more cake.

Then the next day, I ate the last of the cake.

I've had some stellar days, some self-righteous days, then I've had days of cake. 

Right now?  I have two batches of homemade cookies on my counter.  I baked them for my husband and my kids, but let's face it.  When you are as good at baking cookies as me, you will eat them.  Cookies = fat pants.

I also realized this week that I have been skipping breakfast most of the time.  That is bad.  I need to eat breakfast.  When I don't eat breakfast, then I eat a late lunch.  Then eat a half-hearted dinner and then I eat cake at 11 p.m.  It's a crazy, stupid cycle. 

Okay, so you know what's worse than traveling to NYC on business with only twenty days' notice when you have gained forty pounds since your last visit?

Anyone?

I'll tell you since you asked.

What's worse is when a college friend sends you a message through Facebook and wants to see you on her visit to Seattle.  And you haven't seen her since 1990, but you have seen photos of her on Facebook and you know that while you were busy adopting kids and giving birth to kids and gaining weight from eating too many cookies she has been busy with a successful career and that she is still fit and trim and looks like she is twenty-five.  I. Kid. Not.

And she wants to see you and you think, oh, shoot, if only she'd been here eighteen months ago I was so much cuter.  Now I'm a pudgy housewife.  And my highlights need to be done.  In fact, I have an appointment next week. 

So, that's worse because the last time she saw me I was 23 and weighed 143 and thought I was fat but I wasn't. 

I saw her today.  We met for lunch (salad!) and walked around Pike Place Market.  She looked great.  I tried to disguise the error of my ways with a black shirt.  Ha.

A week until NYC.  Too late to do much but I will do what I can and hope for chilly weather so I can better disguise myself with clothing.