Day Three

I didn't have any candy on Monday, or Tuesday, despite it not being December yet.  So I guess I'm already starting my sugar-less (not sugarless) sojourn.  There's a square of Ghiradelli Dark Chocolate in my lunch bag.  It's been there for 3 days and I'm going to have to either throw it away or give it to my mother tonight when I get home (she takes care of Baby one afternoon a week.)  All the magazines extol the virtues of dark chocolate in moderation, and really it is my favorite form of candy, but if I want to do this right I'm going to have to include it on the banned list - for now.  (Sniff.)

Already I feel lighter.  You know how you read or hear about people saying that they've given up things to God, because they just can't do anything about it anymore, so they just release it to a higher power?  I sort of feel like that.  I'm not sure God really cares all that much about my post-baby pudge or my emotional eating.  Goodness, there are so many other pressing things to deal with.  But I do feel like I've let go of something that had been weighing me down, and whomever received it, more power to you. 

There's absolutely no reason on Earth that I can't do this.  Taking this seemingly small step towards better physical and emotional health and balance could be just the beginning, the beginning of a lifetime of healthier habits and inner peace.  Inner peace operating on a sliding scale, that is - I am what I am, as Popeye says.

I Want Candy!

In the spirit of the blog's title, it's about time I actually did something instead of whining about it.  Lately I've been sucking up candy like a vacuum cleaner, ever since I had my baby and was freed from the tyranny of my low-carb gestational diabetes diet.  Well, that was almost 5 months ago.  It's time to get serious about eating a healthier diet.  If not for me, then for my baby, since I'm still breastfeeding and hope to for another 7 months at least.

I am a sugar addict.  I seriously believe that sugar is an addiction.  The consequences might not be as deadly as with drugs or alcohol, but then again, look at the skyrocketing diabetes and obesity rates in our country.  I wish I could be one of those people who can enjoy things "in moderation."  I don't think I am that kind of person, sadly.  If I eat one cookie, I want to eat 4 more.  If I eat one piece of chocolate, I want to eat 3 or 6 or 8 more.  Last night I stood in my kitchen and ate 7 Hershey kisses with almonds, one after another, quickly, almost not even tasting them.  And this was after a mini Snickers bar too.  I looked at the gold foil pile in the trash can and said to myself, "I'm done with this." 

I am done with abusing sweets.  Or at least I want to be done.  So starting December 1st, I'm abstaining from eating candy for one month.  I thought I'd start out with candy, see how that goes, and go from there.  I figure I can do this, even in the month of December, when everyone and their mother are literally throwing candy in your face.  What do I mean by the term candy?  Well, specifically, any processed goody such as Kit Kat, Kisses, Reese's Cups, Nestle Crunch, etc.  Also, I'd better not eat anyone's homemade candy goodies either, which will be tricky as we get closer to Christmas.  (Our library patrons are always so generous and show us their appreciation with food this time of year!)  Surely I can channel my energy and my emotions into something more... satisfying?  Stay tuned. 

Craving oranges, enjoying everything.

I'm back. I've missed this cute little blog o' mine. Not enough to actually write something, apparently, but I'm here now.

Things are happening in my life, and I finally feel at liberty to start talking about them. I'm expecting a child in early July. Sixteen weeks into this crazy process I feel like maybe, just maybe, I can talk about it and write about it at will, and everything will be okay. Guess I've inherited my mother's superstitious nature after all - or maybe I'm just a worry-wart. But I also know that things will be what they will, no matter what I tell the world. And that is my father's Persian fatalism coming out in me.

One of the absolute best things so far about being pregnant is that for the first time in my life, I don't give a damn about reading the omnipresent articles in women's magazines about losing weight. I don't care a lick about the segments on the morning shows about diet and exercise. I am eating intuitively for the first time that I can recall. I actually like it when the scale inches up a pound. I am caring for and nurturing a future human being inside of me - I am growing a person! It's so profoundly amazing. I know it happens all the time, all over the world, and has for millions of years. But this is MY experience, my body, my future child. It is intensely consuming, fascinating, absorbing. It's all I can do to direct my attention elsewhere.

I hope that after the baby arrives I can cling to this feeling of caring for my body, treating myself kindly, forgiving what society says are its "flaws." I want to set a good example for my child, so that they might know what it means to value health over a number on the scale or a pants size. That they might eat some pizza or a doughnut without self-flagellation. They they can arm themselves against messages from corporations and media outlets trying to sell them self-hate.

What I Tell Myself When I Work Out

I've been gaining and losing the same four pounds for about 6 months now, which is pretty frustrating. But until I manage to stop myself from eating Nutella straight from the jar, and icing off of stale red velvet cake, and any other sweet thing I can find at night, I guess I'll continue to get the same results.

The positive thing is, I'm cardiovascularly fitter than I've ever been before. If my Turbo Kick class was offered at times that better suited my work schedule, I'd take it more than once a week. I am in love with that class. It's fun, challenging, empowering. Every time I work my ass off, literally dripping with sweat, I swear that I'll quit sabotaging myself with food.

My food issues are something I am still working out, obviously. In the meantime, I remind myself that I go to the gym for reasons other than weight. I go because it's time for me. I go because it's time to decompress. I go because it's better than therapy, or drugs, or alcohol. I go because I feel lighter, sexier, stronger, saner.

I talk to myself on the machines. Doesn't everyone? Not aloud, of course. I don't want to be that woman. But while I glide and run and pedal and lift, I tell myself things. Here's a list:

You can DO this.
You're strong.
You're stronger than you think you are.
You're pure energy.
Just one more hill.
Just five more minutes.
You're awesome.
You rock.
Breathe.
Drop your shoulders.
Tighten your core.
Good posture.
You can DO this. (I repeat this one because I say it a lot.)

I wish I talked to myself with such positive affirmations all the time! I've come a long way, though, through the years. I am mostly happy with myself, something I would have felt hard to believe if you'd told me when I was 17, or 21, or 25. I've been hearing a phrase a lot lately, from different sources: You gotta do the work. I believe it, sister! I'm doing it. I'm gonna keep on doing it until I get there.

Local Woman Attempts to Banish Food Guilt

The July issue of O, The Oprah Magazine, is FAN. TAS. TIC. Not only is it the Summer Reading issue (yay!), it's got a great section on people's different relationships to food - why they eat what they eat. It's a collection of short essays emphasising what is great about food - the pleasure in tasting and the way it makes you feel.

There's a vegan chef, a woman who goes on crazy crash diets like Greek Salad and Tootsie Rolls, and my favorite: The Omnivore. I want to be her. She actually seems to enjoy her food. She eats everything, from pulled pork tacos to poached goat, caramelized Brussel sprouts to a deep-fried candy bar. She acknowledges her "ample butt, boobs, and stomach." But, she says, "I'd rather have curves than agonize over whether I deserve dessert."

BING! I think my brain sort of exploded. I am so sick of my push/pull, love/hate relationship with food. I am sick of feeling bad about my body and making food the enemy. I LIKE FOOD. I like to eat. Sometimes I like to eat junk food. Sometimes I crave a fresh, crunchy salad or a baked sweet potato or grilled corn on the cob - with butter. My life has been one long calorie calculation after another, one more sneaky spoonful when no one else was looking. Every couple of months I have a meltdown (usually after skipping some workouts,) crying, "I'm sick of having to work out so much! I'm sick of having to think about my weight all the time!" It's damn exhausting. It sucks all the joy out of eating and out of life. I want a healthy relationship to what I eat. I want a life of energy and activity and good health. I also want a life without self-flagellation if I eat a doughnut (or two.) There's got to be room for all of that.

Dear Scale

I don't think I have any "frenemies" - at least, not flesh and blood ones. (I hate that word, by the way - it's one of those fake, annoying media language constructs I like to gripe about.) However, I've realized recently that the scale - specifically, the scale at my gym - is definitely in frenemy territory.

I don't keep one in the house - oh, no, too tempting. But I can't resist the one at the gym. It calls to me. Like a good friend it makes me feel wonderful when I read a good (low) number on its face. It's almost as pleasurable as a nice compliment from a real friend. When it gives me a bad (higher) number, it deflates me and sets the wheels turning in my mind. All my energy spent, mental and physical, seems for naught. Getting on the scale pretty much makes me crazy.

This relationship is toxic. I've got to give it up.

I've made good strides in my quest for better health, especially since the New Year began. I feel better, fitter. My clothes are fitting better. I'm keeping a food journal faithfully. There is genuine cause for hope!

More than anything, working out keeps me sane. All those endorphins get going and my naturally anxious mind starts to unwind. On the flip side, I've realized that eating is another thing that calms me down - temporarily. Food says, "Everything will be okay. You're fine. You're provided for." It's only after the last bite that the wheels start spinning again.

This weight thing is a struggle. It's constant, omnipresent, maddening. I'm not going to quit, though. I feel too good to give up. So, in that spirit, goodbye, scale. I'm going to take a break from you. Let's say, one month, at least. Maybe by then I'll feel so good I won't even feel the need to let you back in to my life.