no. I am not exhibiting self-deprecation. I really am. I’m a loser.
I lost 15 pounds.
I did not do it by amputating an appendage, nor did I get liposuction. I did it the hard way. by changing my eating habits.
15 pounds, people. that’s like…like…something kind of heavy. it’s like 3 sacks of potatoes. I was actually carrying around, on my person, 3 sacks of potatoes. potatoes on my ass. potatoes on my hips and on my thighs. idaho’s largest crop on my gut. taters on my face. and, alas, on my boobs. I think I’ll miss them the most.
prior to reading this post, most people who know me do not know that I am dieting. no. not dieting. I hate that word. it sounds temporary. what I am doing is permanent (crossing fingers). I changed the way I eat. smaller portions. more fruits and vegetables. less chocolate (except at la fondue). lots of water. less wine and beer.
anyway, I don’t like to tell people I’m dieting. at a party, I will usually politely decline your ruffles and ranch dip. bring candy into my cubicle, and I’ll either take a piece and later give it away, or just say “no thanks.” my simply turning down sweets doesn’t upset people. maybe I’m full. maybe I’m allergic. maybe I think they laced it with rat poison. but offering the slightest hint that I’m dieting results in a statement like “oh, sorry. ok.” see? they apologize. I’ve made them feel sad. I don’t like to make people feel sad.
there are other reasons I do not broadcast that I am changing the way I eat. until now, I mean.
- I do not enjoy the mocking. yes, there is mocking. “you’re dieting? which one is it this time? I can’t keep track.” yes, someone has said that to me. so I have tried (unsuccessfully) in the past. so what? sometimes I would try to stay on the healthy side when I’d go out to eat, so “I’m on a diet” is the best response to the accusatorily-toned “you’re just having a salad? why?” mind you, I don’t ask my dining partner “you’re going to eat that entire quarter pound bacon cheeseburger and chili cheese fries? why?”
- once people hear I’m eating healthier, they feel the need to tell me I look like I’ve lost weight. because they know I’m trying. I appreciate very much the positive reinforcement and compliments, but receiving them only after one discovers I’m trying to lose weight, makes the response similar to the “fine” reply to “how are you today?” it might be sincere, but usually it’s just an instant reaction.
- friends and family who know I am trying to watch what I eat and for how long I’ve been working at it, sometimes don’t notice a change in me. (I know I’m a pain with my fickleness. I’m irritated if you notice and I’m irritated if you don’t. you can’t win. ask the boy.) I understand that people who see me on a fairly regular basis can’t see the changes that someone would see who hasn’t seen me in 4 months. but when someone, in conversation says “how’s the diet going?” (there’s that word again.) I’d like to say “I dunno. you tell me. do you see how my ass is no longer the size of kansas?” or perhaps “apparently not very well since you can’t see that I’m missing my second chin. have a nice day, you freakishly high-metabolism-having stick figure.” don’t worry, those comments are reserved for a couple of days during the month.
- telling people I’m eating better makes me less fun. it does, c’mon. eating is a social activity. you can’t do anything with friends that doesn’t involve eating, except donate a kidney maybe. “guess we can’t go out to eat anymore then.” well, we can, but we can’t go to gordo’s buffet, or uncle fatty’s house of mammothly-sized portions, or the cardiac shack. I cannot share an awesome blossom with you, or order country-fried steak and gravy with a side of lard. but I still can go out to eat. and I do. not as often and not to a place where they, as a rule, offer to supersize my meal. so most people I dine with have no idea I’m trying to lose weight. I don’t make a federal case of it. nor do I try to bring others into my way of eating. it’s ok if you order fries with your meal. eat what you want. this is my deal. I’m not going to rain on your parade or tell you how many calories you are eating (except if you’re the boy. sometimes I tell him. but it’s with love in my heart.)
those of you reading this who have not seen me before may be wondering what I look like. is 15 pounds on me a lot? yes it is. 15 pounds on anyone is a lot. I am 5 feet and one-half inch tall. I don’t have many more pounds to go. maybe 5. maybe less. so you can figure out that I am was not obese. but I can empathize with those who struggle to lose weight, whether it’s 10 pounds or 100. it’s hard. it’s frustrating. it’s boring. and it sucks. I miss french fries, dipped in ranch dressing. I miss my friend ben and his pal jerry. I miss a nice creamy alfredo sauce. no, I don’t miss a creamy alfredo sauce. I miss all of them.
but I don’t miss putting on a fifth pair of pants in the morning, only to find that they too, no longer fit. (if the pants don’t fit, you must di-et!) I don’t miss retaking every photo because there appears to be a goiter-type growth living under my chin.
my skin is better. my hair is better. my health is better. my attitude is better (except for the aforementioned one time during every month). I am happier when I look in the mirror. I have more energy. I’ve given up coffee (and desperate housewives and days of our lives, but that has nothing to do with this post).
for those of you who already knew about my habit-changing efforts, thank you so much for your support. I can’t do it without you. thank you for not sabotaging my attempts and thank you for abstaining from “are you sure you should eat that?” comments. you give me beer when I want it, and don’t tease me when I eat rabbit food. it’s my willpower that challenges me. sometimes I fight it, sometimes I tell it to kiss my (smaller) ass.
now if you’ll excuse me. for breakfast today, I had cereal with 10 grams of fiber in it. so I gotta go.