First, I must be clear when I say that I actually go to great pains to avoid being a self-loathing turd. There’s a special kind of depressing that goes with watching perfectly lovely people wallow around in sloppy puddles of their own regrets and poor decisions. We’ve all danced and delighted in the cheap thrills of excess at some point. Personally, I’ve been obnoxiously open about my struggles with sugar, food in general really, and stubborn baby weight.
I, like you my splendid reader, have a general notion of what I should eat. Or, should I say, what will nourish my body without turning me into a moody porpoise. The knowledge has never been my problem. The willpower has. I run out of give-a-damns daily, usually somewhere between the powdered sugar donuts and my ice cream nightcap.
But as much as I wrestle with my sucrose-sucking inner feen and disapprove of her dwindling discipline, I certainly don’t hate myself. Lately, since the scale hasn’t moved any direction but up in 4 months, I’ve been trying to focus on the humor of the internal conflict. For example, I giggle at the dialogue that results from the two opposing sides of my conscious. I literally picture a physical clash of my two personas; the Jillian Michaels maven and a female Augustus Gloop. If I were to give them a sitcom, the script would include lines like* …
[After eating a dark chocolate and peanut butter sundae]
I think maybe if Hank doesn’t mind, I might just settle in to being a little fat. Not like bed-ridden fat, but fluffy.
[After working out for 4 days consecutive days.]
How have I not lost 10 pounds?
[When my new pants are tight.]
This brand’s sizes always run small.
[When it’s time to wear a bathing suit.]
It’s not that hot. Maybe I’ll just wear a dress.
[When it’s the weekend.]
The hard work starts Monday!
Why the hell did I eat that shit all weekend?
[When someone brings in donuts.]
Look at me. I’m so good cutting this delicious little devil in half.
[At 3 o’clock on the day someone brings in donuts.]
I’ll just eat the other half. It’s just a half.
[When I step on the scale.]
C’mon! Seriously? Bitch.
[When I order Culver’s.]
That’s all. … And cheese curds, please! Sorry.
[When I eat my kale salad.]
This could really use more goat cheese. Goat cheese and bacon.
[Consulting my Fitbit after a run.]
Only 171 calories burned my ass!
[Holding an empty bag of peanut M&Ms.]
Oh, 220 calories. Wait … there’s more than 1 serving? There are 3 servings in this mother clucker?! And I ate them all, so … I guess I multiply by 3 … carry the … and then … well, shit. Why do they do servings any way? Like who eats 1/4 bag of candy and calls it for the day?
[Talking to Hank.]
So, if we just agree to both eat ice cream, we’ll stay on a similar weight gaining trajectory and we won’t care about each other’s chubby bits.
[After the first bite of a cookie.]
OK, Courtney, savor it for a minute and decide if it’s really worth the calories. [Blacks out for 10 seconds.} Yup, I guess it was!
I’m only going to pin healthy recipes with dates and apricots and avocado and … Oh! Snickers Ice Cream Pie!
[Standing in my closet.]
That makes my stomach look like an elephant’s face. That’s too tight around the arm holes. That waistband leaves a red mark around my midsection. That dress is too short, but only when I’m heavy. Do I feel heavy? That pushes out my muffin top. Black pants and a black top wins again!
[Looking at group pictures.]
I’m the only one without my hand on my hip. Is that why my arm looks so flabby? Gross. It’s like a twice-baked potato up there. If I put my hand on my hip would it look like I was trying to look thinner? Or younger?
Go one more lap. One more lap and you can put creamer in your coffee. Gah! Am I dragging a dead body behind me or what? Please make the next song a good one. No, Nickelback. You’re not welcome here. One more lap and you can eat a a mini candy bar at 3.
*These are actual words that I have actually heard in my actual brain.