Off the Wagon...And Back On Again.

To say that I “fell off the wagon” would be the wrong metaphor. If “falling off the wagon” is the term we generally equate with alcoholics or drug addicts messing up—even once—I would say my “falling off the wagon” was more like taking an airplane to 130,000 feet, realizing I have no parachute gear, and purposefully taking a big ‘ole leap anyhow. No, I didn’t just fall off the wagon…

Friday, February 26, 11:21 a.m.—Lunch.
The bell rings and my mouth salivates like Pavlov’s dogs. I quickly rush my students out the door, and I elbow my way through the herd of students heading to the cafeteria. I run to my car (the only running I’ll do that day), crank ‘er up, and begin driving without a plan. And by driving without a plan, I mean thinking about something completely opposite from driving…and zoning out so much that my car nearly has to drive itself and my body depends on muscle memory to steer the car in the right direction. Usually, my car guides itself right to Subway—since it’s the closest restaurant to the school and I only have 30 minutes. Today, mystically, it glides right through the intersection where I usually turn. “Oh snap!” I say out loud, not realizing I’ve passed the intersection until I’m too far for a U-Turn. I look left then right. Left—McDonald’s. Right—Wendy’s. Before I have time to decide, I realize my car has decided for me…I’m in the left turn lane. Oh. Okay. I go ahead and allow my car to maneuver right through the drive-thru. There’s a line. So I have time to think about my decision (or lack thereof). I even have time to snap a picture from my iPhone, thinking "people can make good choices at McDonald’s…maybe this will make a good blog". Well, I’m blogging—but it’s not good. I ordered a double cheeseburger and medium fries from the lady on the intercom. I pull around. It’s not a lady; it’s a 450-pound man (not exaggerating—I never inflate people’s weights). I watch his chub-laden arm struggle to reach out and hand me my change. I regret my decision to eat McDonald’s before I’ve even eaten it. But that doesn’t stop me…I rip, chew, and snarl my way through the entire contents of the bag before I’m even back at school.

Friday, February 26, 6:30 p.m. –Choosing a Dining Establishment
Derailed from today’s earlier debauch, I tell my husband I really don’t care where we go because I’ve already screwed up my diet. I follow up by suggesting the one place where I KNOW I can’t control myself: (Which my Legal Counsel has advised should remain nameless)—But this restaurant boasts the BEST RIBS in Jacksonville (it says so right on the menu). When we arrive, the waitress tells us to sit wherever—and we clump on over to the table in the back where we usually sit. I begin perusing the menu, knowing damn well I’m getting the ribs (but offering up the illusion that I might get a salad). I look up from the menu and see a man, sitting at the picnic table just behind my husband. I try to ignore the fact that he, like the McDonald’s server, is gargantuan. I try to converse with my husband, but I can’t ignore the fact that the 500-pound man’s underwear is peeking out from his britches, revealing a rotund three inches of ass crack. Out of curiosity, I peek around his incredible girth to see what he’s eating: Ribs, of course. I look at his family—his wife is big, but his son is tall and thin. As if I had room to judge, I wonder how someone could get that big. Just then, the perky waitress comes over, her curly ponytail swinging behind her. I look right into her eyes, ignore her advice that the salads are "decent," and I order the Ribs.

As I gnaw through my sweet, spicy, sauce-laden drug of choice, I get it. I get how someone creeps to a 500-pound weight. It’s the same way that I’ve gotten to be eighty pounds overweight. The same way that someone who’s a mere twenty pounds overweight has gotten to their weight. We know the right thing to do—the healthy thing to do—but we ignore it. That’s how we get overweight. Now, what we do when these mistakes happen is what dictates our true success or failure. As for me, I’m going to hobble back over to the healthy wagon, lick my wounds, and get right back on.

Tricksy-Poo!

I was at the grocery store today trying to shop for healthy fare. Since I've been a little sick lately, I was in the Gatorade aisle--land of high fructose corn syrup. I was waddling along, minding my own business-- when I hear the most shrill, ear-piecing, bone curdling "WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?!". Of course, this breaks my intense label research (I was deciding between Gatorade and G2). I peer behind me, readying my "Get-your-kid-under-control glare," and I see a little girl. She is mid-yelp; you know, right at that moment when she's taking the lamaze-style inhalations, the ones right before she lets out another big siren cry. She's got snot, tears, bottom lip out for miles...I follow her little demonic finger to see what it's pointing at: Fruit Roll Ups. Her mother, frantic to get Little Lucy-fer away from the intraveneous sugar aisle, simply ignores her. Just then, the little spawn of Satan seemed more like a fallen angel. Something in me sympathized...What is childhood for if not Fruit Roll Ups?

My outer fat lady picked up on my moment of weakness, and--just like the wee little demon girl--she would not shut up about yesterday's denial of Zaxby's, so the inner thin chick decided to try a little tricksy-poo:

It's Shake-and-Bake, reduced calorie coleslaw, and baked fries. Less than 500 calories. And it tasted--shockingly--much better than Zaxby's. And, for now, the fat lady is appeased. For dessert? Anyone's guess, but I'm sure it won't be Fruit Roll Ups.

Towanda Denies Zaxby's

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Shorts and Skirts and Cycles, Oh My!

I hang up the phone and ponder what my friend just chirped: “It’s great outside! I am wearing a t-shirt and shorts!” Immediately, a pang of bittersweet regret comes over me; I almost wish the weather were sub-zero temperatures so that I can continue in my jeans-and-long-sleeve-shirt tradition that has grounded my whole existence for as long as I can remember. Great. It’s 70 degrees and perfect—only a slight breeze to refresh the near-stickiness of early Spring in Florida.

I’ve now spent 10 minutes lamenting and damning the weather—10 minutes with which I could have already been over at my friends’ apartment complex. So now I’m late. Fat, and late. Since I have rarely seen many people sit by the pool (on a perfectly warm day) in winter wear, I decide to buck up and find an outfit that celebrates the emerging warmth outside. The t-shirt and shorts solution my friend so brightly offered earlier is out of the question. I haven’t owned shorts since eighth grade, and even then I hated wearing them because of their malicious sneakiness—creeping and crawling up my thighs, restricting the circulation of both ligaments. Nope, not shorts. I plunder through my dresser, now aware that I’m almost 15 minutes late. I find an old swimsuit cover up—black, that is, since it naturally slims. It’s strapless, so I’ll look prepared for warm weather in a way that mimics those gargantuan (and bold, fearless) women who wear mumu-like bathing suits, strolling around the beach as if they had not a care in the world. You know—the Big, Beautiful Women who are (or pretend to be) so confident in themselves that no one around them is even phased anymore; they just become another part of the scenery at the beach. I decide that this cover up is the way to go. After squeezing into my snazzy little strapless sundress, I pluck a pair of earrings from my jewelry box—taking just enough time to ensure that they are huge and colorful enough to detract from my huge, not-so-colored thighs.

Lofting downstairs with the agility of a Greyhound bus, I grab my keys and head to the garage. It’s in my jumbled mess of a garage where I have a breakthrough: their apartment is less than a mile away…maybe I’ll ride my new bike there. Now 20 minutes late, I decide that a few extra minutes won’t be such a big deal. I slowly navigate my turquoise and silver, two-wheeled torture machine through the maze in my garage—past the grill and over a broken lawn chair. Finally, I climb on the bike and begin pedaling.

I’m not even out of my neighborhood before I am winded. Am I in the wrong speed? Perhaps this speed is too low. I try moving from second to third gear. It seems harder, but at least I’m moving faster. As I reach a stretch of sidewalk that is straight, I pick up even more speed. When I do this, I remember that the cover up has a slit on the left side, extending up just above the thigh—one whose function is generally to open and reveal a ravishing swimsuit underneath—only, this time, there’s no swimsuit.

Here I am, biking full speed ahead, wind billowing through my hair…and up blows my dress—revealing two shy rolls of belly fat. While trying to maintain control of the bike, I grope helplessly at the cover-up that, in its most blatant act of defiance, is cooperating with the wind to expose my imperfections to the world. I carry on this circus act for a few yards. Then I surrender.

I look down to see one thigh—the one on the side of the slit—gaining courage. I watch it push the pedal down, up, down, up. As it works, I see the ghost of its quadriceps begging to emerge from a lifetime of being buried alive under the strangling blanket of fat. Suddenly, underneath the embarrassment of my unsightly body jiggling from the exertion, I feel a small glimmer of hope: Maybe this choice to bike instead of drive will be the start of a new lifestyle, and this transformation—this rewrite of my history with my body—will make a great story.