December 31, 2011

Winning the war battle by battle

For the past two nights I've had to go out to a restaurant for dinner, the first with girlfriends, and last night with my husband.  I have been trying to avoid restaurants because it doesn't really matter which restaurant you pick, my favorite item on the menu will most likely be the worst one for you.  Cheese, bread, pasta, beef, I love it all.  

I surprised myself on night one at Olive Garden.  I ordered water to drink.  I did enjoy a bread stick, but normally I would have indulged in two or three, so I considered that a small victory.  I ate salad, of course, and then had a bowl of soup as my entree.  All the while I was eyeing my girlfriends' dishes of chicken alfredo, Italian pizza and  fried ravioli. (Note:  They're all pencil-thin and fabulous, and of course they can eat whatever the hell they want with no consequences.  Sometimes I hate them.)   I was proud of myself though, and then even felt a little smug as I thought about how later my girlfriends would feel bloated and overly full while I would be satisfied and comfortable.   

I didn't intend to return to a restaurant so soon, not wanting to test my sudden willpower.  My husband called from work during the day, though, insisting that we hadn't been out to eat in a long time, and he wanted us to have a fun dinner with the kids and my mother.  I caved, because he's so charming and persuasive, and we ended up at Texas Roadhouse.  Hereinafter known as my arch nemesis.  We'll call it Tex.  

Tex - for those of you who have never had the misfortune of eating there - is this southern-styled, cozy and welcoming chain that serves big, hearty meals that are guaranteed to stick to your ribs and clog your arteries.  Portion sizes are ridiculous, and the food is DELICIOUS.  They serve this baby blossom, which is exactly the same thing as a bloomin' onion from Outback Steakhouse. It's battered and fried onions that you dip in sauce.  I don't even want to know how much fat/calories are packed into that little appetizer, but I can tell you with certainty that it's good.  Husband, of course, ordered one.  I ordered my water with lemon and talked to myself in my head for about five minutes, assuring myself that I could, indeed, have a baby blossom sitting right in front of me and not eat it.  I could.   Waitress returned, set the blossom down, and I caved in less than a minute.  I just wanted a bite.  Which turned into about four.  Although I gave in and had some, I didn't use any sauce, and I only ate four pieces, so I didn't torture myself too hard.  

I had only had a yogurt and a small salad throughout the day, and my mom encouraged me to quit thinking about "diet" for one meal and just order whatever I wanted.  The fat chick jumped on that bandwagon and started an inner monologue about how I've done so well the past couple of weeks and I should reward myself by having roadkill (it sounds disgusting, but it's so good) or one of those giant mesquite BBQ burgers that no normal adult should ever be able to eat in one sitting.    

After a moment of temptation, I shut the fat girl up with more water and then ordered a grilled chicken breast and vegetables.  


I know it doesn't sound like much, but for me, the chick who really loves to eat almost like it's a hobby, this was a massive victory.  

On the way home I was contemplating this continual fight I have with myself - and I don't want to call it a diet, because that implies temporary instead of permanent - I came to the conclusion that this quest I'm on to lose weight and make myself healthier feels a lot like a series of small battles.  (Queue the Full House serious moment music) I might lose a battle here or there, and I will have days where I feel like it would be so much easier to just give in and eat what I want when I want, and sit on my couch instead of exercising.  If I give up, though, I have lost the war.  If I win one small battle at a time - one meal at a time, one day at a time - eventually I will win this war.  I will kill this eternally hungry fat girl, and she will never come back.  

Happy New Year, everybody. 

December 27, 2011


I hope everyone (and I'm talking to my lone follower over there.  Hi!) had a wonderful, merry Christmas.  I had a great day spent with a wonderful family.  I'm thoroughly exhausted and my dining table is covered in presents I have yet to go through.  

I live in the South, which means all holidays, special occasions, football games and pretty much every day revolves around food.  We celebrate big and we eat big.  My grandmother, as mentioned before, is one of the best cooks in the history of forever.  Literally everything she cooks tastes fantastic.  Which, of course, means all of her food is so very bad for you.  Well, maybe not all.   A good 96% though.  

We have Christmas at my grandmother's house every year, with my grandparents' kids and their kids and their kids, and grandma's siblings and their kids and grandkids join us as well.  It's packed and loud, and we wouldn't have it any other way.   

Everyone who comes brings a dish or two, and then we all just dig in buffet-style.  There was so much food:  turkey, ham, creamed corn, candied yams, broccoli casserole, artichoke casserole, green bean casserole, bread rolls, dressing, gravy, cranberry sauce, salad, and then the deserts.  Oh, the deserts.  Four different types of pie, banana pudding, sour cream pound cake, some kind of white chocolate ball things, on and on.  We could have fed a small country.  For about a month.  

I knew Christmas day would be a test for my willpower, simply because I love to eat, and this food was so good.  I surprised even myself, though, once time to eat rolled around.  I only sampled a few of the provided dishes, and in very small portions.  I didn't even fill my plate.  I did eat one small slice of coconut creme pie, because who wouldn't?  I drank water all day long, and afterwards I kept myself away from the kitchen.  

I felt like I had accomplished this huge goal.  I managed to attend Christmas at my grandmother's without gorging myself until I was miserable only to feel awful about myself later because of my piggish behavior.   I did it!  Turns out I have willpower, after all.  

December 21, 2011

My wonderful, evil grandmother

I've been doing really well on this new path to Skinnyville. I've cut out sugar, snacks, fried food, fast food and all things junk. I even walked past the bakery in Walmart today without a second glance. No bread for me, thanks.

I was feeling pretty dang smug today, proud of my newfound willpower. That is, until I stopped by my Grandmother's house after work. I'm one of ten grandchildren and eight great-grands, but I'm pretty confident that I'm the favorite. I now know this for a fact, because when I walked in the door my grandmother excitedly pushed me into the kitchen where she unveiled a fresh batch of peanut butter fudge, made especially for me.

My grandmother is the best cook in the world so I know this is the best peanut butter fudge in the world. She forced me to take the entire pan home "so no one else will eat it all". I couldn't tell her no, because making fudge is no small feat.

So, now I sit in my living room, glancing towards the kitchen every few minutes, with that fudge taunting me. It's practically screaming "EAT ME!" It's finally happened. My grandmother has joined the ranks of Doritos and sour cream.  

December 20, 2011

Sometimes Fat is Funny

As a fat girl, there are possible pickles one can get into that just aren't in the realm of skinny people.  True story:

I go to church every Sunday.  I've always been a little uncomfortable in dresses because I have so much loose fat that just moves as it wishes.  My dear mother bought me one of those super-tight, stretchy spandex full body slip things that holds all of the fat in place.  The one I have makes me look about 20 pounds lighter, so I love it.  

On a particular Sunday, very recently, I had on said slip with a new long black dress, made of cotton, really light.   About midway through the sermon I felt an urge to go to the restroom.  I went into one of the stalls in the bathroom and pulled up my dress so that I could pull up the slip enough to go.  Unfortunately the fat smelled freedom, and got some momentum going.  The force of the fat propelled the slip upwards in a rolling motion.  Before I could react, my dress was rolled up in the slip, which was suddenly up near my chest.  Luckily my boobs stopped it before it could shoot off of my head like a rubber band.  

I tried to roll the slip back down, but the spandex wouldn't budge.  This was a full-on fat protest.  I stood there in the stall in this awkward position for about five minutes, and momentarily considered calling for help.  That would have been wonderful.  Everybody in the church come running to see what happened, only to find the spectacle that is me.    Eventually I tugged and struggled long enough to force the spandex downward.  Once I got it moving, I quickly rolled it down and back into place.  It's harder than you'd think to dislodge a dress from rolled-up spandex.  

When I had my clothes back in order, I realized I still had to pee.  Forget that.  

December 19, 2011

Once there was a fat girl...

I woke up early this morning for a doctor appointment. The normal checkup kind, nothing serious. I decided to step on that evil little white thing shoved in the corner of my bathroom. For something so small, it sure is offensive. I figured I might as well find out how much I weigh before stepping on the scale at the doctor's office only to be shocked at how far they move that stupid weight thing over.  They put it in the most public places, too, don't they?  Just so everybody can see how much fatso weighs.  Sometimes I wonder if the nurses take bets as people walk into the lobby...

I'm used to the number ranging anywhere from 265 up to 276.  I've held that weight for the past three years or so, since having kids.  I once starved myself on 600 calories per day for a month and got down to 259, but that's the lightest this chick has been since 2004.    This morning, however, the needle stops at 280.  280!  How did that happen?  

I step off the scale, pondering where the suddenly four extra pounds came from (not that you'd notice them.  At my weight, even ten pounds doesn't make much of an obvious difference). Sure Thanksgiving was recently, but I refrained from over-eating pretty well.  I was even proud of myself.  I had stressed a lot over finals (two weeks ago), and I might have indulged in some stress-induced snacking every day for the week leading up to and the week of finals.  I think I ate fast food every day of finals, too, simply because my schedule was so messed up.   I decide to blame the four extra pounds on finals, then shrug.  Fat is a part of my life.  Period. 

Later though, during the thirty minute drive to the doctor's office, I get angry.  Why do I have to just assume I'll always be the fat girl?  Eternally fat, but really funny.  I don't want that label.  I get so tired of people always telling me, "I love your hair!" or "You have such a pretty face!"  Screw that.  I want a nice ass, a rockin' bod.  I want to walk down the street in stilettos - without my feet screaming at me - and have men stop what they're doing to watch me pass by.  Not that I'm looking.  I'm happily married.  I just want to be noticed, in a good way.  

I have dieted off and on since I was twelve.  I was super-athletic, played sports year round.  I was good, too.   Then I suddenly started gaining weight with no obvious cause.  Turned out I have hypothyroidism.  I've always used that as my excuse.  I can't help it, my metabolism works backwards.  My brain thinks my body is starving to death, so it stores every calorie.  I pushed away reminders that millions of others have the same problem and manage to keep healthy weights.  It's easier to ignore the problem and just sit on the couch watching NCIS and eating Doritos with sour cream. (Which, by the way, is the Devil's creation, sent straight from hell to torment me.) 

I have tried various exercise regimens, walking, pills, SlimFast, P90X (that guy actually IS the devil), you name it, I've tried it.  Everything but elective surgery.  As desperate as I've been to lose weight, surgery always kind of felt like a cop-out to me.  Also, my insurance wouldn't pay for it.  Apparently you've got to be much, much fatter than me for that.  There's a victory of sorts, at least. 

The more I thought about it, the more determined I became.  Why can't I do it, once and for all?  Make small, healthy changes that I will stick to, find exercises I am comfortable with and start a routine that I will stick to, keep my goals at the forefront of my mind, and finally, hold myself accountable for my failures.  

Then inspiration hit me.  I'm already a blogger; I've kept a pretty good blog going for about three years now, with over 100 followers (maybe not that large of a following, but none of them were from those group follow things, so I count it as substantial).  That blog is public and my family, friends and coworkers all know about it.  I realized I could keep an online journal of sorts, and put all of my fears, failures, thoughts, feelings and honest-to-God opinions about everything.  This would be my way of holding myself accountable and keeping my goals at the forefront of my mind.  What better way than to write about them every day?  

So here I am.  Starting this brand new, completely anonymous blog.  Hopefully people will find me and after reading a bit decide I am funny, inspiring, or both.  If you would like to join me on this journey, please come along.  Together we can starve this fat chick to death and help the skinny girl inside of me claw her way out.