Oh, but I fall into excuses, even when I promise myself, and my world, that I won’t. There’s one more hot dog, because it’s the fourth. There’s the giant crab cake sandwich, because I’m sick and the prednisone makes me so hungry. There’s frozen yogurt because, well, because it’s Sunday and I’m with my daughter who loves fro-yo, and it has protein in it.
There’s an extra cup of coffee with cream, because I got up so damn early this morning, and I have a headache from the cough syrup. I can keep going, but I know what I sound like. My real personal truth is that I like food and I like coffee and I like doing things that I like. I don’t want to practice self-control because self-control isn’t fun. Self-control is like being mired in dog shit in the middle of an amusement park.
My shunning of self-control would be awesome if it didn’t conflict with other things that I adore; like cute clothing and my underlying desire to fit neatly in the same box as most other people. In essence, my secretive shallow nature is in constant disagreement with my lack of constraint.
So, I have “start-fresh-Mondays” where I get out my food journal and log every calorie and nibble until they are all I can think about. As I shower, 190 runs through my head. I vacuum with 370 and watch Friends reruns with 860 on my mind. Is it too many, is it enough? Can I just have a cheese stick? Always that damn careful balance! I pray I can go to bed with the gnawing. I can picture angry little flesh-colored “pac-men” eating away my fat as I run my hand flat against my torso. Are those my ribs sticking out? I’ll look great in that skirt; no one will know I’m a fat girl on the inside.
I know I’m wrong, and different, but maybe not. It’s simply a caper against myself. We all have secrets, some salacious some mundane. I’m hoping to be somewhere in the middle; in that place where I don’t bulge out.