28
Feb

i do

Oh my goodness. Life this diet is getting to be more of a struggle each day. I’m not sure why I’m doing so poorly but reading several other blogs have let me know I’m not the only one who has started a blog, thinking it would be easier to do this with ‘accountability’ frustrations. Yah, I pretty much hate to even pass the scale on the way to the washer and dryer, much less get on it any more.

These are some of the thoughts rationalizations that keep hanging me up.

I feel like I have worked so hard I deserve to eat something fun and delicious and fattening and full of sugar and preservatives. Like the chocolate cake that sits on the cabinet week after week. [No it’s not the same cake each week. Sometimes it’s triple chocolate, sometimes German, sometimes fudge delight — but make no  mistake about it, there’s a cake there every single day!]

So I do.

I also feel like I’ve been so good and done so well I deserve to eat something I’ve not had for months. And when I look around for something to fill the bill, I see hubby’s food all over the kitchen or in the freezer. There’s cheese-in-the-crust pizza, Ranch Doritos, bear claws, Cheese Nibs, ice cream, you name it. He buys it.

So I do.

Or I remember back when I could eat something like that and get away with it. I remember being able to diet for just two weeks and drop ten big ones, just like that. [snapping fingers for emphasis.] I think, I can eat this and make up for it by eating healthy tomorrow.

So I do.

Unfortunately I’m not able to ‘make up for it’ in just one day. It takes a week or more to undo some things.

And I look around me, say in MacDonald’s or Taco Bell or some other junk infested “restaurant” and see people stuffing their face with “food” that is in nutritionally depleted. “Everyone does it,” I exclaim to myself! I go to family reunions and see what cousins and aunts and in-laws eat and think why can they do that and I can’t!?!

So I do.

And then I’m miserable and fat and bloaty and gassy and I hate myself. I avoid the scale. I avoid posting. I put my size-10 pants in one pile and start digging through my size-12 pile. I don’t want to talk to people. I know what they’re thinking. [And they’re right.] [Some well-meaning people come up to me and give the the once over and ask, “So, are you still going to Weight Watchers?” I have to remind them Weight Watchers pulled out of the Valley last year. I can see them thinking — Oh that explains the weight gain!] Ugh.

And I think to myself, It’s not worth it. I’d rather be 50 pounds heavier and get to eat whatever I want, whenever I want. I’m tired of going without and always taking the higher road [nutritionally] and missing all the yum that’s everywhere.

In the end, though, I always come back to the same conclusion. I remember my mother struggling to get around. I remember her not being able to put her shoes and socks on or take a bath; I remember her trying to get into and out of the car and how really difficult it was for everyone else who had to help her do all those things. I remember sisters, Carol, Diane, and Louise giving so much time and energy helping her because of her age, yes, but mostly because of her weight and her lack of health.

And truthfully, I want to be healthy. I want to be disciplined. I want to feel good and look good. I want to take care of myself. [If only it had nothing to do with food!]

It makes me want to try harder and recommit and realign and be responsible.

So here we go again. Yup. Up to 144 again. And I’m miserable.