I started the biggest blogging loser challenge at the beginning of January and I have lost 10 pounds according to the gym scale. My home scale says 12 pounds but my home scale is much like a mother–telling me only the good things, shaving off a few numbers because it’ll make me feel better. When I say, it’s like a mother, I don’t mean it’s like my mother, whom I love dearly, but when I once remarked that my shirt tag read an “s” for “small,” she retorted, “No! ‘S’ means ‘stretch.'” Yep! Tiger Mom has nothing on Catholic Mom–the woman who will make you wear a half-slip even though you insist that your wide-leg sitting to air out chub rub rashes NEGATES the purpose of the half-slip.
The last time I really invested in physical fitness and healthy eating was seven years ago, when I was still in college and I had so! much! time! to work out and scour the teen section of JC Penney’s because I hadn’t sprouted forehead wrinkles yet. Freedom! I lost 35 pounds after months of daily workouts and brown rice sides and repeating a litany into the mirror of “Why you so fine, girl?”
I don’t have the same luxury of time now. I leave to work early and I get home late and I do want to see my children and husband in the few
hours I have at night, right before Real Housewives comes on and NO ONE CAN TALK. I have managed to work out at least once a week but I ramped up my diet. My lunches are spinach salads with one or two seared tilipia fillets (low fat, high protein) and for dressing, I use two tablespoons of my SALTY TEARS. I don’t eat much carbs. I haven’t eaten a scone in weeks. I still drink coffee with non-fat creamer,
these chemicals transforming my organs into nuclear reactors, my cells glowing with the mutant haze of too much artificial sugar.
It is paying off. I’m able to squeeze into some jeans that haven’t been able to slide over my ankles. Though I can’t button them, that day will come and that day will be without a pair of pliers to get the zipper to close.
A lot of my habits have changed. I do miss the days of full-calorie, full-fat, full-awesome sour cream. But my need to wear smaller clothing is holding strong, my shape shifting in this battle of VANITY versus HUNGER, fought on MT. HOLY-HECKERS-I-MISS FRIES.
The wait staff at the Chinese buffet have not seen me or my family in weeks. I wonder if they stare out past the hostess desk, past the battery-operated paw motioning Lucky Cat and out the window, steam from the cream-cheese stuffed mushroom trays fogging up the glass. Their eyes search in vain for the sight of that strange family with the mail-order bride wife and older husband and two kids. Maybe they have forgotten about us and our funny requests to have a booth with seats not held together with duct tape. Maybe another family has taken our place. A family with super fast metabolism, who eat their plates of Kung Pao chicken and crab legs without thinking once about the pants they won’t be able to fit later.