|Weight Loss Contest at Work: Day One
||[Feb. 12th, 2013|04:19 pm]
So, here's the experiment - can I turn this tragedy of denial into amusing writing? We'll see. That's my intent. The irony that our contest is starting on Fat Tuesday is not lost on me. To be clear, though, I'm not looking for help from you. You may laugh, you may chuckle, you may think oh, isn't she funny. Or even pathetic. You may chime in and say "oh, hey, I thought last time I saw you, wow, giving the Michelin Man a run for his money, I see."
What you WILL NOT DO is kill my buzz and start offering me weight loss tips. Go ahead and mention "what worked for you" and I will defriend you, delete you and out you to the Russians as the worst kind of spammer. Be fun or write your own expletive blog.
Ahem. Sorry. Limited calories make me testy. Every once in a while they start touting the longevity benefits of ultra-low calorie diets -- if you really, really cut calories back and semi-starve yourself, you'll live longer. Well, that would make me the longest lived person on the face of the earth. Although mainly because I would have been so aggravated with everyone that I would extinguish the species, one annoying well-fed person at a time.
I weighed in at 204 pounds. Yikes. Five pounds higher than I swore I’d ever let myself get again, barring growing an extra head or something. 15 pounds higher than I am comfortable. 20 pounds higher than I am happy at. 30 pounds higher than where I look awesome. 50 pounds more than where all the charts say I should be, but the charts can go blow themselves. Seriously.
I would punch a small child in the head in exchange for a bag of potato chips.
I know better than to go cold turkey, so I’ve brought more than an adequate supply of snacks. A little leftover lamb to accompany my salad, some white bean hummus and pickles to replace my afternoon snack of something carby, fatty, crunchy. I know. But I LOVE hummus and pickles together. Just not today. Today, I would happily eat stale saltines, expired wheat thins, anything that is not a pickle. Except despite me be angry at pickles for being salty enough but not anything else enough, I have pretty much eaten half a jar. A jar is about 16 servings. I have eaten eight people’s worth of pickles. Right now, I hate pickles with the white hot, fiery passion of a thousand suns. I’m not even sure white beans and I are still friends.
Although I’ve still got an hour left of work and I may eat the other eight people’s pickles to keep me from running downstairs to press C6, which is the slot where the Cheez-Its live in our snack machine.
Oh, I hate losing weigh this way. But seriously, my knee is killing me and these last ten pounds are the pounds that make ¾ of my wardrobe not look the way I want it to look. Awesome is too hard to maintain. But if I could manage to stop carrying around these two to three extra five pound bags of flour, I’m sure my knee would settle down a little bit. And I could stop wearing the same seven gut-camouflaging outfits.
I need to start hard -- because tomorrow is a business dinner and my supplier is Asian, and if I don't enjoy my food, he'll be offended, because dude has seen me chow down. And then there's the drinking and toasting. It's a matter of pride to keep up. I beat him last time, and he's been madly in love with me ever since. And then there's Valentine's Day, where I celebrate my love for myself in every degree of indulgence. And if you're thinking "oh, but if you really loved yourself you wouldn't self-sabotage yourself with chocolate, wine, steak and heaven knows what else?"
Really? Have you met me? I am all about tradition and am not about to stop now. I pride myself on my ability to recover handily from self-sabotage. And, seriously, if I don't loosen the reins on a regular basis, I will bolt out of control. It's all part of the plan.
Although seriously, the next person to suggest I try roasted Kale Chips to salve my salty, crunchy cravings?
I will totally cut you.