Have you advice for this rotund recidivist?
I rarely ask for help. I am insistent about putting my own luggage on the airplane overhead rack. Therefore, I find it odd and slightly out of character to write this. But, quite simply, I must confess I cannot seem to diet successfully. I can lick almost any dragon but I cannot put this fire out.
Now, I’m not obese and am relatively well-preserved for my impatient advancing years (or so I like to think – who doesn’t?) and yet, I must confess that I am clearly overweight. The bathroom mirrors, catching my naked self, do not lie. No sooner do I leave the tub when I quickly wrap myself in a large bath towel. Can you imagine being fearful and dismayed by your own reflection? When I shop, I look for camouflage, not clothes. The saleslady who says “You look thin in that” has made a quick sale.
I’m not asking for skinny – though I did grow up to the constant refrain – “How do you eat so much?” meaning, “You eat so much, how do you stay so thin?” No more. My all-grown-up size does not elicit such comments. The best I can hope for is, “You’re not fat really,” and frankly this is simply a lie. I am fat. F-A-T.
You could say I should simply adjust to my newfound post-menopausal-mean-spirited plumpness. But I can’t. You see, it is a sign of defeat. An admission of acceptance of less than my very best. A profound recognition of being out of control. The fact, simply emerging, that I am a victim of my own victimization. That I am lazy and slothful. That this “lardiness” is not under my control. As a control freak these notions are unacceptable, intolerable. Me? Can’t be me.
And yet, by God, it is the very me, myself and I. Damn it. You see I cannot resist the temptation of food – good sweet morsels. One cookie is not enough. Ice cream must have sprinkles. And when I return home, the cold-hearted refrigerator is an automatic destination spot. “Now, where did I put the fudge?”
I don’t even need real food to be this plebian foodie. I can binge on cereal. I can take a frozen bagel, douse it with a honey cure from my last cold. I can send to the Mansion Diner for apple-crumb cake (at a moment’s notice, at a nanosecond) and then obsess on the length of delivery time. “Did they hear me?” “Should I call again?” “Should I cancel my order?” No. Absolutely not. Never cancel food. Pointless. My ancestors were starving people. This would be disrespectful.
What is this destructive urge to fill the vacuum that is already full? Do I need an analyst? (It’s too late.) Why do some people leave edible food on their plates? Why do skinny girls fill up so quickly? Why is bread only good with butter? Why do I go on automatic pilot when food – McDonald’s or Pheasant – is put in front of me? I do not discriminate. To be served is to eat. To eat is to complete.
Is there a movie without a large size Raisinette or Kit Kat to devour? Is there a birthday without that extra piece of cake? “Oh I shouldn’t, but I will” – and I do. Is there a moment that can’t be filled with a Dunkin Donut Hole – and then another?
Calling all Women of wOw, successful dieters, tell me: What is your secret? Should I succumb to this Size 14 or struggle to regain my Size 10 mothy jeans waiting patiently for the good old days while gathering mildew in my closet? Let’s face it, I can barely pull these pants over my monstrous middle.
Do I just toss this “weightfulness” to the wind, so little time to partake of pleasure, so few sweets in life, and just adjust to my plentitude and eat on? Or do I try to control my desires and close my mouth to mastication and continue to pursue the impossible –maybe possible – dream of loss, a leaner, smaller me.
I am the personification of a gluttonous Thanksgiving – stuffing down my own stuffing. I am the gift of Christmas present and future that keeps on eating. Bah humbug. Come New Year’s Eve I’ll resolve to diet. Come New Year’s Day – I’ll spontaneously eat.
Have you advice for this rotund recidivist? Happy holidays gals. I’ll be unbuttoning my pants and loosening my bra and not for any romantic adventure – alas.