My digestive system is rebelling. Why, you ask? For the worst possible reason if you're a person who's attempting to lose/hold in the battle of the bathroom scale. Really, this is very irritating, and I have no one to blame but myself. (And my mother. As events play out here, you'll all agree that she TOTALLY gets at least half the blame here).
So what is this "worst possible reason"? Let me explain.
I have four children. Although I love my children, and am very thankful for my ability to bear them, seven years of child-bearing is like a prego-weight roller coaster. "I have to get skinny fast so I can get pregnant again" seems to be the running theme. Always (at least for me) there was this utopia of eternal thinness just waiting at the end of the pregnant/nursing/losing/pregnant body cycle.
"Oh yes, body" I told myself, "as soon as that last child is born, you will be mine. I will lose all your fat, tone those forgotten muscles, and finally achieve that wonderland of 'ideal weight'. It will be so EASY," I continued in my delusional mind. "There will be absolutely nothing standing between us and all those skinny clothes we're waiting to wear."
Nothing but myself, anyway.
And my mother.
If you've been keeping up with me from my other blog, you'll know that I recently lost a little weight courtesy of my good friend Anxiety. This was very exciting, because for the first time since the birth of my last child (over two years ago) I finally hit that magic number on the scale. The number that technically proclaims me to be in my skinny-enough-to-wear-everything-in-my-closet zone. I say "technically" because it always takes my body a few weeks to accept the fact that something is missing. It's like those empty fat cells just hold their breath to keep themselves inflated and reserve room for the fat they hope will come squishing its way back in.
Lovely visual, don't you think?
But I swear that's what happens. Then, if I can manage to hold the fat-cell-siege long enough, they finally give up and go away - and the affects of my weight loss finally manage to show up. And that's when the new weight zone becomes official.
In other words - I JUST LOST THOSE BLASTED FOUR POUNDS LAST WEEK, THE SIEGE IS ON, AND I JUST MADE A MAJOR TACTICAL ERROR IN THE WAR ON FAT!!!! If this were an election, I'd have some serious explaining to do.
I suppose you're getting curious about my blunders - and how I'll manage to pin the responsibility on my mother. Well, here we go.
It started with the Ward Harvest Party. Surprisingly, I managed to get out of there without totally binging (which was completely uncharacteristic of me), but I did have several desserts, got saddled with some of the candy, and my mom sent half a cake home with me. (Her first offense).
Then on Saturday night I ran into Natalie (yes, the very same one who hosts this blog) at the grocery store twenty minutes before it closed, and she tempted me right into the ice cream aisle where Ben and Jerry's was on sale.
As we contemplated the virtues of their vast assortment of gourmet ice-cream, I realized it has been over a decade since I last tasted Ben and Jerry's. Is that not some kind of sacrilege? I fully intended to buy some then and there, smuggle it into the house and gorge myself on the whole thing - till I realized Dreyer's looked almost as good, and had only half the calories. Years of mental training is hard to overcome, and I was forced to choose the lesser of the two evils.
Conference Sunday. My mother's house. Scene of my mother's second offense, and the big breakdown.
"Eat breakfast before you come," she said, "because I thought we'd have waffles and swedish pancakes (i.e. really good crepe-like things with lots of butter, sugar, and other bad stuff smothered all over them) between sessions."
The warning signals were going off in my just-lost-those-critical-four-pounds brain, and I had momentary panic wondering if I could make it. "I'll just have a few bites of each," I confidently lied to myself. "It won't be any big deal. I'm strong."
Five swedish pancakes and three waffles later (that is ALL I'm willing to publicly claim), I began to feel sick. Then I went back in the kitchen just to make sure there was nothing left. I can be really pathetic when it comes to food.
Do you see the cycle here? Friday night: blow it, but determine to do better Saturday. Saturday: blow it, then buy evil ice-cream, and vow to repent on Sunday. Sunday - the waffle/swedish pancake blunder. Too sick Sunday night to make any vows or promises of any kind, and instead decide to deny Sunday ever even happened because it was so unbelievably pathetic.
In my defense, I think I did fairly well yesterday (Monday). At least I can't remember yesterday, so I either held steady, or blocked it out due to more personal failure.
I can't talk about it.
But I will say that it ended at my mother's house, and it involved some really good pork chops, and really rich, really creamy, REALLY bad-for-the-waistline chocolate mousse. This was her third offense! Can you see how my mother's responsible here? Can you see what she's doing to me??? Surely I can't be expected to stand firm against chocolate mousse???
And so, once again as the evening expires, and I'm facing the gastric consequences of multiple food-choices-not-conducive-to-winning-the-war-against-the-breath-holding-fat-cells, I am making a vow. Tomorrow is a new day. I will not fail. The fat cells will not win. Too many supplies have already broken through the lines. It's good-for-you-food, or nothing, and I refuse to give up any ground to my bathroom scale!
And I promise a victorious post before bedtime tomorrow night.
Until then - sleep well, eat well, and STARVE OUT THOSE STUPID LITTLE FAT CELLS!!!