Sloth + Gluttony = Sluttony

(In our family, cake doesn't have a chance.  There are scavengers everywhere.)

In the old days (last month), there would be treats or candy or ‘fun’ food in the house, because there was always something to celebrate around here.  Take the 6-month-long ConFest (Festival of the Confections) which you and I just survived: the season from Halloween to Easter where society opens its Fructose Floodgates and hitches ‘candy’ to the caboose of every holiday.  To make matters worse, I knew I was hooked when my husband would announce to the family that the dessert was ready, and the voices in my head would hiss at him to say, “Shhhh, don’t tell the kids.  Then there will be more for US.”  Perhaps I did say it out loud.  The treats and snacks, even just sitting quietly on the counter, had a presence about them; a siren’s call of happiness.  “Join us,” they’d whisper.  Sometimes, they had a French accent, and I’m a sucker for the French. 

And yes, there was also plenty of healthy food and comfort food.  My husband and our kitchen are in love, madly, and the results of their unions are known all over our friendship circles.  He loves the science of inventing things that romp on one’s taste buds, and has been known to make sauces from a vidalia onion, peanut butter and bag of nails.  When I invite people over to eat, their polite faces silently hold their breath, bracing for the beige meal sure to come from my efforts, but when they hear my husband is cooking, they give silent thanks, for Mardi Gras has arrived again and another angel has gotten their wings.  

Perhaps many of you can relate to similar temptations in your life.  Well, pair that with the impossible list of Necessary Things That Experts Tell You To Do In Order To Live Correctly.  “Floss; pluck eyebrows; sunscreen; do a breast self-examination in the shower; donate to 401k again; call parents; take a look at any worrisome moles and lock in their exact dimensions so as to remember changes in eight months; shave; take vitamins; say brief prayers for family and friends who are suffering today; breakfast and lunch the kids; fret about their spiritual life; remember to call the plumber; pull spoon (with dried yogurt) off the carpet; I think I smell a gas leak; what stinks in the car?”  You name it.  You could all insert 345 things on this list that burns you up before you leave for work.   

What’s the casualty, over and over and over? One’s health.  It gets Last Place, last thought, crumbs, the sound of crickets.  Is it any wonder I’ve been grabbing the easiest food, blasting it in my mouth and not even tasting, using it for fuel so I could keep moving through my 18-hour day?  Most days, it’s like triage in a war zone.  

Knowing this bleak picture, I walked into the fire: the first five days of my weight loss.  They were really hard.  Those are the days where one is motivated with the crisp promises to oneself, but also the days where it is so easy to backslide.  Why?  Well, I still had my feet touching both worlds… the “Eating With Poor Choices” and the “Ready To Eat Better” worlds.  I was still so close to the starting gate, so that I could streeeeeeeeeeetch and reeeeeeeeach and sliiiiiiiiiiiiiide my foot back and still touch it, able to take a rear lunge into the wicked regions of gluttony from where I had just left.   I mean, it’s right there for the picking.   Right there. 

“Just start over tomorrow," whispers Sluttony.

Suddenly, when you hit Day Five, you’ve got some distance from the starting line, and Day One can’t touch you anymore. 

So, anyway, here I am, Day Twenty.   Here is how my weight loss has gone:

2-4 pounds lost, depending on the humidity in the house and the tilt of the earth.  There’s no denying it; my body is hoarding it, socking it away in the basement and behind the fireplace, like the old European way of saving money.  She’s not ready to give it up yet.

I can wait her out. 

But, I DID yell at her last night as I measured my waist quietly, so my notebook wouldn’t know.  My waist had gained an inch.  Sigh.  Note to self: don’t do that again for a while. 

“Beans.”  That must be it, I said to no one in particular. “I’m just a little more puffy because of the ‘air’, like a potato chip bag at high altitudes.”  I looked in the mirror, finger pointed with betrayal and blame for five minutes (allow me that luxury; I'm not a saint), then we kissed and made up. 

Despite all this, the last three weeks have taught me something which may hold the key to my personal success.  The five to six times a day where I have been placing food in my mouth, I have been forced to be mindful.   It’s been the act of taking the time, of thinking about what I’m putting in my body and WHY.  It’s not the counting of each calorie, servings or points that will help me lose the weight.  It’s the ACT of stopping six times a day among the sparking wires in the train station of my mind, and putting myself first for just a few minutes.  It's ignoring obligations and having a purpose to eating.  Because I'm forcing myself to focus on that one thing, I have time to adjust the portion, swap out better options, respect the fuel.  I have time to plan my food and write the proper things on the grocery list.  I figure I have been given six chances a day to do the right thing, and I’m shooting for 90%.  I’m going to give myself a high-five. I trust that my body will follow shortly and lose what it needs to lose, especially when I crank up the exercise.  And family, prepare yourselves.  If this works for me, I'm going to convert you.

So, next time my husband displays another dessert masterpiece, I will not hiss and hoard.  Now, it’s time to share. 

Next up…my continuing epiphany on 'calendar clutter' and weight.  It's kept me up a few nights.