I’ve blogged previously about having trouble with my weekend eating routine and/or pretty much any day I do something out of the ordinary. Out of the ordinary includes anything that doesn’t happen on a regular routinely daily basis (i.e., wake up, go to work, exercise, make and eat dinner, have a conniption fit, injure myself in some shape or form, knit whilst watching TV, bust a move, shower, write a blog and edit pictures and pick my nostrils, etc., etc., etc.) So, when a wrench is thrown into that routine, I fall apart at the eating seams. Usually it’s the voices up in my head telling me that it’s a special occasion… you’re going to the DMV… eat craptastically.
Madre says I need to be more flexible… plans don’t always need to be in place. I’m big on plans, though… it’s how I live my life of late. I think I’m afraid that if I don’t have a plan, things will slowly unravel until one day I’ll wake up weighing 500 pounds again and having to hire a hand truck to get myself out to the car. So, I plan. I plan my day out to the hour. I sit down on Saturday or Sunday night and I plug in a week’s worth of meals in my MFP database. I plan when I’m going to exercise, what I’m going to do, how long I’m allowed to do it, when I’m going to cook (I never plan for the recipe preparation estimate… I always end up doubling that estimate… always!). It’s a ridiculous process and yet, when the plan falls apart, so do I.
As is proven on the weekends. It’s impossible to plan for the weekends because there is no routine and it would be ridiculous to make a routine because weekends are supposed to be chill and laid back… not regimented and Army-like. Slow the flow, you psychotic broad. This past week and weekend I felt particularly out of control. Thursday evening I went to Salt Lake City (will blog about the happenings on another less psychotic day) and because that put a wrench in my carefully planned schedule, I ate like a turd rocket that night. I’m not exactly sure what a turd rocket is, but I’m pretty sure I ate like one. Eh… special occasion… pig the crimeny pants out. Then came Friday and Saturday and Sunday with visitors and more pigging and less keeping track of said pigging. Slap a snout on me and call me Wilbur. It’s just an out of control feeling and I do not like it. Not one bit. I know for a fact I have a stick lodged so far up my patookus, they’d need to do surgery to remove the sucker… and sadly I feel a lot more secure with that stick in place. Which at the same time is so stupid. Socialness is something that I need to do on occasion (and I do do it), but I feel it comes at a cost to my “lifestyle change” and I feel like I’m constantly having to start fresh each time I am social. Ridiculous, right? My stick agrees…
Question of the Day: Are you a planner? How do you deal with a break in routine?