This past week was an experiment… I’m choosing to call it an experiment because it sounds a whole heckuva lot better than hippo in a tutu turns into a lazy butt turd bucket. I want to say I felt burnt out… but I really don’t think that applies. Of course, friendly female hormone hoarding makes any minuscule issue about 1000000000000000 times worse than it really is. Overreaction is my middle name… except on the days it’s Durrrrrrr. It was also reconfirmed that turning to food when any type of feeling crops up will ALWAYS be my number one knee jerk reaction… always. It would be beneficial if I didn’t have feelings… feelings are dumb, said the Kindergartener in a tutu! I’ve never liked to deal with emotions and feelings. It’s just easier to stuff it down and eventually it goes away until it comes back up again at some point… but that also ate me up to 530 pounds… yes it did. So, the smart part of my brain would say that finding another way to deal would be like geniosity of Einstein proportions!
I didn’t want to last week. I wanted to be lazy and not log any food and not exercise only but 2 times in a 7-day period. I also wanted to eat french fries and pizza and Hansel and Gretel’s witch’s house. I take that back, I did log food. I did my usual Saturday night plug everything into MFP for the whole week… but that plan unraveled around Wednesday… and then I took on the food plan of Sal, the Sumo Wrestler… because his included cookies.
I hated myself last week… okay, fine… I didn’t hate me… I hated the way I chose to handle myself. Didn’t you always hate it when your parents used to say that to you? I don’t hate you… I hate your actions. BUGGED! But, I guess I get it now.
For several years in my late teens to mid 20s, I had a disgusting ritual. A ritual I’ve never told anyone before… it was too embarrassing to say outloud. A couple times a week, I’d drive myself to the grocery store… usually late at night… less people to witness the blob walking down the aisles… and I’d get a cart and fill it full of crap. Anything with a gallon of lard and sugar… right into my cart. There were cookies and chips and candy and chocolate and bread and pastries, etc., etc., etc. I’d go to the self-checkout aisle… less embarrassing than having to load it onto an aisle with a person checker… and I’d buy it. I’d then take it home and hide it in strategic places in my bedroom… in my closet… under the bed… in the drawers… and I’d eat it all in the space of a few days… then I’d go back to the store and do it all over again. It was my stash of food to deal with my feelings. Nobody ever had to know. My whole paycheck would go to those disgusting jaunts to the grocery store. At that time, though, I also hated myself… not just my actions… myself… and that’s a pretty dagnabbed big burden to carry on one person’s shoulders.
This past “experiment” week, I had a deja vous experience when I was at the grocery store, shopping for the healthy list items, but instead I walked out of that store with 3 packages of cookies. It ate at me the rest of the night, those cookies… and I finally couldn’t take the thought of reverting back to my old disgusting ways. So, I did something I’d never done in those years of ritualing the junk food, I confessed it to my mom and gave her the cookies. She did what she’s good at and hid them somewhere… I told her it would be most beneficial if she hid them somewhere in the bathroom… ain’t no way in all Oklahoma this germ-a-phobe chic be eating something that’s been sitting in the bathroom…. NOPE!
I’m back at it this week. I’ve made out my food menus, prepared the meals, and now all I have to do is love myself enough to stick to it. I think I can do that this week. I feel like a bloated blimp from last week’s festivities… string me up and call me Good Year!