I have gained two pounds. It started this past Thursday when I went to Frisch’s for lunch. I ate a Big Boy for which I had requested extra tartar sauce. Then I added even more after the server gave it to me. I also dipped each and every french fry—yes, I said FRENCH FRY—in miniature tubs of tartar sauce. I had enough of Frisch’s famous yummy tartar sauce to fill my entire right leg AND the "big one" flopped on my belly just above it.
It gets worse.
Saturday morning I headed back to Frisch’s for their lovely breakfast buffet , and boy-howdy did I belly up to the trough. I filled my plate with a pancake, strawberry jam, a sausage patty, and approximately 15 to 18 slices of bacon. No, unfortunately, I am not exaggerating.
It gets even worse.
I bellied up to the bar one more time. Another pancake, more jam, more sausage, and approximately 20 slices of bacon. Again, I am not exaggerating. Halfway through this demonstration of gluttony, I started feeling sick. I was pretty sure that I was about to gag up the second plate’s food eaten so far. Did I have the sense to stop? Does a bear go potty in the woods? No, I sat there and stuffed every bite left down my throat and looked for more. I was nauseous the rest of the day. My hiatal hernia threatened to sue me for domestic abuse and my colon wouldn’t even look at me, much less speak to me.
Why do I do idiot things like this to myself?
I took a shower earlier this afternoon. As I stood in the bathroom naked as the day as I was born (no, don’t try to picture that, you’ll go blind!), I looked down towards my feet. I don’t say "at my feet" because I couldn’t see my feet. I could barely see the ends of my stubby, little Barney Rubble toes. When I look down, I see my boobs. I see the "shelf." I see the triplets that I’m evidently carrying. That’s it. No hoo-ha, no knees, no ankles, no feet. My legs could fall off and I wouldn’t know it if the only way I could tell was by looking down and seeing them.
Something has to be done. I’m thinking liposuction (eat less!), gastric bypass surgery (exercise more!), wiring my jaw shut (EAT LESS!), and paying Julia Roberts to pretend she’s me (EXERCISE MORE!). These are all good solutions, but I would have to ask my boss for a humongous raise to pay for them, and I just don’t see that happening.
I’ve got it! I’ll eat less and exercise more!
Well, guess what. I've already started doing that. This big binge episode I just went through was me falling off the wagon. Two weeks ago, I started walking through our neighborhood with Ginger every morning before I go to work. I've also stopped visiting the McDonald's drive-thru each morning on my way to work for a bag of hash browns or a cinnamon melt. I'm eating more vegetables and fruit. I’m also getting much more fiber in my diet. My irritable bowels haven’t been this calm and mellow in a long time.
After the breakfast debacle yesterday morning, I spent the day with my dad. When I returned home last night, I was so disgusted and pissed off with myself that I couldn’t stand it. I finally told Ginger what I had done. She gave me a pep talk and told me not to beat up on myself about it. Of course, after she went to bed, I flailed away at myself to the point that I decided that I couldn’t succeed in anything. Not with losing weight, not with wearing the sleep mask, not with writing a book, nothing. I wasn’t going to take my medications anymore. I’m tired of them anyway. I was just going to sit on my fat ass, eat whatever I want, and die whenever Death wanted to fetch me. We all have to die of something, right?
And then I started thinking, slowly but surely, how dumb that would be. Going on a binge was stupid, but sabotaging myself and my health and the work I had done so far would be beyond stupid. It would be fatal to my dignity and my self-esteem, not just my life.
So here I am tonight blogging about every ignorant thing I’ve done this week with food and everything that goes with it. Good for me. I’m not proud of the binge, but I’m happy with myself for all of the things I did correctly before it happened. As I told Ginger, I fell off the bike, but I’m back up on it and starting the ride again.