I blame my torso for my problems. It's about 2 centimeters long, and if I gain 3 pounds, it looks like 40. Also, I blame my hormones. They are losers. I didn't intend for my body to not know how to regulate itself, in any way, and only recently have I discovered they are the reason why my complexion and lack of weight loss have suffered. I usually eat well; no HFCS, artificial or processed stuff, whole grains, organic, hormone-free etc etc. BUT! I won't deny myself either. If I want some Ben & Jerry's, I'll have some freakin' ice cream. Usually the whole pint. In one sitting. Generally during Shark Week.
Since I don't like denying myself, the idea of following a "military diet" at first seemed like insanity. And it was. It goes like this: 3 days on, 4 off, and you eat the most minuscule amounts of food, and the way your body breaks the food down, you aren't supposed to get that hungry and could potentially lose up to 10 pounds a week. My arse! I know it sounds far-fetched, but I'm getting impatient, people! Not that anyone is asking, but since I have been going to the gym 4-5 days a week for that last few months I have yet to lose a single pound...or go down in any size of clothing. Vomit. I was hoping to see some kind of change on this stupid diet, but did not. On my third and final day of the Holocaust diet, I was so sick from low blood sugar, eating next to nothing, and combined with exercise, had made me super tired. I wouldn't have lasted to the third day if it hadn't been for a girl in my office who committed to this diet as well. We didn't motivate each other nearly as well as I had hoped. We would look at each other with sunken cheeks and gaunt eyes and list off the plethora of sugared and fatty foods we planned on eating over the weekend. So when lunch time rolled around on Wednesday, I gathered my remaining strength, army crawled to the break-room and got a bagel and schmear to inhale into my shriveled body.
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| Someone snapped a picture of me on my way to the break-room. |
The moral of the story is: love your foopa/ mom pouch. I've accepted that even without having children, the two of us will prolly be BFFF.
One lady, who I feel got a laugh out of my desperate attempt at weight loss, sits across the aisle from me. She's very quiet and kind and psycho healthy. I think the worst thing I've seen her consume was a midget can of Diet Coke. And I'm not even sure if she drank all of it. She's a grandmother who wears a size 0, works out everyday, is toned like no other, and eats snap peas because she likes them!!!!!! ??????? I love veggies. But I love Nutella too. And I felt her judgement this week as she returned to her desk and saw me shoving a heaping spoonful of Nutella into my salivating mouth. I froze as we locked eyes, spoon in mouth, and I held her gaze for about 2 solid seconds, then I slowly pulled the sparkling clean spoon out of my mouth. Give me a break! I needed some chocolate to soothe my soul from an impossibly large spreadsheet I had been working on. Soothe my soul it did, like a delightful, chocolatey balm. (Side note: so glad I'm not a stoner. I would be gigantic thanks to the munchies. And my foopa would be enormous. Like the kind that you see people have at Walmart sometimes; the kind that flaps over their legs and they kick it with their knees when they walk. Yeah, that big.)
A philosophy I truly believe in with all of my foopa, is for you ladies: count yourselves lucky to find a man that loves your cellulite and/or stretch marks. I feel safe in assuming that most of us have it somewhere on us, or will at some point. It really means the world to me that Boyfriend loves my lady lumps. And I do mean lumps. Thanks, Fergie, for that pearl of wisdom. And make sure you fart around each other at least once before you get married. Just sayin'. CUP-A-CHEESE!!!!!
On a more serious note: God is good, man! I've been on the receiving end of some extremely kind words and gestures and I totally feel known. It's a great feeling and I feel very fortunate and peace-full. Eddie Vedder said it best: "Yeah, I'm a lucky man, to count on both hands the ones I love. Some folks they've got one, others they've got none."
And while I'm at it, this song has legit been on repeat all week for me. If you listen to it with headphones, push the buds in a little bit at 2:14-2:37. I do and always smile because I feel that Sir Paul himself is sitting next to me, crooning me. I, too, plan to journey to India. I anticipate that it will be as transforming and eye-opening for me as it was for The Fab Four.
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