It never fails.
I’ll have some stupid weight goal that I’m trying to reach and right smack in the middle of my efforts to get there, I’ve planned a weekend away or a visit to my mom’s house or ONE night with a friend in Brooklyn even. It doesn’t take much to constitute “vacation” in my mind. If I’m not sleeping at home, I’m on one.
And that means food.
I’m pretty disciplined with what I eat when I’m at home. In fact, I’m almost military about it. Six days a week, I spend a significant portion of my time counting calories in and out like some kind of Weight Watchers Rain Man. I quite enjoy it actually. I feel like it gives me some semblance of control over my life. However, take me out of my natural habitat and all bets are off. When I get to my mom’s place upstate, the first thing I do is head for the fridge or one of her snack cabinets. This happens before I remove my jacket or shoes. Why waste time? I’m on vacation.
If I go to Jeff’s place after work, I get excited thinking about what he’s bought and placed in the wicker basket above the fridge. It’s usually where things like chocolate and cookies go and I find myself drawn to it like one of those idiot fishes that gets all dazzled by shiny predators. I start by taking small bites of things and then putting them away. However, the reasoning that I’m “on vacation” eventually takes over and ultimately I always work my back to the kitchen.
Just this past weekend I spent with my family at my mom’s place in Pennsylvania. I had been on a roll, dropping seven pounds in the two weeks before going, so I didn’t want to interrupt that momentum by leaving my comfort zone with all of my pre-planned meals and delving into the abyss of her country house in the Pococnos. I was stressing out about the whole venture for a week leading up to it. Convincing myself that I possessed a will power greater than a seven-year-old being taunted by a sour string. I had arguments in my head where I told myself that just being outside of the city was pleasure enough, I didn’t have to indulge in dietary suicide in order to enjoy myself.
All that came crashing to a halt when I met up with my brother at the train though and told him I was looking forward to the weekend but was sad because I couldn’t eat. “Fuck that! You’re eating.” was around the nature of his response and said in such a way that inferred I would be a total pussy if I didn’t.
And he was right. All this crying and worrying about possibly not being able to control what I put in my mouth was pretty pathetic. Why can’t I just be a normal human being who indulges a little bit when she’s away and keeps things relatively sane when she’s at home? But noooooooo! I feel like I’m actually hungrier when I’m not in Queens. If I’m in a place where I’m supposed to be relaxing, I think about food non-stop and its forced absence severely limits my enjoyment of the experience overall. So then what’s the point?!
Now it’s Wednesday and I’ve spent a solid two days getting back into my normal routine, yet I’m going to visit one of my besties Lisa and her son Cairo in Florida in a month. Due to my complete lack of integrity over the past weekend, I’ve had to rearrange my “eating” days over the next four weeks to include none at all. This way I can hopefully drop another eight pounds by the time I get there, so when I gain nine from four days of non-stop gluttony, the urge to kill myself upon my return won’t be so inspiring.