So even in the most liberal of eating times, Fridays have always been a bust. It is Movie Night at our house and even though we take turns picking the movie, nothing ever changes on the menu. First there is homemade pizza - Rose Program conflict number one! Protein mixed with starches! Then there is popcorn, hot or cold chocolate milk and marshmallows. And for me, later in the evening usually, a couple glasses of wine. Now I can eschew the chocolate milk of either variety and not much of a 'raw' marshmallow fan (oh but hold it over an open flame till it burns then you best get out of my way) I can avoid those but I love popcorn. That is a holdover, or rather a longing, of my Berkeley days when there was a popcorn vendor in the Student Center. They popped it fresh every few minutes and for a couple of dollars you could get the best, hottest, most crispy, crunchy, flavorful popcorn imaginable. And they would sprinkle a variety of flavorings on it, or just salt and butter... until the administration decided it was a health hazard or too loud or too smelly or something....
I digress. But that is really the point of any dietary regime gone wrong isn't it? One digresses. All good intentions in mind and then suddenly something shiny, or interesting or smelly, or fascinating catches your attention and then you ate something that was NOT on the menu! But I cannot be so regimented with myself. I once went on the rice and fruit diet. Because I stepped on the scale at the gym and I weighed over 170lbs. I was appalled and irritated and ready to do anything to fix that problem! Of course, back then my 'problem' was an aesthetic judgement. But I stayed so strictly on that diet for months that I went from 170 to 126 in a few months. And I have to say that after inching back to 130lbs after a few months I managed to stay there for over a decade.
And then children. Nothing can erase the memory of standing on the scale at my doctor's office at UCLA Medical Center for a prenatal check up and seeing the number swing past 200. Just like in the movies, the waterworks sprung from my eyes and all reason aside I balled in the hallway, in front of passersby, my doctor, my husband, the nurses... I could not be consoled by the fact that I was PREGNANT! and thus expected to gain some weight. No, for me this was tragic. Oh I calmed myself eventually but I vowed to never let this happen again!
Cut to 3 years later, post-second baby birth, I am sitting on the end of my bed, said baby just down for a nap, looking in the mirror at the end of the bed, and, I swear, the words in my head were "Jabba the Hut". Because I looked like a hut, or rather tent, shape wise that it. Triangular and floppy.
Since that time almost another decade has passed. I have lost much of my "Jabba" weight, but still I step on the scale and there it is, 170+lbs. Now firmly ensconced in my 40s I make less aesthetic judgements (OK I'd like to be able to gracefully wear a bathing suit again, I admit it) than emotional ones. I have beeeutiful children, whom I am really, really fond of. I like them and want to be around them, to see what they do, and feel, and think for a very long time. As I tell them, I will live to be 135, just to annoy them and force them into wondering when their mother, who they love so well, will finally die! And there are things I'd like to see and do too. But it ain't gonna happen probably at 170lbs and a 5' 6" frame. So, at least 25 or 30 of it has to go.
So far, despite my bad combining, my busted weekend - though I did the best I could to stick as faithfully as circumstances and my lack of planning allowed to good food combining - I have at least lost my broken arm bloat. And that my friends, is considered progress.