As I’m sure you’ve gathered from my Flickr photos, our group is a social one. (It’s also an incestuous one, but that’s another story for another time, just know that I’ve put a huge embargo on Dating Within The Friend Circle™. JUST SAY NO. Anyway.) Being the socialites that we are, though, we inevitably spend a lot of time away from our respective homes, which is fine when you live in a 500 sq. foot hovel like I do but NOT fine when you live in the aforementioned 500 sq. foot hovel with a menagerie. Because certain members of the menagerie – specifically, the canine member – can express their dissatisfaction with your absence by eating not only the beautiful scarf that your Mom made you for Christmas but also eating the BUTTONS OFF OF YOUR AWESOME HOT PINK PEA COAT AND MAKING HOLES IN THE BACK OF IT. I mean, really, Lila – I can deal with the destruction of my underwear but when we’re discussing outerwear, that’s a whole new (monetary) ballpark. However, this is not what this story is about, despite my annoyance.
This story is about consumption, the type of consumption that happens when you go and enjoy Wednesday $5 wine happy hours and realize that the bartender isn’t SUGGESTING you eat, he’s practically demanding it. (I mean, whatever. Daisy and I aren’t exactly what you’d call quiet normally.) The consumption that happens when you go out for Indian (YUM) on a Tuesday and nearly lick the plate because you’ve already eaten all the Naan. The type of consumption that happens when you hit La Taqueria prior to TNDC and then as a result of Drinking Uno™ and Drinking Chutes & Ladders™, Mystic Pizza isn’t just a craving, but an absolute requirement.
Which is why, when I stepped on my scale this morning, it was FIVE POUNDS more than it said yesterday. No, that’s not a typo, and before you get all weight-conscious on my apparently expanding ass, I know it’s not smart to weigh yourself every day and that it’s most likely water weight. That said, FIVE pounds? Come on. Granted, the scale registered such a low number yesterday that I even picked up the fattest feline member of the menagerie when I stood on it to make sure it was actually working (it was) but still…waking up to walk Lila at 5am (after sleepily acknowledging her clothing destruction) and groggily stepping on the scale to see that bastardization was almost enough to make me wish on an anxiety attack if only for the lack of appetite that it provides.
So – and please don’t take this as tooting my or ANY horn – I’ve lost about 20 pounds in the past couple of months. This was much-needed as I was heading towards the upper end of my weight range, and while I’d like to say I lost it in a super-healthy, watching-what-I-eat and going-to-the-gym-regularly sort of way, that wasn’t the case. I’m just one of those "under-stress non-eaters" and by non-eaters, I mean I physically couldn’t eat anything except for soup for quite some time, couldn’t keep anything down and couldn’t even taste anything I was eating. Calling this ‘unfun’ is certainly the understatement of the century. Thankfully, some of the stressers that were causing all of this anxiety have abated, leaving me with a slightly lower appetite, but an appetite (hurrah!) nonetheless. However, the problem with this is that when people don’t lose weight in that aforementioned healthy way, they gain it back lickety split and usually gain more. As someone who is really, really enjoying her size 28 Joe’s Jeans, this is a problem. As such, this leaves me with very few options; namely, start working out, start eating healthy (things I should probably be doing anyway), and start drinking less. Um, I honestly can’t think of anything LESS fun than those options, but it’s either that or return to my fatpants. Which I refuse to do.
I refuse this SO much, in fact, that I’m eliminating that option entirely, instead donating anything that is of my "former" size (with just a few exceptions) to charity, leaving me only with things that currently fit and, sadly, leaving me with a pretty empty closet and a pretty unsuitable wardrobe. I mean, I *WISH* I could wear skimpy tank tops and formal dresses every day but alas, this is San Francisco and I get weird looks when I even wear PINK. I mean, REALLY.
People get motivated by different things; some by failure, others by success, but for me, it’s my beloved Joe’s Jeans, the best motivator I’ve had in some time. And really, if they weren’t so scrumptious and flattering I’d acknowledge just how pathetic this really is. But for now, I’m stickin’ with it. And them.