So, I did Weight Watchers last year after winning NaNoWriMo. This year on November 30th, after not-winning NaNo, I didn't do WW.
But what I did do was to start trying to be clean with food and activity. And up until about the time round three of our snowstorm hit, I was doing OK. There were two solid weeks of walk on the path alternating with a cardio/weight work out at the Y for six days and then one day off. Food was OK, mostly stuff eaten to feed body hunger and not head hunger or heart hunger.
I'm still recovering from the points and core and good and bad and right and wrong that I internalized, AGAIN, last year doing ww.
In line at the grocery store on Christmas Eve, during trip number three of the day, the new O magazine caught my eye. Hey, yeah. I thought Oprah was looking a little heavier, but then I never trust my eye to be right about weight loss or gain. A friend can lose 50 pounds and I just wonder if they found a really great pair of jeans. But there was Oprah, weight loss maven, talking about how she'd fallen off the wagon, again. Oooo. Me too, me too.
Not that I believe now that there really is a wagon full of thin and beautiful and happy people who have good skin and good jobs and happy and fulfilled primary relationships and always floss their teeth. Or that I fell off that wagon. If there is one, I've never gotten the pick-up schedule down right.
When I lost the most weight, about six years ago, on the day that I hit a size 8, my husband told me he wanted a divorce. Maybe I found the reverse wagon or something. But it ripped off the belief that I had that the only reason I wasn't happy was because I was fat. I wasn't happy because I wasn't happy. Maybe I was even fat because I wasn't happy. OK, there went the wagon tipping over and rolling down the hill.
So since this past fall when I realized that points and all that program stuff had just really served to feed the beast that is my food addiction, I've been reading Geneen Roth, and Victoria Moran, and trying to feed myself with things that don't go in my mouth. In my head I call it "eating clean". I've been trying to be OK with life and OK with the love I have and to be happy without food.
After all food is the craziest addiction of all! I mean, what kind of lame high do we get off food? Not much. At least some of the psychotropics give you a break from reality. Food smacks you down again so fast, you aren't even all the way up before you're down.
Shakin' my head. What kind of crazy thing is this, anyway.
The new O magazine had this great piece about rats. No really, it talks about how rats in a nasty cage would choose to drink the morphine laced water everytime. But the rats in the rat-heaven enlcosure shunned the happy water, instead, making happy lives.
Ahhhhh! Come on, I have to be smarter than a rat! I'm old enough, wise enough, now to make a happy life, and maybe this time just hang out at a nice-happy-size "just right" for oh, I don't know. Maybe life?
Today the Solstice Storm piles of snow are starting to melt. My whole family is headed to the Y and it is their job to finish the cheesy potatoes (damn you Pioneer Woman and your amazing use of butter and cream!) and to eat or disperse the cookies. My dear husband is creating a closet haven for me out of the closet chaos I have right now, and maybe we'll even paint the bathtub alcove a lovely eggplant color this weekend.
Little things, but they can sure add up.
And if I keep feeling sane about it, why not throw a little insanity in the mix and think about training for a 5k or even a 10k. I did a 5k for my 35th birthday, 'bout time to get on to the next distance, right?
OK, now I said it outloud. Better make it true.
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