I was a skinny kid during my younger years. I was very active as a kid, played volley ball, baseball, ran, biked and was outside most of my childhood. I can remember eating fattening stuff, like ice cream and cake, when I wasn’t even hungry, just to try to keep my weight up. That’s no longer a problem for me.
Like most people my age, I’ve bulked up after having babies And it’s not like I’ve pumped iron or taken anaerobic steroids to build muscle mass. I’ve just gotten fat.
It’s not that I like being fat; it’s just that I’d rather be fat than hungry. Like my similarly chubby buddy, Betty, liked to say: “I can resist anything but temptation.”
I go on a low calorie diet almost every Monday morning, right after I weigh myself and then swear at myself: “Dammit Diana, you gotta quit eatin’ so much.”
My willpower generally lasts until I get to McD's or a friend, Claudia —a hundred pounds of fitness—brings in a fresh baked batch of raspberry fudge brownies she’s never tasted. They smell like they were baked in Heaven, so I try just one, to be polite. I promise myself I’ll be good the rest of the day. And I usually am . . . until nighttime. It’s Claudia's fault I’m fat.
That little man is a fantastic cook and always had a delicious meal waiting for me after a hard day’s labor when I was working. . . or even after my typical, put-in-my-time, slacker days my others friends are equal parts Rachael Ray and Martha Stewart when it comes to food. They are another reason I’m fat. It’s certainly not my fault.
I’m a fast eater. Put a good meal in front of me and I attack it like a Beagle over a bowl of Chicken McNuggets. Gobbling down my dinner seems to make me hungry. After the gnashing of teeth, grunting, moaning, and belching are done; I throw my dirty dishes into the sink and settle onto the sofa for an Mama's Family marathon.
To make my situation worse, I’ve followed my mother's footsteps and have become a commercial cook. At every commercial, I get up from the couch, waddle to the kitchen, and cook some left-overs.
I like every kind of food—even fruits, salads and vegetables. But I really like chocolate and ice cream. I have tried everything to help loose the few pounds like jogging in the evenings. That didn’t work out so well.
It seems my jogging route happened to coincide with the route of the Mr. Softee ice cream truck. As I’ve explained, I can resist anything but temptation and just as I’d run off a quarter of the calories of the Fudgecicle I’d my street, he’d stop again . . . and so would I.
Mr. Softee is to blame for the five pounds I gained while jogging last summer.
I’ve resigned myself to the idea that I’ll never lose the seventy-five pounds that I should, so I maintain my self-esteem by watching The Biggest Loser, a TV show about people who try to lose 150 pounds so they can be my size; and I spend more time at Wal-Mart, where, compared to most of the other shoppers, I’m a little gal.
Oh well, I am off to the gym... or Wally World for another try... Maybe!
Nana
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