So the size 14 jeans are starting to get a little baggy. That means I can start casting a cautiously optimistic eye towards the leaning tower of twelves in the closet.
My chin collection is dwindling. The roll of fat around my midsection no longer resembles a bundt cake, but is still more in the neighborhood of "supah sized" rather than "standard" muffin top. Can't wait for that to be gone. I still feel like I am trapped in a fat suit with an unreachable zipper, but the padding is a little less bulky on this one.
As far as the eating is concerned, it's been relatively painless. About the same time I decided to start eating better, I also made some drastic changes in what I feed my kids. We are about 75% organic now. Everyone says it's so hard to go natural/organic when you're dirt poor, but if I can do it, anyone can. Have you ever taken a second to read the labels at the grocery store? Holy shit. I cannot become a food Nazi (not enough time, definitely not enough $$$) but it's been a nice surprise to find several affordable, edible options out there as far as feeding kids goes.
Don't be fooled though. In the deepest, darkest recesses of my heart I am, and always will be, someone who lives to eat. I have had a few slip ups, most noteworthy was a bag of Twizzlers that happened to fall into the cart while I was grocery shopping one night, and then half of that bag somehow happened to fall into my gaping pie-hole on the way home. Yes, I gobbled up licorice while driving in the dark. For shame.
I'm also still doing as much exercise as possible. Well, ok, maybe not as much as possible. But I am waddling with Walter pretty much every day, for a good hour or so. The kids are home from school now, so my daily walks are as essential as the daily poo. There is always the risk that when I get back, one or more of the angels will be lying in a pool of blood or there will be flames bursting out of the windows, but mama needs that little break.
I was joking with my therapist at our last session...we were talking about my tendency to self-medicate. For a long time I sought numbness and relief in bottles of wine, but not anymore. The thought of a drunk-driving ticket scares the absolute bejeesus out of me. So I was telling her how there ought to be a driving violation in regards to foodies, just to keep us scared straight. We were both cracking up as I described the terror and self loathing I'd feel if a cop pulled me over after a Taco Bell run. Wiping the greasy cheese bits off of my chin as I fumbled for my license and registration, trying to casually kick the crumpled up wrappers and bags under the seat..."Can you please step out of the vehicle, ma'am? We need to check your shirt for stains." They could call it "Driving While Full", DWF for short. Your punishment would be hard time watching marathons of the Biggest Loser and sporting a license plate emblazoned with the McDonald's arch.
Not sure if my therapist was laughing because she was truly amused, or just didn't want to get back to my abandonment issues, but we did have a good giggle over that one.
Anyhoo. I am taking it like Bonnie Franklin would...one day at a time. And now you'll have that theme song running through your head, too. You're welcome.