After two-and-a-half Thanksgiving-type food gatherings I am left wondering: is December 1st the worst time of the year to start eating right and exercising again, or the best time? Will I be setting myself up for failure?
I’m overweight. I’m fighting genetic obesity, and a fierce love of food, and enjoy curling up and reading, or writing, sitting stationary for hours at a time, which is not conducive to anything near svelte. Every year starting with Halloween, (those little fun size Reese’s peanut butter cups and Butterfingers made by the devil himself, in particular), it’s one big food fest until the end of the year. There’s this sexy pagan god running around with an enticing platter of food I can’t resist and I follow him for a couple of months, grabbing whatever I can and stuffing it into my eager gob. And every year a little more weight decides to stick around. But right now, I want to pull on some sweats (for exercise, not cozy-pants comfort) and start hitting a punching bag marked with different areas I feel really happy about punching: fat, money, crazy world, sadness, frustration.
This recent glutton-fest started with an entirely vegan and gluten-free dinner last Wednesday, with hummus, homemade gluten-free pita, (which was like a rich mochi cake, all gooey and not very pita-like, but served its scooping purpose well), green cilantro chutney, cucumber raita, Moroccan carrot salad, dolmas with chanterelles instead of meat and a spicy tahini dipping sauce. I made everything myself (with Joe saving my impatient patootie from the sticky pita dough just before I hurled the entire globby mess across the room, which would also have been unsuccessful as it was sticking to my hands making me look like a rice-flour covered zombie). Regardless of the starchy pitas, the meal was a success, filled with vibrant lemon, garlic and spices. When our guest bit into her first dolma she covered her mouth, closed her eyes in what looked like pain and emitted a low moan that increased in volume to a wail. I was worried she had bitten her tongue, and asked if she was all right, but it turned out to be a food-gasm. Now I know.
Thanksgiving itself consisted of the half-meal. I had one bite of turkey. It’s kind of complicated, but even when family is falling into a hole, I’m grateful that I can be there to lend a hand and a hug. Or give a hard loving push, depending on the situation.
Saturday we had what I christened Our Big Fat Italian Thanksgiving with my side of the family. Classic lasagna, fettuccine, panzanella salad, spinach salad, red wine, decadent desserts (recipes to follow in separate post when I’m not talking about how fat I am) —it was heavenly! And we’re not even Italian. I just wanted something other than turkey and potatoes. Cheese, that’s what I wanted, and it was delivered!
My dad took my family out for breakfast the following morning for one last hoorah, (spellcheck suggested 'hookah' here, which I thought was very humorous...) and though I had resolved to select a simple, healthy meal, the bacon, tomato, avocado Benedict started batting her eyelashes on the menu at me in all it’s creamy, salty, saucy glory and I had to order it. To my credit I saved half of it for this morning’s breakfast, but walking out of the restaurant I waddled like a penguin to the car, tummy leading. The post-holiday walk of shame. When we got back to my parent’s house we stepped through the door into a cloud of lethargy, each retreating to a couch or chair and nodding off. I took myself back to my old bedroom, now an odd mixture of sewing-room and guest room, with only a couple of hints of my past existence – a smiley-faced candle, a cat candle with enormous eyes, a Japanese doll – and rolled my sausage body onto the bed. The trip home was a haze of sleepy.
So, determined not to go through the next month in a food stupor, I made a wellness appointment with my doctor for two weeks from now, so I have a little time to start taking my calcium supplement again, and exercise away my food sins. Wish me luck!
I’m overweight. I’m fighting genetic obesity, and a fierce love of food, and enjoy curling up and reading, or writing, sitting stationary for hours at a time, which is not conducive to anything near svelte. Every year starting with Halloween, (those little fun size Reese’s peanut butter cups and Butterfingers made by the devil himself, in particular), it’s one big food fest until the end of the year. There’s this sexy pagan god running around with an enticing platter of food I can’t resist and I follow him for a couple of months, grabbing whatever I can and stuffing it into my eager gob. And every year a little more weight decides to stick around. But right now, I want to pull on some sweats (for exercise, not cozy-pants comfort) and start hitting a punching bag marked with different areas I feel really happy about punching: fat, money, crazy world, sadness, frustration.
This recent glutton-fest started with an entirely vegan and gluten-free dinner last Wednesday, with hummus, homemade gluten-free pita, (which was like a rich mochi cake, all gooey and not very pita-like, but served its scooping purpose well), green cilantro chutney, cucumber raita, Moroccan carrot salad, dolmas with chanterelles instead of meat and a spicy tahini dipping sauce. I made everything myself (with Joe saving my impatient patootie from the sticky pita dough just before I hurled the entire globby mess across the room, which would also have been unsuccessful as it was sticking to my hands making me look like a rice-flour covered zombie). Regardless of the starchy pitas, the meal was a success, filled with vibrant lemon, garlic and spices. When our guest bit into her first dolma she covered her mouth, closed her eyes in what looked like pain and emitted a low moan that increased in volume to a wail. I was worried she had bitten her tongue, and asked if she was all right, but it turned out to be a food-gasm. Now I know.
Thanksgiving itself consisted of the half-meal. I had one bite of turkey. It’s kind of complicated, but even when family is falling into a hole, I’m grateful that I can be there to lend a hand and a hug. Or give a hard loving push, depending on the situation.
Saturday we had what I christened Our Big Fat Italian Thanksgiving with my side of the family. Classic lasagna, fettuccine, panzanella salad, spinach salad, red wine, decadent desserts (recipes to follow in separate post when I’m not talking about how fat I am) —it was heavenly! And we’re not even Italian. I just wanted something other than turkey and potatoes. Cheese, that’s what I wanted, and it was delivered!
My dad took my family out for breakfast the following morning for one last hoorah, (spellcheck suggested 'hookah' here, which I thought was very humorous...) and though I had resolved to select a simple, healthy meal, the bacon, tomato, avocado Benedict started batting her eyelashes on the menu at me in all it’s creamy, salty, saucy glory and I had to order it. To my credit I saved half of it for this morning’s breakfast, but walking out of the restaurant I waddled like a penguin to the car, tummy leading. The post-holiday walk of shame. When we got back to my parent’s house we stepped through the door into a cloud of lethargy, each retreating to a couch or chair and nodding off. I took myself back to my old bedroom, now an odd mixture of sewing-room and guest room, with only a couple of hints of my past existence – a smiley-faced candle, a cat candle with enormous eyes, a Japanese doll – and rolled my sausage body onto the bed. The trip home was a haze of sleepy.
So, determined not to go through the next month in a food stupor, I made a wellness appointment with my doctor for two weeks from now, so I have a little time to start taking my calcium supplement again, and exercise away my food sins. Wish me luck!
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