I mean it would make me feel bloody fantastic for about 20 minutes, but immediately plunge me into a place I had no desire to go. I’m finally starting to get that it won’t make me feel better to dive headfirst into a box of Chicken on the Way (who makes the very best fries, by the way, dipped in mayo, and corn fritters dunked in honey). My brain actually knew better this time than to move in on me while my defenses were down.
#JULIE THE BIG SALAD FULL#
I did not say f*ck this, I’m still wearing size 18s here and have three tiers of back rolls which Spanx really only even out into rolling waves, and the camera adds ten pounds and there are three cameras on me, and I’m going to be immortalized on film and broadcast to the world like this, not wanting to turn sideways lest people notice my barrel chest or aforementioned back fat, nor my protruding right thigh that’s a full two inches (I measured) bigger around than my left thigh, and maybe I should just go ahead and be the fat chef, because it’s a lot tastier that way. (Nor, unfortunately, drinkable.) The half jar of Nutella is still sitting untouched on my shelf. I didn’t drown my sorrows in anything edible. The hours-long parade of three-way full-length mirrors under fluorescent lights and scrutiny deflated me a little. (Or more accurately, one: charged with, other: friend along for the trip.) Bright colours, no stripes, no short sleeves on account of my flabby, scarred, stretch-marked and fishbelly-white upper arms. Or I was, until I had to spend the past two days trying on clothes in front of two (very nice) stylists charged with picking my wardrobe for the show. More streamlined and better able to move through my life. I’m sitting at about 203 now, not much of a change in the past week, but the scale hasn’t been going up again either. I have had to consciously ignore that inner voice that tends to get louder at around 10 pounds in and play the ‘you’re in control of this’ card – hey, you deserve to go get yourself a milkshake! You’ve lost what, fifteen pounds? Sixteen? You deserve this! You’re totally in control now – you can go ahead and order that pizza. It’s less of a concerted effort and becoming more habit now. It has, as it always does, gotten easier. Still plodding along on this weight loss regime. Luckily I drank the last of the bottle on my first go, or I’d have no teeth left.) (One New Year’s Eve when I was pregnant I drank a wineglass of balsamic straight-up and it didn’t seem weird at all. All drizzled with maple-balsamic vinaigrette, which I’d eat on anything. I obliged, cooked three and put our poached eggs over spring greens and roasted asparagus, with the last of the Oka cheese (the rest went with those Raincoast Crisps, which I feel I’ve eaten my body weight in) and a roasted orange pepper cut into strips. W ate a bowl of granola at around 5 and then asked for eggs and toast.
But these days I am loath to drink my calories, unless it’s in the form of a Peter’s milkshake I would have to nurse all day long in lieu of meals, considering its 900(ish) calorie price tag. A particularly harrowing day today, one that should have ended with a glass (or bottle) of wine.
0 kommentar(er)
