 Whore for Core |
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So I'm starting the Core thing tomorrow. I'm stepping on the scale first thing tomorrow morning and entering my weight in the online tracker. I have no idea what it will be. It will probably be the same or higher as the weight I entered in January of 2003 when I first signed up for Weight Watchers in order to drop some extra pounds before the nonwedding and before the subsequent unintentional slide into a ridiculous state of being a stringbeany bone. And I'm not going to freak because it's no big mystery how that will have happened. I mean, I've been eating too much and not exercising. It's no surprise. I have no idea how I will gel with this program. The fact of the matter is that I'm just kind of a pig, partly because I love food and partly because I often use food as a comfort, as a timekiller, as a friend, as a filler of the hole, like, big duh. I want to approach this way of eating not only as a possible way to lose weight but as a way to change how I deal with food. To figure how to measure it not on a scale or with a measuring cup or with my points calculator but by my body and my mind figuring out how in the hell to work together to realize that chowing down endlessly does me no damn good. Beth said recently a lot of I have been thinking but have been clueless how to even begin to attempt to express. I know that I'm not significantly overweight. I know that my struggle is cake (for lack of a better word) compared to that of those who are. I know that talking about my big adventures in weight watching might make some people want to stab me in the eyes with a large fork, as I often feel about those people who complain about their weight who are thinner than I am, and they are myriad, such as my friend who is less than half my size who gave birth five months ago and still complains about how slowly her weight is coming off. To her, it's an issue. To me, it's idiotic, even though I'm aware that others might feel that way about me. So I know that this is all relative and that I don't have very much to lose in the grand scheme of things. But still, it's something that's important to me right now, for the reasons I tried to articulate the other day. I've read about some people using the black bean salad as a staple, and luckily, that's one of my favorite foods on earth, so I whipped up a batch tonight, using a can of black beans, a can of corn, three roma tomatoes diced in super tiny pieces, a green bell pepper and part of a white onion sliced just the same, a drizzle of olive oil, a little Tony Chachere's, and about four or five pounds of cilantro. It's sitting in a bowl in my fridge, and I'm really excited to eat it this week. I got home this afternoon all ready to make my beany delight. After weeks on end of broken meteorologist promises of rain, it finally dumped today in a major thunderstorm. I got home and let the dogs in and didn't recognize the black tornadoes that streaked past me and left a trail of destruction in their wake. I got them both in the bathroom, closed the door, took off my clothes, and stood in the bathtub with them one at a time, using antibacterial handsoap because I couldn't find the dog shampoo. The water turned brown immediately, which was ever so pleasant, and poor Zuko's entire snout was caked with mud all the way up to his eyelashes, and he was not very eager to have me wash it. He must have contorted his body and submerged himself in every puddle in the yard in the attempt to make like he was having an afternoon at the spa. It was bizarre. Of course each of them shook every five seconds and tried to escape and about two tons of soapy, dirty water ended up on the floor, but I think I got most of the mud off in that they started to look vaguely white again. The bathroom looked like a mud bomb had gone off in it. There was mud on the ceiling. There was mud on the walls. There was mud on the toilet seat. I have no idea. Anyway, I don't know how it will go. The first football game of the season is tomorrow, and it will be strange not to mark the occasion with a gigantic raspberry margarita. But this plan feels like at least it's something new, and if I can learn to listen to my body in a way that I haven't in a long time, I just hope it will help me to feel more alive and less like the slug who has taken up residence on my garden hose and scares me to death every single time I go to water my lilies. About this time in ...
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