I’m having a stand-off with a bag of salad in my refrigerator.
About a week ago, I finally got serious about going on a much-needed diet. I’ve been carrying an extra 10-15 pounds of baby-belly weight around the world with me, and I was running out of excuses. No more, “I have to keep junk around for the kids,” or “I’ll start after the holidays” or “It’s too hot/cold/rainy/snowy to exercise” or “crunchy vegetables make my dental work hurt.” Maybe it was my recent trip to Victoria’s Secret to redeem a “free panty” coupon, when I found myself hijacked into trying on sports bras in the dressing room, a shop assistant coaching me to “jump up and down to test the support” while I was in there. Looking at myself, I rather felt like a squeezed balloon.
Whatever it was, I decided it was high time.
I’m lucky, I know, I’m not as heavy as I could be. My habits aren’t appalling. There are certainly many, many, many people the world over who struggle with a bigger weight problem than I am currently addressing. But sometimes, it’s the lesser amounts of weight, on the more petite folks like myself, that is harder to lose. And, even after just a week, I already know these 15 pounds will be a lot harder to shed than even I expected. I sure wish I could put them in a bag and give them to Goodwill.
I’ve never been much of a dieter, aside from a stash of weight loss pills (now off the market) I used to take in high school to make my already thin body even thinner. My parents used to diet about twice a year, drinking shakes for breakfast and lunch like Tommy Lasorda, and I watched their weight go up and down with seasons and life changes and good and bad times. Even when I have needed to lose weight, I’ve always been on the sidelines, watching some wonder drug or machine or plan advertised on TV and think, “Man, if only it was that easy! Wouldn’t it be great if that really worked?” Because I’ve always known, deep down in my gooey chocolate core, that dieting would be much harder than that.