Let this little gem keep you company for the weekend:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mireille-guiliano/aging-with-attitude_b_870365.html#s286365&title=Add_Your_Own
Thursday, July 28, 2011
The ice cream story
I was so excited to eat everything in sight last week, that I ate half a quart of mint chip ice cream over the course of two days; thus, producing the, uh, dilemma I've been in this week.
The first time I ate it (I've had this brand/flavor before and it is *heaven*), I had three big scoops after dinner. It was wonderful going down, but I felt a little greasy and full afterwards. I vowed that two scoops would be my limit from now on.
The next night, I had two scoops after dinner and ate it very slowly. What I discovered is that there is a cool, tingly minty flavor at first followed by a mouthful of dark, bittersweet chocolate flakes that are all crunchy and yummy. So, on the second night of ice cream bliss, I realized that I wanted the ice cream more for the textures and the *experience* of eating it rather than for nourishment. I wasn't hungry, I wanted excitement in my mouth (hold all off-color comments, please).
So, as a 'commandment' of the Undiet, or tenet, or whatever you like - I will pause before I eat something so wonderfully nutrient-bereft and ask myself, "Am I eating to obtain nutrition or am I eating because it's my favorite hobby?" That doesn't necessary mean that I *won't* eat something because it's a hobby. I will just pause first and ponder my motivation.
BTW, problem solved. I have more spring in my step than your average zombie now. I also have learned the importance of fiber in the diet. Lots and lots of fiber. Ice cream and McDs do not have any. Fruits, veggies, and the lovely Mexican-inspired veg ragout I made tonight do. I had about a cupful of said lovely ragout this evening because my inner workings are still ravaged from this last week of abuse and the clammy, cold-sweat, abdominal cramping explosion of solved problem I experienced this afternoon.
But enough of the pleasantries. To recap what I've learned during Week 1 of the Undiet: My body will tell me what it wants me to eat, and low-fiber, high fat and sugary foods are generally not it.
My auntie always used to chide, "A minute on the lips means a lifetime on the hips." I would say that a minute on the lips means a lifetime in the colon. It doesn't rhyme, but damn if it ain't true. 8-}
I have a wedding to attend and a mini-road trip to B-ham this weekend to let Connor check out Western WA university. Aaaaaand, Sunday is my birthday. Aaaaaand, I'm going to Europa in downtown Tacoma for my birthday dinner on Saturday evening. Busy weekend - busier that 99% of them usually are, but I'll make sure to observe and report any thoughts on the ample opportunities I'll have to put the Undiet to the test.
Ciao, Bellas!
The first time I ate it (I've had this brand/flavor before and it is *heaven*), I had three big scoops after dinner. It was wonderful going down, but I felt a little greasy and full afterwards. I vowed that two scoops would be my limit from now on.
The next night, I had two scoops after dinner and ate it very slowly. What I discovered is that there is a cool, tingly minty flavor at first followed by a mouthful of dark, bittersweet chocolate flakes that are all crunchy and yummy. So, on the second night of ice cream bliss, I realized that I wanted the ice cream more for the textures and the *experience* of eating it rather than for nourishment. I wasn't hungry, I wanted excitement in my mouth (hold all off-color comments, please).
So, as a 'commandment' of the Undiet, or tenet, or whatever you like - I will pause before I eat something so wonderfully nutrient-bereft and ask myself, "Am I eating to obtain nutrition or am I eating because it's my favorite hobby?" That doesn't necessary mean that I *won't* eat something because it's a hobby. I will just pause first and ponder my motivation.
BTW, problem solved. I have more spring in my step than your average zombie now. I also have learned the importance of fiber in the diet. Lots and lots of fiber. Ice cream and McDs do not have any. Fruits, veggies, and the lovely Mexican-inspired veg ragout I made tonight do. I had about a cupful of said lovely ragout this evening because my inner workings are still ravaged from this last week of abuse and the clammy, cold-sweat, abdominal cramping explosion of solved problem I experienced this afternoon.
But enough of the pleasantries. To recap what I've learned during Week 1 of the Undiet: My body will tell me what it wants me to eat, and low-fiber, high fat and sugary foods are generally not it.
My auntie always used to chide, "A minute on the lips means a lifetime on the hips." I would say that a minute on the lips means a lifetime in the colon. It doesn't rhyme, but damn if it ain't true. 8-}
I have a wedding to attend and a mini-road trip to B-ham this weekend to let Connor check out Western WA university. Aaaaaand, Sunday is my birthday. Aaaaaand, I'm going to Europa in downtown Tacoma for my birthday dinner on Saturday evening. Busy weekend - busier that 99% of them usually are, but I'll make sure to observe and report any thoughts on the ample opportunities I'll have to put the Undiet to the test.
Ciao, Bellas!
An observation
My ass hurts, but not in that black tar heroin kind of way. I've been sitting at work for faaaar too long this week already and my butt literally hurts - my tailbone, lumbar spine, and all the surrounding muscles are either tense or have a dull ache, or both.
I'm beginning to take my work way too seriously, like I did at the Farm, and there's absolutely no need for it where I work now. All that work stress - real, imagined, or self-imposed - is a contributing factor to the 25+ pounds I gained working in claims. Nobody's hair or house is on fire, and there's nothing stopping me from leaving at 5pm like a normal person.
If I put one half of that nervous stress energy into taking evening walks or gardening, I may not have to bemoan the size of my posterior for much longer.
Question to *constantly* ask myself: What's the worse that could happen if I say 'no'?
I'm beginning to take my work way too seriously, like I did at the Farm, and there's absolutely no need for it where I work now. All that work stress - real, imagined, or self-imposed - is a contributing factor to the 25+ pounds I gained working in claims. Nobody's hair or house is on fire, and there's nothing stopping me from leaving at 5pm like a normal person.
If I put one half of that nervous stress energy into taking evening walks or gardening, I may not have to bemoan the size of my posterior for much longer.
Question to *constantly* ask myself: What's the worse that could happen if I say 'no'?
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
The Theory, the test, and the very bad results. . .
So, after fleshing out the concept yesterday, I was met with a goodly amount of criticism, albeit respectful, thoughtful, and with much love.
What I didn't share last night, at the risk of putting you to sleep with my diatribe, is the theory behind the concept. Because I am a writer and not a scientist, I'll put it to you as my thesis statement.
I believe that, by putting zero restrictions on what I eat, I will eventually develop a pattern of eating that is perfect for my needs; thus, allowing me to maintain or lose weight, but not gain.
How's that, for a long-ass, grammatically-correct sentence?!
Seriously though, I know me. I know that, the minute someone tells me what to do, I will do the opposite or nothing at all, thanks to my raging internal locus of control. If I perceive that someone or something else controls my fate, I will balk. Conversely, if I feel like I am calling the shots, everything is cool in the Land of Sharon.
Starting to catch my drift yet? What does a diet book do but tell you what to eat, how much, when, and sometimes where? Instant turn-off. I feel deprived, starving, and way out of control of the only thing I was born to have control over - my corpulent corpus.
So, by removing all restrictions, I believe I will develop a healthy pattern of eating that will allow me to become more attuned to my body's needs. But here's the rub. Until I develop this zen relationship with my body, I will probably eat anything and everything that has sugar and/or fat in it to make up for years of deprivation. And, oh yeah, I have been.
My test week diet has mainly consisted of cereal, McDs, ice cream, cookies, chips, and TV dinners, as I expected and planned. I wanted to get the "no holds barred" gorge-fest out of the way first. Giving myself permission to eat with reckless abandon felt GREAT! FANTASTIC! Sensual, even. . . like dirty sex. . . on a pile of twinkies, you know, in case I got the munchies after the dirty sex.
Not unlike facing the walk of shame after a one night stand, I woke up after a week's orgy of ice cream to the walk of constipation. You know, that bloated, miserable shuffle you get when things aren't quite right in the Land of Bowel.
Three words to describe it: Black Tar Heroin.
If you're lucky enough to "score" some, that is.
Soooooo, the first lesson learned on the Undiet is to know your limits, your 40-odd year old sluggish limits. I am currently dragging around like a constipated zombie.
We went out for Mexican food last night and I wisely eschewed the cheese- and sour cream-laden enchiladas for a more sensible bowl of albondigas (meatball soup with zucchini and carrots in it - oh, and one potato peel this time!). I didn't even eat many chips.
What I'm counting on during this experience is that, deep down, I am a pretty smart cookie. I learn from my mistakes. Heck, I even ate two pieces of fruit today and supplemented my frozen meal with a little extra veg and protein. That should more than make up for the two pieces of homemade banana bread I scarfed at work.
Regardless, I am still jammed up and miserable, and I have a newfound respect for fruit and its wonderful, laxative effect.
Next time: the lesson I actually learned from eating half a quart of mint chip ice cream over the course of 24 hours. Till then, may your BMs be copious and pillowy-soft. :-)
What I didn't share last night, at the risk of putting you to sleep with my diatribe, is the theory behind the concept. Because I am a writer and not a scientist, I'll put it to you as my thesis statement.
I believe that, by putting zero restrictions on what I eat, I will eventually develop a pattern of eating that is perfect for my needs; thus, allowing me to maintain or lose weight, but not gain.
How's that, for a long-ass, grammatically-correct sentence?!
Seriously though, I know me. I know that, the minute someone tells me what to do, I will do the opposite or nothing at all, thanks to my raging internal locus of control. If I perceive that someone or something else controls my fate, I will balk. Conversely, if I feel like I am calling the shots, everything is cool in the Land of Sharon.
Starting to catch my drift yet? What does a diet book do but tell you what to eat, how much, when, and sometimes where? Instant turn-off. I feel deprived, starving, and way out of control of the only thing I was born to have control over - my corpulent corpus.
So, by removing all restrictions, I believe I will develop a healthy pattern of eating that will allow me to become more attuned to my body's needs. But here's the rub. Until I develop this zen relationship with my body, I will probably eat anything and everything that has sugar and/or fat in it to make up for years of deprivation. And, oh yeah, I have been.
My test week diet has mainly consisted of cereal, McDs, ice cream, cookies, chips, and TV dinners, as I expected and planned. I wanted to get the "no holds barred" gorge-fest out of the way first. Giving myself permission to eat with reckless abandon felt GREAT! FANTASTIC! Sensual, even. . . like dirty sex. . . on a pile of twinkies, you know, in case I got the munchies after the dirty sex.
Not unlike facing the walk of shame after a one night stand, I woke up after a week's orgy of ice cream to the walk of constipation. You know, that bloated, miserable shuffle you get when things aren't quite right in the Land of Bowel.
Three words to describe it: Black Tar Heroin.
 |
| real black tar heroin, but not mine. |
Soooooo, the first lesson learned on the Undiet is to know your limits, your 40-odd year old sluggish limits. I am currently dragging around like a constipated zombie.
We went out for Mexican food last night and I wisely eschewed the cheese- and sour cream-laden enchiladas for a more sensible bowl of albondigas (meatball soup with zucchini and carrots in it - oh, and one potato peel this time!). I didn't even eat many chips.
What I'm counting on during this experience is that, deep down, I am a pretty smart cookie. I learn from my mistakes. Heck, I even ate two pieces of fruit today and supplemented my frozen meal with a little extra veg and protein. That should more than make up for the two pieces of homemade banana bread I scarfed at work.
Regardless, I am still jammed up and miserable, and I have a newfound respect for fruit and its wonderful, laxative effect.
Next time: the lesson I actually learned from eating half a quart of mint chip ice cream over the course of 24 hours. Till then, may your BMs be copious and pillowy-soft. :-)
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
The concept
This is why I don't write.
I sit in front of the computer and develop instant writer's block when I had it all planned out in my head moments earlier. I shall miserably attempt to recreate the awesome story I concocted while driving home. It was perfect. Now, it's crap.
The thought occurred to me one day not so long ago: What if. . . just what if I quit dieting? What would happen? Would I gain, lose, or hold steady? Would I eat everything in sight? Could I be chaste in the face of no limits? Might Ben and Jerry's stock quadruple in value overnight?
This concept of the Undiet Life whispered in my ear around about the same time I was embracing the UnDyed life, which coincided with a change of career, wading knee deep into my 40s, and coming to terms with the fact that I have a college student for a son. Big changes - yep, yep.
Those are all stories for another day, though. Back to the Undiet. I couldn't shake the question for days. What if I quit worrying about what and how much I eat? What's the worse that could happen?
Well, I could gain a tremendous amount of weight, develop diabetes, arthritis, or cancer, or even succumb to genetically-predisposed congestive heart failure. BTW, I am third in line to ascend the throne of CHF-induced death in my family. Grandfather had it. Mother has it. Now, I have all the indicators for it. Oh, and that little electrical problem with my ticker that garnered me a cardiologist at the ripe old age of 40. My husband could lose interest in me. My son could find me even more of an embarrassment than I already am. So much for the cons.
Now for the pros. Um. . . I get to eat a lot, if I want. I get to eat what I want, when I want it. I could even commit the mortal sin of eating chocolate for breakfast (an absolute no-no in my house.), if I want. Ice cream for dinner. McDonald's for breakfast. Cookies for lunch. It's all up for grabs, like my big fat ass.
Speaking of ass, I'm not thin. It won't be too much longer before I waddle into the obese category from a mere overweight. I will not use the bathroom scale, because that's akin to counting calories, which is verboten on the Undiet. I will, however, admit to a few stats. I wear a size 14 trouser/skirt and a medium top, some of which are getting a little snug. I wear a 34D bra, which is now furiously cutting a trench into my back-fat. The "D" stands for Desperately trying to find a 34D anywhere but expensive, high end department stores.
So, far from being a lark or a prank, I am quite serious about Undieting. Gaining more weight can put me into larger clothing sizes, bring on a host of health issues, exacerbate the ones I already have, and devastate my fragile newly-discovered self esteem.
But, that "What if" keeps buzzing around my head, like the mosquito who has bestowed half a dozen welts on my legs and ankles over the last 24 hours. What if I could free myself from the guilt that accompanies eating for pleasure? What if I stopped punishing myself for enjoying life? What if I rid myself of one of the many stressors sapping my soul on a daily basis? What if I bought out of the youth-obsessed American fitness culture? What if, indeed.
Certainly more to write about on the subject. As you may have noticed, I warmed up between the first paragraph and the last. Oh, and I am terribly long winded when writing. Next time, I will catch you up on what I've been up to this week as I come to grips with no-holds-barred eating, including what happens to your colon when you indulge on a 4-day ice cream bender. It ain't pretty.
Ciao, Bellas!
I sit in front of the computer and develop instant writer's block when I had it all planned out in my head moments earlier. I shall miserably attempt to recreate the awesome story I concocted while driving home. It was perfect. Now, it's crap.
The thought occurred to me one day not so long ago: What if. . . just what if I quit dieting? What would happen? Would I gain, lose, or hold steady? Would I eat everything in sight? Could I be chaste in the face of no limits? Might Ben and Jerry's stock quadruple in value overnight?
This concept of the Undiet Life whispered in my ear around about the same time I was embracing the UnDyed life, which coincided with a change of career, wading knee deep into my 40s, and coming to terms with the fact that I have a college student for a son. Big changes - yep, yep.
Those are all stories for another day, though. Back to the Undiet. I couldn't shake the question for days. What if I quit worrying about what and how much I eat? What's the worse that could happen?
Well, I could gain a tremendous amount of weight, develop diabetes, arthritis, or cancer, or even succumb to genetically-predisposed congestive heart failure. BTW, I am third in line to ascend the throne of CHF-induced death in my family. Grandfather had it. Mother has it. Now, I have all the indicators for it. Oh, and that little electrical problem with my ticker that garnered me a cardiologist at the ripe old age of 40. My husband could lose interest in me. My son could find me even more of an embarrassment than I already am. So much for the cons.
Now for the pros. Um. . . I get to eat a lot, if I want. I get to eat what I want, when I want it. I could even commit the mortal sin of eating chocolate for breakfast (an absolute no-no in my house.), if I want. Ice cream for dinner. McDonald's for breakfast. Cookies for lunch. It's all up for grabs, like my big fat ass.
Speaking of ass, I'm not thin. It won't be too much longer before I waddle into the obese category from a mere overweight. I will not use the bathroom scale, because that's akin to counting calories, which is verboten on the Undiet. I will, however, admit to a few stats. I wear a size 14 trouser/skirt and a medium top, some of which are getting a little snug. I wear a 34D bra, which is now furiously cutting a trench into my back-fat. The "D" stands for Desperately trying to find a 34D anywhere but expensive, high end department stores.
So, far from being a lark or a prank, I am quite serious about Undieting. Gaining more weight can put me into larger clothing sizes, bring on a host of health issues, exacerbate the ones I already have, and devastate my fragile newly-discovered self esteem.
But, that "What if" keeps buzzing around my head, like the mosquito who has bestowed half a dozen welts on my legs and ankles over the last 24 hours. What if I could free myself from the guilt that accompanies eating for pleasure? What if I stopped punishing myself for enjoying life? What if I rid myself of one of the many stressors sapping my soul on a daily basis? What if I bought out of the youth-obsessed American fitness culture? What if, indeed.
Certainly more to write about on the subject. As you may have noticed, I warmed up between the first paragraph and the last. Oh, and I am terribly long winded when writing. Next time, I will catch you up on what I've been up to this week as I come to grips with no-holds-barred eating, including what happens to your colon when you indulge on a 4-day ice cream bender. It ain't pretty.
Ciao, Bellas!
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