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!