Monthly Archives: April 2014


I wrote the other day about a newfound resolve to lose weight. It’s been just shy of two weeks and I’m still going strong. Sure, I’ve had a few slip-ups here and there but they’re not my fault. They’re the evil-doings of Eunice.

Eunice is both my uterus and my monthly visitor. I use the name for each interchangeably, but typically she refers to my womanhood and the ways it screws with my life. Pimple popped up? Eunice. Dove headfirst into a pile of french fries? Eunice again. Accidentally stabbed your annoying coworker in the face? That pesky Eunice. Did you sleep for 18 hours straight and wake up with chocolate smeared across your forehead? It’s fine. It’s Eunice.

She's a beast.

She’s a beast.

While she is basically a scapegoat for anything going wrong during that one week a month (and also the weeks immediately preceding and following), she’s also a legitimate saboteur of this weight loss journey on which I’ve embarked. She’s not even here yet, only threatening with a menacing scowl on the other side of Mother Nature’s door, but she’s already wreaking havoc. Take Tuesday, for example. I did well at work because I can only eat what I’ve brought with me. I stayed low on calories and high on irritation but I survived. I had intentions of walking another three miles, doing laundry and having a sensible salad for dinner but those plans were quickly thwarted.

Instead of opening the refrigerator to grab the last of the Romaine, beastly forces took over my arm and I opened the freezer. I went on to remove a frozen pizza and preheat the oven. By the time I regained control of my hormone-wracked body I had eaten the whole thing. All 900 calories. That’s almost an ENTIRE day’s worth of food. I felt guilty. For a minute. Then I watched two episodes of Glee and cried salty, garlicky tears into the bottom rim of my glasses. Then I ate some Girl Scout cookies before posting a well-crafted Facebook status about the pizza, in hopes of receiving some global sympathy. Then I went to bed and felt sorry for myself.

Yesterday was an uphill battle rife with muttered curses and cravings stomped down to nothing. I felt in control of my body and my mouth and with the help of several strong mints was able to eat well all day. Since my willpower is being held hostage for the rest of the week, I thought it best to invest in something that would make other food taste bad. So I’m eating mints every hour on the hour. We all have our coping mechanisms.

Shed your calories and GET IN MY MOUTH!

Shed your calories and GET IN MY MOUTH!

Even though yesterday went well and today isn’t a disaster so far, I’m feeling weak. Here are some thoughts that have crossed my mind over the past hour:

-I would sell my soul to North Korea if someone would bring me an olive burger and onion rings from Mr. Burger. I’d do it. I’ll draw up the contract right now. Don’t forget the ranch dressing.

-I’m seconds away from pouring salt directly onto my tongue.

-Is butter a carb?

-Frozen yogurt totally cancels out cookie dough pieces and chocolate sauce.

-The word “hangry” has just taken on a very personal meaning to me.

Wish me luck in the coming week. Eunice is a real bitch.

Let’s Get Physical, Physical

I’m at it again. Every so often I get tired of being chunky and vow earnestly to do something about it. I dive into calorie-counting and get militant about portion sizes for a few weeks and then I inevitably come crawling back to carbs and fried things like the whimpering sloth I am.

I’m hoping this time is different. It may be, if only because I’m trying my best to throw exercise in the mix even though everything in my being begs me to remain sedentary. There’s something exciting about logging in your calories, then remembering that half hour speed-walk and watching your remaining “allotments” jump up, allowing for a few of those Girl Scout Cookies that have been staring at you lasciviously from atop the microwave. It’s a novel idea, really. If I move around a little throughout the day I can eat something that I crave. Sounds easy, right? Wrong.

My chosen exercise at the moment is brisk walking. If this sounds like something your grandma does on the reg, you’re right. I’m literally going from zero physical activity to trying to lose pounds, so it’s all I can muster. I have an internal struggle to get myself to put on athletic shoes (the ones I only just purchased, because why would I have them already?) and leave the house once I’ve already sat down. There are so many times throughout the half hour and 2.2 miles that I want to throw in the sweaty, sweaty towel and just lay down in the middle of the street. But I haven’t. Either time. Yes, it’s only been twice so far. But it’s my first week! Give me a break.

I just did a more leisurely stroll with one of my best gal pals, and my face is beet-red and blotchy. My chest burns and my legs may not allow me to get up the stairs and into the shower in a few minutes. We walked only three miles and it took us an hour, but dammit if Heritage Hill and downtown aren’t at least half up-hill battles. My bum hurts. And I have a personal vendetta against Cherry Street heading back toward HH from downtown. And also Fulton, for that matter. How dare you? Can’t you see I’m dying?

The good news, is that with a little imagination and some slight exaggeration we were able to log in enough cardio to put us ahead in our allotted calories for the day. And that’s good news because we’re heading to a wedding this evening and “cocktail hour” has the potential to send me into hors d’oeuvres hell.

Wish me luck, blogosphere. It’s a warzone out there.