My heart is racing. My pulse and breathing, rapid. Palms sweaty. Adrenaline pumping. I’m about to confess. I’m not Catholic and yet I feel this need to sit my secular ass in confession and pay my penance.
Okay, out with it, Amy. Seriously. Now. Out.
Excuses first, right? Every one needs the context. Yes. Context. Necessary. Without context this post would be a tad bit thin on words.
Fine. The reality is this. I’m stressed out. I’m exhausted. The truth of the matter is that I’ve been managing the four boys on my own most evenings. That in itself is enough to make me weary but add to that tired boys, 3 little league teams all with practice and games, a sudden onset of talking back, and the need to still feed them, bathe them, and get them all nicely tucked in and I’m at capacity. Falling asleep in random places, capacity.
Now throw in an unemployed husband who had a vital job interview today which has us chewing and spitting nails as we wait to find out if they will accept or reject. Stressed! Freakin’ pullin’ my hair out, stressed!
The cherry on top. I established myself with a PCP today and we have this oh so fun convo:
Dr: Do you realize you are slightly overweight?
Me: Yep, quite aware. Been working on that.
Dr: Do you exercise?
Me: Yep, 3-5 days a week.
Dr: Hmmmmm, that’s plenty of exercise. Most people can manage a healthy weight with that exercise. And since you are making healthier choices with your food, eating vegetarian, and exercising I want you just to try really hard to get down to the 130s.
Me: uncomfortable laughter with this thought bubble: are you fucking crazy, bitch?!?
Me: I was barely in my 130s when I was running back to back marathons. And that was skinny for me.
Dr: Well a twin birth can really add weight. Maybe it’s that.
Me: yeah, not likely. Twins were 7 years ago. 130s was 2 years ago.
Dr: Okay then. Add more exercise. Let’s work really hard to see those numbers again.
Me: I’ll be happy if I see 140s again! 130s seems like a pipe dream. But I’ll try harder.
Dr: 130s. 140s is better. 130s is best. Keep at the vegetarianism too. It’s a good choice.
Mild internal tantrum in which I violently rip syringe boxes and anatomy charts from the wall while kicking those uppity rolling stools and screaming, fuckity fuckity fuck fuck fuck.
Now you have the context. Busy. Stressed. Exhausted. And a fat vegetarian.
I’m stepping in to the confessional. Breathe. And go….
On the way home from the twins’ (who theoretically helped make me fat) game tonight, I handled my stress in a really negative way and I need cleansing.
I drove 5 miles. City miles. Five effin city miles to find a McDonalds where I bought 4 kids meals (mommy guilt) and….wait for it….a Spicy McChicken meal for me.
I fell so far off the wagon I was transcended for a moment. Transcended in to the heavenly saltiness of a fist full of fries. Blissfully forgetting the chicken(s) who had suffered and died only to be sandwiched between a bun and smothered in mayo and then chewed ever so violently by this wannabe vegetarian. Every calorie I swallowed in a blind rage. Like a mama bear just awoken from hibernation. Calorie after salted fleshy calorie revengfully devoured.
Suck that, you 130 pushin’ MD!
And when I finished that chicken sandwich I looked in the bag to find that the devil is indeed my friend. Down in the bottom of that bag was a second Spicy McChicken poison apple.
I was Eve (only difference is that I would not of shared with Adam). “The devil made me do it.” Eve.
While I was off the wagon, I went ahead and jumped all the way off. Duck and roll, baby. I washed down my calorie/meat fest with a glass of wine and four servings of jelly bellies.
130. My ass.