Sunday, July 24, 2011

Are My Tights and Cape Back from the Cleaners?


(If you under 18 and reading this, please stop. While vulgarities are not the best way to express oneself, they are preferable to beating the ever-loving shit out of the first person you come across)

MOTHER FUCKING SON OF A BITCH! What the hell happened? I don’t get it, I do NOT understand this. As my grandmother (who NEVER swore except for once in her life and you are about to hear that) said when something unexpected and absolutely unwanted turned up in her life (namely, my great-grandmother), “Jesus hell shit and damn.”

Was this my fault? Must be: no evidence of ninjas breaking into my home, stuffing a funnel down my pie hole and force-feeding me like a goose (this is how we get foie gras, Kids. Appetizing, isn’t it?). What’s that? “Ninjas don’t leave evidence.” Okay, stop geeking on me and focus.

This is on me: not only because of the highly personal nature of the setback, but also because it is completely on my shoulders to solve. Look, I’ve said this before about victims: they have no power. If you do not take responsibility for your failures and setbacks, you have no right to take credit for your successes. “It’s not my fault because…” gives power to the source you’re blaming. If that or they or he or she (whatever it is outside of you) can control you like that and you allow it to continue, you’re not going to have a wonderful life, especially if that or they or he or she finds out and exploits that weakness. You don’t want to live your life on the end of a chain.

You may have guessed there was an explosion of anger and frustration when I read 183 on the scale (which, yes, is still intact. I’m not killing the messenger on this one). The energy it created could have gone in one of two potential directions, as I see it. I could have 1) screamed “FUCK IT!” and just started stuffing my face. This is a time-honored reaction which has been deployed many, many times in the past and part of the reason I got up to 225 lbs. However, since the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, I doubted this would have cleared the decks of the excess tonnage. Option 2) take that energy and put it to good use on the Rotating Staircase of Death. I grabbed my gym bag and hit the road.

As I was entering the last 8 minutes on the RSoD (Rotating Staircase of Death) and watching the sweat drip off of my nose onto the treads and comparing it to the better curveballs thrown in the major leagues (Seriously, without trying, I can get a truly filthy break on a sweat drop and it will land about a foot away from the drop point), I was still puzzling over the “Okay, so what have I done wrong here?” question. I began making plans to order HCG from my former acupuncturist in St. Louis and hitting Round 2, but I wasn’t enthusiastic about that plan. I think noticed that not only had I completed my workout (45 minutes), but had maintained a faster pace than I had ever done.  Oh, I still look like I’m about to keel over, but I survive to tell the tale. I moved over to the elliptical machine (Remember in
“Stripes” how every time Bill Murray shot off his mouth to the Sergeant, the whole platoon got punished? Same principle). When you’ve got forward momentum, use it, Baby, use it.

While on the elliptical, mentally grumbling and snarling (and actually flipping off Alex Rodriguez every time ESPN shows his smug mug. Both hands. I don’t like the guy), the grumbling and snarling included such entries “My sinuses have been congested for over a week” and “Why is my GD face breaking out?” and “How the fuck am I going to get back on track?” as well “Thanks a lot, GOD! Way to pull the string when I’m on the brink of 50 down!” (Okay, so I wasn’t in my “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar” mode at that moment. Hey, everybody goes to the zoo now and then). The TVs were showing Comic Con coverage and  John Mayer’s cover of “Route 66” (“Cars” soundtrack and a FINE rendition. I highly recommend it for your cardio mix) popped on the headphones. The feet kicked in, the tempo kicked up and I was distracted from the problem to solve…Freeze frame (another good song, but this is not the context): I do the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle and find that when stuck, if I put the puzzle down and do something else for a while, when I return to the puzzle, suddenly, the answer I seek just pops into my head. This is problem-solving. Okay, back to the machine….So, I am lip-synching Route 66 and pedaling away like crazy on the machine when it hit me…

My old arch-enemy. Sugar. And his evil henchman, Starch.  (I can’t decide if we’re talking tights and capes or more of a black fedora and trench coat, but this is what Comic Con images will do to an oxygen-depleted mind)

Suddenly, it became clear: the inability to eat just a measured amount of wasabi almonds (they contain sugar), the constant, compulsive grazing that was getting worse, the bloated feeling, the sinus congestion (with slightly bloody nose, low grade fever and annoyingly crappy feeling. No, there is no better way to describe not actually sick. You feel CRAPPY). The emotional downturn. Oh yeah. Sugar had invaded my Fortress of Solitude/Bat Cave/League of Justice Headquarters (Comic Con, remember) and had begun to use my tools and weapons against me.

Here’s the thing with sugar and me: it starts and perpetuates an eating cycle. The more I have, the more I want. Sound like an addiction? It does to me.

I had allowed some sugar back into the diet, isolated intake, but not made it a part of the everyday meal. The coconut I had been craving: all of it was sweetened and I had started eating it regularly about the same time my metabolism had been thrown into reverse. And the zits had started. And the eating had gotten out of control. And those jeans I’d worked so damned hard to get back into didn’t fit. And I was feeling crappy because SUGAR IS INFLAMMATORY TO YOUR ORGANS. Bastard tricked me again.

Upon returning home, I rounded up all of the coconut products I had left as well as any brown rice or granola (even the gluten-free stuff. Gluten free, yes. Starch free, no) and gave them to some friends who think I’m somewhat nuts, but they also like pina coladas, so it’s win win.

We’ll see what the scale says tomorrow morning and for a few days after that (I don’t know how long it’ll take for it to work its way out of my system). 6 lbs., I’ll give it 2 weeks to self-correct, sticking to protein, vegetables, fruits and nuts in the interim.

And in the meantime, Sugar and Starch have jumped into their evil motorcycle and sidecar (with a sugar molecule painted on the side) and driven off in search of an actual victim.

Take that, you little molecular mother fuckers. You won’t destroy MY world.


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