Confessions of a Foodie

I made a deal with my boyfriend. He shaves his disgustingly long and furry (okay its not that bad, but its pretty bad…aka too scruffy for a college guy…aka he looks homeless) beard when I get a toned stomach.

I guess it was me that brought the deal on in the first place. I wanted something to motivate me, and I knew if it was something to work for, he would actually call it a legitimate deal and shake on it.

Well little did I know that making this deal would become something nagging and frustrating. I knew going in that this would be a challenge. I love food, I don’t do well with diets, and even though I work out plenty I don’t have good self control when it comes to meals. Since I’ve been visiting my boyfriend for vacation in California though, its the only thing I’ve heard. Every bite, every second I want to nap over workout, every morsel food I shuffle around my plate.

Since this morning I’ve gotten sh*t about the size of my Mexican dish, I’ve heard comments about taking a week before starting to work on my body, I’ve dealt with under-the-breath mentions of ”Wow, babe, you must be hungry” and “you’re craving food again,” and “better get working on that six pack” and “it’s gonna be a long few months” and even side notes about how drinking works against healthy living and eating and exercise. Okay, I get it.

All I wanted was for these ten days to be fun; once I’m back home I’ll start working hard, but until then I want to enjoy myself. I want to eat food without feeling like sh*t. I want to eat what I want without instantly regretting it.

And then there’s the things that bother me without anyone meaning to. Like when my boyfriend was rubbing my back when we were on the couch watching a movie. He made a comment about my bra strap, “Baby, you don’t have to wear it so tight”. It almost brought me to tears because I’ve always kept it on the tightest clip, I’ve just gotten wider in the past few months I guess (or maybe it’s the Mexican food).

Then there’s his mom’s food journal on the counter. She’s well on her way to her weight goal…way ahead of me. Cry. That awkward moment when you realize you weigh more than someone who’s twice your age and has had a kid.

And so it becomes an obsession. You can’t stop thinking about the leftover re-fried beans and veggies you had a few hours ago. You don’t want to swim because you feel like sh*t. You look at yourself in the mirror and you tear up.

It was fine just yesterday, now you realize what a long road you really have. But you can’t motivate yourself to run, and you can’t stop thinking about that mint chocolate chip ice cream in the freezer downstairs.

What’s wrong? Maybe the fact that all of a sudden you hate yourself and your not happy and you know the response you’ll get in reaction, “Baby you’re too emotional. Are you on your period?”

So what do you do? You say f*ck it. Because ultimately life is too short to keep yourself from that little squeeze of Hershey’s in your milk or the side of guacamole. Hell, what’s ten days in the scheme of things? You’ll meet your goal, you made a deal, you promised.

So you shrug off the comments, pick your sorry self from the couch and run around the block. Then you order the beef and cheese burrito. You know who you are and who you’ve always been. You like food, so what? Goals and bets, you’ll get there when you get there. Right now you’re on vacation and the Oreo cookies are calling your name.


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