Confession is Good for the Abs
Since the coming home of Expat and the visitation of the GAFIL, I have to confess, I have not been sticking to the nutrition plan that Virtual oh-so-carefully composed for me.
Now, before all 1.5 of you who bother reading my sporadic missives begin to chide, let me preemptively say that I have not completely thrown in the towel on the nutrition plan. I'm still (usually) eating Virtual Approved breakfasts, lunches, and snacks. I am still (usually) drinking sugar-free Foofy Coffees instead of truly Foofy Coffees. And I'm (usually) making Good Choices at dinner: I get the fish tacos and veggies instead of the bacon, cheddar, triple beef burger with fries. I eat smaller portions. I (usually) skip dessert.
And even though it's Killing Me Softly with Free Weights, I am still dutifully going to the gym and sticking to my lifting/cardio routine (even though I had to repeat week 2 of my lifting routine because I was frantically cleaning the house and packing and, oh yeah, driving the 15 hours to Pennsylvania to fetch said Expat), which involves lots of me standing on one leg and either bending over in some capacity without losing my balance or lifting various amounts of weights while balancing on top of a box and trying to maintain Good Form. If nothing else, by the end of my first month's program, Ralph Macchio will have nothing on me.
No, I have not thrown everything away. In fact, since the Two Weeks of Eating Out with the GAFIL at Restaurants that Expat and I Could Never Afford Ourselves began, I have not regained any of the five (yes, five!) pounds I lost in the first week and a half of my plan. I have Maintained and the Maintaining itself is, for me, a huge victory.
But oh, dear reader, I have sinned.
I have eaten fried fish. Fried cheese curds. Fried frites.
I have eaten bread—white bread—at dinner. With butter.
I have consumed non-sugar free Foofy Coffees. Non-diet soda. Very non-diet beer.
I have eaten occasional bites of chocolate. Of tiramisu. And of ice cream.
See here's the kicker. Here's the absolute truth: I just take joy in food. Not even in the eating of it, more in the spirit of it. Of what it stands for and who it brings together. You can invite a good friend over to just hang out, or you could say "Hey, let's go to Nattspil and get mussels and pizza and a few glasses of Prairie Moon." And you know, if you say that to one good friend, they'll suggest that you invite a few more, and before long, you'll be a laughing, talking, big group of friends out for a Good Time. People bond over food. Few things make us feel more cozy, more comfortable in our own skin, than a Good Meal because Good Meals are had with company we like to keep close.
And I don't think that Good Times and Good Meals should count against me. Not in the long run. I don't think they should somehow sneakily convert themselves into unsightly bumps and lumps on my body, since every calorie has been consumed in some act of love or bonding. Perhaps that's why they refer to things as Love Handles—they are not so much handles for loved ones to grab, but evidence to the rest of the world that you clearly have a handle on love. That you're not afraid to take your GAFIL out for Wisconsin beer and brats and cheese. That you're not going to miss out on Important Rites of Passage. Like the doctoral graduation dinner. Like the 21st birthday celebrations. Like the first time that the Fair Eyed Daughter of your good friends, the Fashionable New Yorkers, tries ice cream at the only farm in town where you can actually see the cows that your ice cream comes from.
You can't sit these things out. You can't stand in the wings, clutching your nutrition plan to your chest and muttering countercurses to the calories. You have to plunge in and order the single scoop of Oreo with peanut butter sauce and whipped cream and a cherry on top so that when you laugh as Miss Fair Eyes winces at the cold of her First Bite, then instantly and insistantly reaches for more, you can know that you're laughing with a shared delight. That this shared moment is Important. That Good Times and First Bites are fleeting.
And later, you can do 45 single-legged bicep curls to make up for it.
Parting pictures
Miss Fair Eyes and the Better Half of the Fashionable New Yorkers.
Now, before all 1.5 of you who bother reading my sporadic missives begin to chide, let me preemptively say that I have not completely thrown in the towel on the nutrition plan. I'm still (usually) eating Virtual Approved breakfasts, lunches, and snacks. I am still (usually) drinking sugar-free Foofy Coffees instead of truly Foofy Coffees. And I'm (usually) making Good Choices at dinner: I get the fish tacos and veggies instead of the bacon, cheddar, triple beef burger with fries. I eat smaller portions. I (usually) skip dessert.
And even though it's Killing Me Softly with Free Weights, I am still dutifully going to the gym and sticking to my lifting/cardio routine (even though I had to repeat week 2 of my lifting routine because I was frantically cleaning the house and packing and, oh yeah, driving the 15 hours to Pennsylvania to fetch said Expat), which involves lots of me standing on one leg and either bending over in some capacity without losing my balance or lifting various amounts of weights while balancing on top of a box and trying to maintain Good Form. If nothing else, by the end of my first month's program, Ralph Macchio will have nothing on me.
No, I have not thrown everything away. In fact, since the Two Weeks of Eating Out with the GAFIL at Restaurants that Expat and I Could Never Afford Ourselves began, I have not regained any of the five (yes, five!) pounds I lost in the first week and a half of my plan. I have Maintained and the Maintaining itself is, for me, a huge victory.
But oh, dear reader, I have sinned.
I have eaten fried fish. Fried cheese curds. Fried frites.
I have eaten bread—white bread—at dinner. With butter.
I have consumed non-sugar free Foofy Coffees. Non-diet soda. Very non-diet beer.
I have eaten occasional bites of chocolate. Of tiramisu. And of ice cream.
See here's the kicker. Here's the absolute truth: I just take joy in food. Not even in the eating of it, more in the spirit of it. Of what it stands for and who it brings together. You can invite a good friend over to just hang out, or you could say "Hey, let's go to Nattspil and get mussels and pizza and a few glasses of Prairie Moon." And you know, if you say that to one good friend, they'll suggest that you invite a few more, and before long, you'll be a laughing, talking, big group of friends out for a Good Time. People bond over food. Few things make us feel more cozy, more comfortable in our own skin, than a Good Meal because Good Meals are had with company we like to keep close.
And I don't think that Good Times and Good Meals should count against me. Not in the long run. I don't think they should somehow sneakily convert themselves into unsightly bumps and lumps on my body, since every calorie has been consumed in some act of love or bonding. Perhaps that's why they refer to things as Love Handles—they are not so much handles for loved ones to grab, but evidence to the rest of the world that you clearly have a handle on love. That you're not afraid to take your GAFIL out for Wisconsin beer and brats and cheese. That you're not going to miss out on Important Rites of Passage. Like the doctoral graduation dinner. Like the 21st birthday celebrations. Like the first time that the Fair Eyed Daughter of your good friends, the Fashionable New Yorkers, tries ice cream at the only farm in town where you can actually see the cows that your ice cream comes from.
You can't sit these things out. You can't stand in the wings, clutching your nutrition plan to your chest and muttering countercurses to the calories. You have to plunge in and order the single scoop of Oreo with peanut butter sauce and whipped cream and a cherry on top so that when you laugh as Miss Fair Eyes winces at the cold of her First Bite, then instantly and insistantly reaches for more, you can know that you're laughing with a shared delight. That this shared moment is Important. That Good Times and First Bites are fleeting.And later, you can do 45 single-legged bicep curls to make up for it.
Parting pictures
Miss Fair Eyes and the Better Half of the Fashionable New Yorkers.
And, just for kicks, my Newly Doctored Expat. Heaven help us all.
posted by Sparky at 8:02 PM
5 Comments:
Had I been drinking something when I saw that photo of Expat, I would have spit it out posthaste.
Sparky, what a lovely post. It's like a great big hug. But I don't have to tell you that... you know that I know exactly what you mean.
Oh, and isn't summer just the best for those laid-back sessions at Nattspil!?
I agree with Kathy. A diet's nothing if you can't break it a little. And, as long as you break it in moderation, you'll be fine. That's actually a better way to stick to the diet--breaking it a little--than being too insanely rigid about it. Love the post and the photos!
Yaaaay expat. and is that the mini-tony-and-anna baby????? she's like a little person now!!
cheating a little makes the diet even sweeter, I say. Though Virtual might kill my Special Blogger Friend Rate for saying that. ;)
Affirmative. That's the Ceraso child. She is, indeed, a little person. She's officially the Fist Baby to be Scared of Me Ever. It's kind of a blow to the ego, but I'll live.
These days, every night is date night with the nutrition plan. As for the gym, well, maybe one the GAFIL leaves . . .
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