When did I become such a delicate flower?
I eat well, fruit or veggies at most meals, mostly non-processed foods, lean protein and little to nothing fried. I sometimes envy those who can eat or drink anything, anytime and any quantity with seemingly no aftershock. One late night Taco Bell run and I’m a twisted sister. Even an otherwise “healthy” bowl of slightly-too-salty risotto last night led to a two-hour carb nap followed by bloating lasting into this morning; thank goodness for roomy cotton sundresses and forgiving panty elastic. Then again, a pasta dish that requires 6 tablespoons of butter and absorbs 6 cups of liquid (in this case half vegetable broth, half water) is the recipe for heavy belly moaning.
I embrace the time spent in yoga where we detox, twisting and turning, bending and wringing out the ascending and descending colon from the inside out. I finish class with a feeling of draining from my sinuses and head, feel the blood feeding all my limbs.
And therein lies the rub, the conundrum. The "Twilight Zone" sad twist when Burgess Meredith's glasses slip from his face and shatter. The more effort spent pursuing a healthy lifestyle, from getting enough cardio and sleep to eating “right” and the more I become its bitch. A couple days away from hard and committed exercise (no pansy-ing around with the treadmill set on 3 but the stuff that hurts) and I’m cranky and fuzzy and did I mention cranky. Don't sleep, don't write. Eat like crap, feel like crap.
I’ve created a feel-good monster.
I fondly recall the late-night-early-morning ritual of chili cheese fries (a pound, and always very yellow cheddar) inhaled at Denny’s after hours of drinking and dancing. Sometimes pancakes loaded with butter and running with syrup. I’d awake the next morning energized, fueled by carbs and cheese enzymes, the chili adding a pink glow to my cheeks. Now a bowl of popcorn washed down with a Fat Tire and I bloat to 4 months pregnant from salt and oil.
Yes, the new work badge photo resembles nothing of the round, puffy face previously lamented on it; I have an actual chin and cheek bones. And hells yeah, even though there’s still more of me to love, men do and I let them because I’m comfortable and sexual in the skin (stretch marks and all) I’m molding into shape. And sure, clothes are cuter at Macy’s than the big girl shop.
But son-of-a-bitch, is an occasional Pop-Tart too much to ask?