Jelly Belly

Did you know that fifteen jelly beans are just four Weight Watchers points? This past week, I consumed 60 points in jelly beans alone — in one day. That’s right. An entire bag. And that doesn’t take into account the chocolate bunny, marshmallow Peeps and Cadbury eggs eaten throughout the week. The only thing I seemed able to control myself on were the actual Easter eggs.  I still have bright purple, blue and pink eggs behind the plastic butter door of my refrigerator.

I know I shouldn’t keep candy in the house. Pacing myself on sweets is a foreign concept. I may have confessed this before (I tell so many embarrassing stories on myself, I lose track) but I used to force portion control by throwing baggies of treats across the room. It was too much trouble to get from the couch back into the wheelchair to hunt them down. That worked for a while. Not anymore. A few weeks ago, I actually came out of the wheelchair to crawl on the kitchen floor to retrieve a bag of M&M’s I had thrown out of reach into a corner cabinet. Pathetic. In a 12-step program, that’d be called my rock bottom. A girlfriend and I decided that the one binge-proof place would be in a high cabinet. She would come over to place the goodies out of my reach. I can see the headline now. Disabled Woman Dies Trying to Reach Cookies.

Perhaps you all think you know what comes next —  some lesson on moderation, diet motivation or tips for weight loss. Wrong! I give up. I’m officially throwing in the towel. I’ve been trying to lose 10 or 15 pounds for one or two years now. And all I have to show for the deprivation when I’m good and guilt when I’m bad is a steady and maintaining 155. (See? I’m publishing my actual weight on the Internet. I have no shame.)

Please don’t misunderstand. I’m still a proponent for healthy living. I don’t plan on gaining. I’ve just decided to give myself a break. I hate to use the wheelchair excuse again, but it does apply here. I mean, not only is cardio exercise harder for me to get but why curb my enjoyment of life even more than the hemorrhage already has?

So, this post is about self-acceptance. I’m still counting points and know what my daily limit should be. I’m just not fretting over the occasional dessert out. Or half-pound bag of jelly beans as the case may be. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’ll never again have the body I had at 27. And that’s okay. Really. It was a whole lot of work, anyway.

So ditch the guilt! And not just about your body. A friend of mine always beats herself up over the clutter in her home. She collects a lot of stray objects to reuse as art projects. But you know what? That clutter makes her happy. And in the end, she has some beautiful handmade objects to show for it. So I say, embrace your mess! And your rolls.

In the words of my favorite card this Easter, “All I need to know I learned from the Easter bunny: the best things in life are still sweet and gooey and some body parts should be floppy.”

Ode to a French Fry

I love food.

I love McDonald’s french fries, covered in salt and greasy, hot out of the bag before you can even get home. I love mussels from Carrabba’s swimming in sauce that drips down your chin, sopped up by warm, crusty bread. Chilled Chardonnay on the side, of course. And I never met a dessert I didn’t like. I prefer the ones with morbid names like Death by Chocolate or Raspberry Suicide. So, can you tell I’m on a diet?

Yup, the same one I was on after the holidays when I wrote my “Winter Weight” post. So, you see, it’s been going well. Six months later and I’ve decided to get serious.  Well, as serious as I get about diets which is not very. In fact, I don’t like to use the term “diet.” I prefer instead to say I’m “being good.” Then, I haven’t failed. I’m just “being bad” temporarily.

And no, I’m not doing it because bathing suit season is upon us. I couldn’t care less about bathing suit season. I can’t even swim. I long ago traded in my bikini for a tankini and I’m considering trading in my tankini for some men’s board shorts and an old t-shirt. No, I’m doing it because I can’t zip up my pants and I don’t want to spend money on new ones.

I have two friends (I’ll call them Mr. and Mrs. Hard Body) that are always “being good.” For them, it’s not a diet, it’s a way of life. And it shows. They look like Ken and Barbie, if Ken and Barbie lived in the gym instead of a dream house. Now, I love my friends, but they’re no fun. A day at the beach entails not the potato chips and cold beer that I crave, but a baggie full of chickpeas and some coconut water. You know, the kind of people that spend fifteen minutes questioning the waiter before ordering the special served dry and a salad with the dressing on the side, hold the croutons. My friends recently met up with another couple who (gasp!) chose a French restaurant for the foursome to eat at. A real problem for my friends. A dream come true for me.

In fact, going out to eat is probably my favorite thing to do. Sure, it’d be nice to wear a two-piece again. Or even a sleeveless top. To have toned arms and a flat stomach. But, I’ve decided it’s just not worth it. So, I’m embracing my rolls. And the garlic ones.

Another friend and I discovered a great Greek restaurant the other night. I had Shrimp Mykonos and she had the lamb (tender — like butter!) We saved room for dessert — cappuccinos, tiramisu and Baklava cheesecake. It’s nice spending time with someone who appreciates food as much as me. We’re both in wheelchairs, maybe that’s it. Life experience has taught us only too well — life’s too short to skip dessert.

I’m sorry, I realize this post isn’t going to inspire anyone to stick to their own healthy eating plan. I, myself, am not breaking any records for weight loss. I think I’m losing at the lightning speed of a pound a week. Maybe less. So if you need motivation, I’ll be happy to get you in touch with The Hard Body’s. But I’ll have to leave a message. I hear they’re out training for a marathon.

Everything in Moderation

If you’re anything like me, you vowed to begin your diet after Easter.  Just like there’s no logic in watching your weight before the holidays.  There’s a reason everyone starts in January.  We want to allow ourselves to indulge at certain times of the year.

In fact, this time as I start anew, I’m going to follow popular wisdom and not call it a diet.  The word has negative connotations and brings with it a notion of deprivation.  Case in point — the grapefruit diet, the cabbage soup diet, the low-carb diet.  Feeling deprived easily leads to binging, which isn’t simply falling off the wagon, but hurling yourself off at top speed.  I have a friend, grateful to remain nameless I’m sure, who gave up sugar for Lent.  When I l heard from her Monday, she was halfway through a bag of chocolate eggs, surrounded by pastel-colored foil wrappers.  I once went on a “detox diet” that limited me to fruits and vegetables.  I lasted two days and on the third, ate an entire pan of brownies.

My mother likes to say, “All things in moderation.”  Maybe she has a point.  Sunday evening, I polished off an entire 12-pack of Peeps.  You know, those cute, little marshmallow treats covered in enough sugar to jumpstart your way to Diabetes.  Needless to say, I felt a little ill, yet seemed to have boundless energy.  Then hours later, I couldn’t pick myself up off the couch to let in the cat.  Even a single Peep defies the moderation principle.  It’s simply too sweet for some.

Just ask Frankie.  While he certainly doesn’t live by my mother’s rule, he does have particular tastes.  Having stolen a Peep from my Easter basket, he discarded it, soggy and uneaten, in the middle of my mom’s bed.  My friend, Mary, says the only thing worse than finding a wet Peep in your bed, is stepping in cat puke in the middle of the night.  Though, now that I think about it, maybe Frankie took issue with the texture, not the taste.  Or maybe it was both.

So, here’s to fresh starts.  And don’t forget you can give the forbidden treats away.  Take it from me: you don’t have to eat the whole package of Peeps to get them out of the house.