Day 64: Dieting Diaries

It just struck me that I wear the same bag every day. Unless I'm going out at night or headed to the beach or on a trip (not usual occasions), pretty much the only bag I take out of my house is my dark green Aldo studded shoulder bag. Don't get me wrong, it's a great bag. I'm not complaining. It was also $22 (pleather is a wonderful thing). Yet another reason not to complain. But considering that I pick out cute outfits with a different bag everyday, I realized I am living vicariously through this blog. Okay, I'm pretty fashionable. But I'm also quite boring. There's a big difference between picking out a picture of a fabulous pair of suede gray sandals and actually spending both money on buying them and time taking care of them (let's face it, storage in cities is a big problem). It's funny that I spend all day around great stuff--cute Michael Kors bags and designer jeans, especially--and can't afford any of it. Oh, well. I guess that's why I'm here--because here I can wear whatever I want. In fact, my new motto is, "Dress for the life you want, not the one you have--at least in your blog." I'm calling this ensemble, "Pick a Ring, Any Ring (or Two)."

It is Hank's and my year anniversary tomorrow. I got my period today. These things do not coexist well. I am also so tired that I actually contemplated going to bed at 4:30 pm but forced myself to stay up. Hey, I had already been up for 12 hours. After working both the closing shift and the opening one, I have come to a grand conclusion that both suck. There isn't a winning situation. Either you're ready for bed when most people are still at work or you're eating dinner at 11 pm and sleeping your morning away (not to mention dealing daily with the post-work, pre-dinner and therefore hungry, mass of shoppers, which makes the little old ladies and stay-at-home moms who come in at 10am seem like angels). Nope, either way you lose (so chipper tonight).

Since I am thinking about sleep with every key stroke, let me get on with this post. The girls try to spend some quality friend time by going to Atlantic City to gamble and eat. Even though Carrie does her best to remind them of the importance of investing in friendships, the girls all seem to be on different wavelengths. Samantha's obsessed with keeping an eye on Richard, until she dumps him. Miranda's tired and wants to veg out in front of the TV, and Charlotte is trying to ignore the unpleasantness of her 36th birthday by hitting on random guys instead of hanging with the gals. Eventually, though, they all end up on the same bus back to the city. When they return, Carrie tries to pick a look for her book cover. Charlotte needs help with her self-help addiction. Samantha blows the UPS guy in an effort to get over Richard, and Miranda joins Weight Watchers to lose her baby weight, briefly hooking up with an insecure fellow dieter in the process.

Dieting sucks. And that, my friends, is my thesis for the night. I have tried nearly every diet under the sun, and I am here to say that none were easy. Although I have been at a comfortable weight for about eight years now (the fear of getting "fat" again has only recently subsided--and by that I mean 5 minutes ago, when I stopped looking at my bloated stomach in the mirror and made peace with the fact that I ate about three servings of french fries with dinner). When acquaintances make comments about how "Some people don't have to worry about what they eat" in front of me, I want to laugh in their faces. What do they know about my history with food and my metabolism? Nothing. Throughout high school and college, I tried an only-Asian diet, a sugar-wheat-dairy-fun-free diet, The Zone Diet, The Prism Diet, vegetarianism, veganism, Ediets.com, metabolism-boosting injections, and a handful of other things I can no longer remember (thank God).

I used to be thirty pounds heavier than I am now. I used to be a size 12 and eat a half gallon of ice cream in one sitting. In fact, I even tried to be bulimic once in high school (actually before I got chubby) but had to stop when I realized that I liked food too much to watch it come back up all destroyed. What was the point of that? Yes, even when I was healthy and even, gasp, skinny, I dieted. My mother and I often did it together, and it was a sort of bonding experience. I think we started when I was 12. My biggest memory was of the grapefruit, egg, and coffee diet, the strangest part of which for me at that age was the coffee.

My mother always struggled with weight and self image problems. I remember constantly putting her body down, even though to me she just looked normal, even healthier than many of my friends' mothers. But looking back now, I finally understand where she was coming from. She had once been a size two, just like many women in high school and in their twenties. She missed it, and she probably hadn't anticipated saying goodbye to her svelte figure forever once she had kids. Sure, she could exercise and cook healthy meals in theory, but who had time for that when you had a booming medical practice, an over-worked husband, and three crazy daughters running around playing dress up and asking for mac-and-cheese?

Only now, as I contemplate one day losing my favorite parts of my figure, ones that I have worked pretty hard to attain during my adulthood, do I appreciate the fear of looking anything less than great. Sure, there are more important things in life, but I like to look good. So shoot me. And this coming from the girl who just downed a burger and three servings of fries. Ugg, and I don't mean the boots.

My weight loss (this is getting pretty darn boring, isn't it?) started my second year in college. The year before, at NYU actually, I had hit an all-time weight high. I had developed a ritual, mostly to conquer my loneliness of being without friends in the most bustling city in the world. At night I would roam the New York City streets alone, sometimes seeing off-off-Broadway plays, sometimes catching a movie, sometimes just walking, but I would always end up in a cafe or dessert shop. Here is where I confess something very embarrassing. I would sometimes eat three to four full desserts a night. It was the only way I could cope at that point.

When I transfered to Rochester a year later, I found myself once again in the land of running trails and affordable gyms. I ran myself into shape. I decided to stop dieting and just learn to eat healthily. I ate a variety of foods. Nothing was off limits. But I forced myself to count calories. Thanks to the online dieting program I had joined while at NYU (which I hadn't used it much), I knew that I could have 1600 calories a day and still lose weight. It was like being in heaven. I had always grown up thinking that 1200 calories was the max and that if you weren't hungry, you were doing something wrong. I forced myself to weigh only once a week (not daily, as I had been masochistically doing) and shoot for losing only 2 pounds between weighings. It worked. In six months, I had lost 30 pounds and felt great about my body for the first time in maybe my whole life.

Now, I don't diet. I don't weigh. I don't even own a scale. My jeans are my scale, and they are worth keeping my figure for, even if it's sometimes heavier and sometimes lighter depending upon the season and where I'm at in life. I don't freak out about gaining weight, because I don't know when I do. I don't count calories, though I have an idea of the calories in what I'm eating. I just know my face looks pudgy, and I don't like it. But I don't make drastic changes. I maybe cut down to one piece of bread with my eggs and bacon for breakfast instead of two. It usually works. I still have dessert, but surprisingly I don't really want it as much as I used to or really only want a few bites. It's amazing what you want (and don't want) when you allow yourself to have what you want. These days, I mostly just know what makes me feel full and good, and I eat that. If one day that's steak, great. If the next it's a handful of peanut M and Ms, perfect.

Okay, well that was a bit Shape Magazine sappy, but thanks for bearing with me. It's funny how so much drama in one's life can be summed up in less than 500 words. I think there's a lesson in there somewhere.

I hope you'll be back. I will, but not before 10 hours of sleep, God willing.