Eat the Stress
There is no cruelty greater than PMSing on Valentine’s Day.
I’ll skip all the obvious Hallmark derision surrounding this ‘holiday’. I’m not a greeting card person, and so red cardstock does nothing for me. Besides, the last time I checked, Shoebox Greetings didn’t make anything edible.
But I had a beast of a PMS this month. I can’t really explain the why of it. Wedding plans are progressing nicely. My family is even cooperating at a predictable level, initiating a scuffle with my mother that allows me to ignore everyone from her side. My budget hadn’t really allowed for extended family anyway, but now I’m thinking I will have to invite the whole of my father’s side, just to have some guests on my side of the aisle. Right now, my ‘half’ of the list falls distinctly into the Under-Represented category. I’m not even sure that my father will be coming.
Right now, my list of ‘really want them to come’ and ‘they’ll really want to be there’ totals right around 25. Considering that my list includes both my bridal attendants AND my parents, who will be standing with me, and not seated in the crowd (or my mom and brother if Dad doesn’t come), my side of the aisle is going to hold roughly the same human population as Antarctica. We may have to eliminate the bride’s side/groom’s side tradition, since if we don’t, the whole room may tip over from Howard’s guests, and then all my guests will be in their laps, and no one is going to watch the processional.
The search for my dress can’t be to blame, either, since Howard and I had good luck last weekend on our first expedition. I remained adamant about not baring my whole upper body during the ceremony, even though all the designers in the world are conspiring against me. I’m sorry, but I just cannot see standing up formal ceremony with my neck, arms, shoulders, and, let’s face it, boobs, hanging out. I guess in that vein, I’m glad that my family won’t be attending. They’re all very conservative, very Christian folk who think that a woman should sew up the walking slits in her skirts. Nobody smokes, drinks, or dances, and I think they might faint if they see me marching half-naked up the aisle.
As it turns out, you can find gowns with sleeves, and if they don’t come that way, you can chop off train and/or skirt to make some. What’s more, all strapless gowns comes with shawls or wraps or both (some even come with little handbags, though what a bride needs to carry in a PURSE when she’s walking down the aisle escapes me), and there’s all kinds of interesting ways to fashion said covering so that the dress looks modest and appropriate for the service, and then festive and sprightly for the reception.
Maybe it’s the fact that Howard and I are embarking on a 12-week intensive-study program with DS to determine where he falls on the Autism spectrum, and what we need to do to prepare him for mainstream kindergarten in the fall. The school district wants to send him to early childhood kindergarten, which is designed for learning disabled children (which he is not), and does not address social or behavioral challenges (which he has), and so we are engaging with experts to determine just where he is and exactly what he needs. It’s 5 full 3-hour sessions over the next 2 or 3 months with PhDs and social workers and teachers and testers, answering and asking questions, and then waiting 4 to 6 weeks to see what they say/recommend/offer. By the time the report comes out, school’s regular session could be over, and while DS does attend the summer session, we’re dancing on the edges of not being able to fit him in a mainstream classroom, just on deadline issues. So yeah, that’s pretty stressful.
In any case, the PMS Beast hit me hard, and just when the office exploded with colored-sugar infestations. As if that weren’t enough the WW meeting last weekend was entitled, “Chocolate: is it good for your heart?” Our wondrous leader pointed out early and often that this was not a carte blanch to eat chocolate and pretend you’re still on program, but still, every time she mentioned the words ‘cocoa’, ‘sweet’, or ‘sugar’, my pancreas spasmed.
By the time yesterday rolled around, I had somehow forgotten that I’m 8 months into a weight loss program and am down 84 pounds already, because after I stopped at Walgreen’s to buy tampons, I found myself walking up the candy aisle and actually looking for dark chocolate (WW meeting said to eat dark chocolate, since it’s ‘better’ for you). I dug my nails into my palms to keep my hands from reaching out to my old friends, and I high-tailed it to the cash register. By the time I hit my car, I was nearly panting, and let me tell you, the 94% fat free popcorn that I had 2 hours later did NOTHING to help me along.
And oh yeah, the Demons at Reese’s pulled out those dang peanut butter eggs for Valentine’s Day. Oh sure, they molded them into hearts, but I knew what they were. Bastards.
I’m certainly not about to cave in to chocolate at this stage, but I am truly weary of battling this. I can see (again) why the quick-fix diet programs get so much publicity and get popular so fast. How much better and easier this would be if I could just have an injection that cured me of my need for sweets, or that made me indifferent to the trays of goodies lining the hallways at work. I’ve eaten so many pickles this week that I’m starting to smell like vinegar. I’m drinking so much coffee at work that it’s still hot when I get to the bottom of my 16 oz cup. I could certainly drink more water, but I’m already up every hour to grace the ladies room. If I had anything more to drink, I’d have to set up my laptop in the handicapped stall. At least then I’d have a door…
Today I spread out my meals, hoping that eating more frequently would help quell the firestorm in my tummy. Guess what? Eating more frequently boosts the metabolism which makes you hungry sooner. I really can be a dork about this sometimes.
It worries me that since I still have these bouts where I’m hungry all the time, that I’m not eating right, even now, after all these months of tracking and monitoring. I live in fear that Howard will get an assignment out of town and will be traveling, leaving me to fend for myself at dinnertime. I’m a pretty good cook, but I hate doing it, so my ‘dinners’ alone have historically consisted of (1) Diet soda or (2) takeout trash food. I think I can do better than that, but something tells me that, until I got a big shocker at the scale on Saturday mornings, I might be tempted to serve myself turkey jerky and goldfish crackers with DS.
I got my period yesterday, and the Fat Lady has quieted some. But next month is St. Patrick’s Day, and then Easter is right after that, and in between is my birthday and Howard’s mother’s birthday party, which will no doubt overflow with lovelies for the palate. Here’s hoping I’m not PMSing then. Since I’ll be a guest in their house, I’ll have to confine myself to eating my swimsuit and coughing all week to cover up my growling stomach. That should prove interesting.
This sucks, but it’s way better than being fat. I’m sitting at work in my size 6 jeans, and while my feet hurt because I still can’t figure out how to wear heels, I’m comfy in my wee-stretch pants and my size small sweater. Maybe this is just how this is going to go. Maybe I’ll always be just a little bit hungry during my PMS, and maybe that’s just the cost of being thin and healthy. If I can remember that my hunger and my cravings are temporary and not really real, I can get through this. Maybe.
Practice, practice, practice. And steer clear of Walgreen’s during Hell Week. Or, at least send Howard to get my tampons. That’s the trick! After all, we’ll soon be married. Good husbands are cheerful about leaving their warm houses at night and driving through fog to buy tampons for their wives. Better still if they can wrap his coat around him so as not to alert the clerks that they are, in fact, still in their jammies. Of course, Howard sleeps au natural, so that proves trickier, but still, all the more points awarded for effort and originality of trench coat wrapping.
So clearly, the key to PMS chocolate attacks is marriage. Lucky me.
A the H(appy to Suffer-apparently)
I’ll skip all the obvious Hallmark derision surrounding this ‘holiday’. I’m not a greeting card person, and so red cardstock does nothing for me. Besides, the last time I checked, Shoebox Greetings didn’t make anything edible.
But I had a beast of a PMS this month. I can’t really explain the why of it. Wedding plans are progressing nicely. My family is even cooperating at a predictable level, initiating a scuffle with my mother that allows me to ignore everyone from her side. My budget hadn’t really allowed for extended family anyway, but now I’m thinking I will have to invite the whole of my father’s side, just to have some guests on my side of the aisle. Right now, my ‘half’ of the list falls distinctly into the Under-Represented category. I’m not even sure that my father will be coming.
Right now, my list of ‘really want them to come’ and ‘they’ll really want to be there’ totals right around 25. Considering that my list includes both my bridal attendants AND my parents, who will be standing with me, and not seated in the crowd (or my mom and brother if Dad doesn’t come), my side of the aisle is going to hold roughly the same human population as Antarctica. We may have to eliminate the bride’s side/groom’s side tradition, since if we don’t, the whole room may tip over from Howard’s guests, and then all my guests will be in their laps, and no one is going to watch the processional.
The search for my dress can’t be to blame, either, since Howard and I had good luck last weekend on our first expedition. I remained adamant about not baring my whole upper body during the ceremony, even though all the designers in the world are conspiring against me. I’m sorry, but I just cannot see standing up formal ceremony with my neck, arms, shoulders, and, let’s face it, boobs, hanging out. I guess in that vein, I’m glad that my family won’t be attending. They’re all very conservative, very Christian folk who think that a woman should sew up the walking slits in her skirts. Nobody smokes, drinks, or dances, and I think they might faint if they see me marching half-naked up the aisle.
As it turns out, you can find gowns with sleeves, and if they don’t come that way, you can chop off train and/or skirt to make some. What’s more, all strapless gowns comes with shawls or wraps or both (some even come with little handbags, though what a bride needs to carry in a PURSE when she’s walking down the aisle escapes me), and there’s all kinds of interesting ways to fashion said covering so that the dress looks modest and appropriate for the service, and then festive and sprightly for the reception.
Maybe it’s the fact that Howard and I are embarking on a 12-week intensive-study program with DS to determine where he falls on the Autism spectrum, and what we need to do to prepare him for mainstream kindergarten in the fall. The school district wants to send him to early childhood kindergarten, which is designed for learning disabled children (which he is not), and does not address social or behavioral challenges (which he has), and so we are engaging with experts to determine just where he is and exactly what he needs. It’s 5 full 3-hour sessions over the next 2 or 3 months with PhDs and social workers and teachers and testers, answering and asking questions, and then waiting 4 to 6 weeks to see what they say/recommend/offer. By the time the report comes out, school’s regular session could be over, and while DS does attend the summer session, we’re dancing on the edges of not being able to fit him in a mainstream classroom, just on deadline issues. So yeah, that’s pretty stressful.
In any case, the PMS Beast hit me hard, and just when the office exploded with colored-sugar infestations. As if that weren’t enough the WW meeting last weekend was entitled, “Chocolate: is it good for your heart?” Our wondrous leader pointed out early and often that this was not a carte blanch to eat chocolate and pretend you’re still on program, but still, every time she mentioned the words ‘cocoa’, ‘sweet’, or ‘sugar’, my pancreas spasmed.
By the time yesterday rolled around, I had somehow forgotten that I’m 8 months into a weight loss program and am down 84 pounds already, because after I stopped at Walgreen’s to buy tampons, I found myself walking up the candy aisle and actually looking for dark chocolate (WW meeting said to eat dark chocolate, since it’s ‘better’ for you). I dug my nails into my palms to keep my hands from reaching out to my old friends, and I high-tailed it to the cash register. By the time I hit my car, I was nearly panting, and let me tell you, the 94% fat free popcorn that I had 2 hours later did NOTHING to help me along.
And oh yeah, the Demons at Reese’s pulled out those dang peanut butter eggs for Valentine’s Day. Oh sure, they molded them into hearts, but I knew what they were. Bastards.
I’m certainly not about to cave in to chocolate at this stage, but I am truly weary of battling this. I can see (again) why the quick-fix diet programs get so much publicity and get popular so fast. How much better and easier this would be if I could just have an injection that cured me of my need for sweets, or that made me indifferent to the trays of goodies lining the hallways at work. I’ve eaten so many pickles this week that I’m starting to smell like vinegar. I’m drinking so much coffee at work that it’s still hot when I get to the bottom of my 16 oz cup. I could certainly drink more water, but I’m already up every hour to grace the ladies room. If I had anything more to drink, I’d have to set up my laptop in the handicapped stall. At least then I’d have a door…
Today I spread out my meals, hoping that eating more frequently would help quell the firestorm in my tummy. Guess what? Eating more frequently boosts the metabolism which makes you hungry sooner. I really can be a dork about this sometimes.
It worries me that since I still have these bouts where I’m hungry all the time, that I’m not eating right, even now, after all these months of tracking and monitoring. I live in fear that Howard will get an assignment out of town and will be traveling, leaving me to fend for myself at dinnertime. I’m a pretty good cook, but I hate doing it, so my ‘dinners’ alone have historically consisted of (1) Diet soda or (2) takeout trash food. I think I can do better than that, but something tells me that, until I got a big shocker at the scale on Saturday mornings, I might be tempted to serve myself turkey jerky and goldfish crackers with DS.
I got my period yesterday, and the Fat Lady has quieted some. But next month is St. Patrick’s Day, and then Easter is right after that, and in between is my birthday and Howard’s mother’s birthday party, which will no doubt overflow with lovelies for the palate. Here’s hoping I’m not PMSing then. Since I’ll be a guest in their house, I’ll have to confine myself to eating my swimsuit and coughing all week to cover up my growling stomach. That should prove interesting.
This sucks, but it’s way better than being fat. I’m sitting at work in my size 6 jeans, and while my feet hurt because I still can’t figure out how to wear heels, I’m comfy in my wee-stretch pants and my size small sweater. Maybe this is just how this is going to go. Maybe I’ll always be just a little bit hungry during my PMS, and maybe that’s just the cost of being thin and healthy. If I can remember that my hunger and my cravings are temporary and not really real, I can get through this. Maybe.
Practice, practice, practice. And steer clear of Walgreen’s during Hell Week. Or, at least send Howard to get my tampons. That’s the trick! After all, we’ll soon be married. Good husbands are cheerful about leaving their warm houses at night and driving through fog to buy tampons for their wives. Better still if they can wrap his coat around him so as not to alert the clerks that they are, in fact, still in their jammies. Of course, Howard sleeps au natural, so that proves trickier, but still, all the more points awarded for effort and originality of trench coat wrapping.
So clearly, the key to PMS chocolate attacks is marriage. Lucky me.
A the H(appy to Suffer-apparently)
posted by Former Fat Girl Gone Skinny | 12:44 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home