Peanut (on the) Brain
My name is Amy, and I am a fat person.
I’d rather say that I’m a recovering fat person. I suppose that’s true as far as it goes, since I am 82.50 pounds ‘recovered’ from my peak fat-person weight. But the Fat Lady lives on, and she bellows with indignation at every peanut buster parfait I have denied her since June.
After 7 months of weekly WW meetings and all this weight gone, I fight harder and with greater skill than in the early days. After all, before WW, I didn’t fight. I just gave in. I saw something I wanted, and I took it. Or, I waited until everyone had left the room, and then I stole away with it. I ate like a hummingbird in front of others and then raced to Burger King afterwards, ordering double everything, to make up for the meal I’d missed in attending “lunch” (if, in fact that’s what you could call the skimpy fare they served a MEAL), and the delay I would suffer before I could legitimately eat the next time.
It isn’t like that now, and in fact, I leave the table satisfied at almost every meal. There are occasions when I eat less than I’d like; but it’s rare, and for those situations, I have a single serving 94% fat free popcorn at the ready. It’s not these instances that cause my alter-ego, The Fat Lady, to emerge. It’s the every day “opportunities” that beat at my resolve like the wind on a flagpole chain
For example, there is a file cabinet at work that is always stocked with sugar-coated delights. I know this, because I walk by it all day long, and there is almost always someone standing there, plucking through the loot and filling their pockets. I have pretty much decided that I can’t indulge, as (a) I am not in that department, and (b) there is nothing from M&M/Mars that is on the program.
However, despite this, and despite the fact that the filing cabinet is “guarded” by 2 men who seem never to leave their desks, and so I can’t sneak any of that diabetic coma-induced evil, it is still a fight each time I walk by that drawer. I know what’s inside, and I want it. It doesn’t matter whether I’m hungry, or that I got fat by rummaging in drawers just like that. It doesn’t even matter that I’m down more than eighty pounds precisely because I don’t go foraging any more. I want candy, and when the emotions hit me, no amount of logic will help. I resist only by fighting against myself and repeating, often without satisfaction, that I don’t eat those foods any more.
There is no relief now that I’ve passed the Christmas gauntlet. Since the Chicago Bears won the division championship and headed south to Miami for the Super Bowl, I have seen a whole parade of orange-and-blue colored foods that are, luckily, unappetizing, merely by their alarming similarity to pigskin. Still, this reformed gal can only see so many bite-sized cupcakes before the Fat Lady knocks me in the salivary glands and demands an explanation. I’ve spent a lot of time at my desk the last few weeks, grinding my seat into my chair and my teeth into my cheeks, chanting and moaning to myself, and hoping that all this brightly colored iniquity is gone before I start this month’s PMS.
Moreover, as February 14 approaches, I am now pummeled with all things pink and heart-shaped. There is Valentine’s day paraphernalia everywhere. I mean, this is a pretty good place to work, but it’s an office. How much love could really exist between cube-mates? And how much do I want to see of it? I’m going on record right now: if those petit fours come back, I’m cracking skulls.
I’ve seen sweetheart smarties in dishes, alcohol-laced balls on trays and donut holes rolled in rainbow-colored sprinkles until they looked like porcupine eggs. Well, porcupine eggs if said ova sprouted pink, white and red quills. Sometimes even the whiff of butter cream assails me as I’m sprinting by, my heels clacking as if I were being chased by Death itself. Even when I don’t want whatever treat is chasing me down the hall, their very presence sends me into spasms. Just one of those little porcu-baubles could set me back a whole week; more if I allowed myself the hiccup to slide over into the peppermint kisses.
And speaking of stupid, I put myself directly in the path of the tornado last weekend, when I offered to bring my favorite homemade dessert to an office get-together. Peanut butter pie. No bake, no fuss, no chance of getting out of it alive. This is my comfort food, my You’ll Love This, And Me, Forevermore dessert, the thing that sets me apart from the real cooks in the crowd. I could forever give up nuts and fried chicken and all things frozen on sticks if I could still eat peanut butter, and I might be willing to give up sex for a while if I could have peanut butter pie. I’ll send the recipe to anyone who wants it. I was going to write it here, but even just recounting my own asinine notion is causing me to drool. Oh, Peanut Butter Mistress. Wrap me in your oily fatness and stick my tongue to my mouth.
I figured at the time that it wouldn’t bother me. I’m a new woman. I don’t need this. I don’t eat these things anymore. I’m immune. If I falter (which I won’t), I have Howard. I am strong!
I am stupid.
I realized my error when I started loading my cart with the ingredients (cream cheese, powdered sugar, graham cracker crusts, and the Great One herself, Jif peanut butter). All I wanted to do was rip the peanut butter jar open and stuff my face inside of it. By the time I got home, I was shaking so badly that Howard had to assemble the things. We made them just in time to load them up and drive out to my friend’s house. We arrived and I opened the back door to retrieve them. The pies had shifted during the drive and were sort of smashed over to one side. They were fine: a bit less pretty than usual, but undamaged and still very edible. I arranged them back on the sheet, and a dollop of one pie landed on my finger. Without thinking, I stuck my finger in my mouth to clean it off. And then I blacked out.
No, I didn’t, though I wish I had. I handed the pies over as planned, I made it all the way through dinner and dessert without a wrinkle, and I enjoyed everyone’s enjoyment of the pie without ever feeling deprived. When we left, I did as I always do, which is to leave the leftovers behind. They’re made in disposable pie tins, so there’s nothing that needs washed or returned. It really is a perfect food.
Since they served lasagna and chicken marsala , Howard and I had only salad and so starved all the way home, dreaming of 94% fat free kettle corn. We indulged, I had a bit of Turkey Jerky to stave off the dizziness I felt (pretty sure it was not blood sugar-related, but why risk it?), and we went to bed, me dreaming of dancing legumes, but otherwise unscarred.
Still, though, it’s been nearly 2 weeks and I can still see them, all whipped up and beautiful in their shells, the guests sliding the spoons into their mouths and then rolling their eyes in pleasure. I sigh and I nod to myself. Yes, it hurts. Yes, I want it. Yes, if I were a true WW, I would figure out how to do have one, just one, and still lose weight. But I’m not a true WW, and I can’t do it. Peanut Butter Pie is a red light food for me, and nothing short of binge would satisfy me. I have to stay away completely-leave the country, change my name, and hope that the Fat Lady never finds out.
I weighed in on Saturday at 168.50 pounds. I’m close to setting a goal weight, and when I do, I will post it here. I still have a ways to go. I’m writing this in my Size 6 stretch jeans, and while they fit comfortably, I can see my problem areas waving at me from under the denim. Plus, I discovered today that they’re 2% Lycra. So let’s see. Size 10 in no-stretch, Size 8 with 1% Lycra, size 6 in 2%. I figure if I could find something in 5% Lycra, I could be a Size 0. Ridiculous, but perhaps no more so than the fact that I still fight the Fat Lady at every turn, even though she’s but a whisper of who she used to be.
I’m eager to see how she reacts when I’m down to goal, my true fighting weight. Perhaps then it just won’t matter to me that I want these fat-making foods. I can face the want, and know that I’m making a conscious decision to resist, because that’s what I really want. Even peanut butter pie doesn’t taste as good as this success does. A year from now, I won’t remember this struggle. And next year, I’ll offer to bring fresh fruit or something that is better for everyone and safer for me.
I embrace my Fat Lady. It is she who reminds me of how I came to be here. I look this way because I choose to, and because I’ve fought for it. If I must wage battle every day, then so be it. Just please, don’t anyone remind me that Reese’s makes a peanut butter egg for Easter.
A the F(at Lady, Reformed)
I’d rather say that I’m a recovering fat person. I suppose that’s true as far as it goes, since I am 82.50 pounds ‘recovered’ from my peak fat-person weight. But the Fat Lady lives on, and she bellows with indignation at every peanut buster parfait I have denied her since June.
After 7 months of weekly WW meetings and all this weight gone, I fight harder and with greater skill than in the early days. After all, before WW, I didn’t fight. I just gave in. I saw something I wanted, and I took it. Or, I waited until everyone had left the room, and then I stole away with it. I ate like a hummingbird in front of others and then raced to Burger King afterwards, ordering double everything, to make up for the meal I’d missed in attending “lunch” (if, in fact that’s what you could call the skimpy fare they served a MEAL), and the delay I would suffer before I could legitimately eat the next time.
It isn’t like that now, and in fact, I leave the table satisfied at almost every meal. There are occasions when I eat less than I’d like; but it’s rare, and for those situations, I have a single serving 94% fat free popcorn at the ready. It’s not these instances that cause my alter-ego, The Fat Lady, to emerge. It’s the every day “opportunities” that beat at my resolve like the wind on a flagpole chain
For example, there is a file cabinet at work that is always stocked with sugar-coated delights. I know this, because I walk by it all day long, and there is almost always someone standing there, plucking through the loot and filling their pockets. I have pretty much decided that I can’t indulge, as (a) I am not in that department, and (b) there is nothing from M&M/Mars that is on the program.
However, despite this, and despite the fact that the filing cabinet is “guarded” by 2 men who seem never to leave their desks, and so I can’t sneak any of that diabetic coma-induced evil, it is still a fight each time I walk by that drawer. I know what’s inside, and I want it. It doesn’t matter whether I’m hungry, or that I got fat by rummaging in drawers just like that. It doesn’t even matter that I’m down more than eighty pounds precisely because I don’t go foraging any more. I want candy, and when the emotions hit me, no amount of logic will help. I resist only by fighting against myself and repeating, often without satisfaction, that I don’t eat those foods any more.
There is no relief now that I’ve passed the Christmas gauntlet. Since the Chicago Bears won the division championship and headed south to Miami for the Super Bowl, I have seen a whole parade of orange-and-blue colored foods that are, luckily, unappetizing, merely by their alarming similarity to pigskin. Still, this reformed gal can only see so many bite-sized cupcakes before the Fat Lady knocks me in the salivary glands and demands an explanation. I’ve spent a lot of time at my desk the last few weeks, grinding my seat into my chair and my teeth into my cheeks, chanting and moaning to myself, and hoping that all this brightly colored iniquity is gone before I start this month’s PMS.
Moreover, as February 14 approaches, I am now pummeled with all things pink and heart-shaped. There is Valentine’s day paraphernalia everywhere. I mean, this is a pretty good place to work, but it’s an office. How much love could really exist between cube-mates? And how much do I want to see of it? I’m going on record right now: if those petit fours come back, I’m cracking skulls.
I’ve seen sweetheart smarties in dishes, alcohol-laced balls on trays and donut holes rolled in rainbow-colored sprinkles until they looked like porcupine eggs. Well, porcupine eggs if said ova sprouted pink, white and red quills. Sometimes even the whiff of butter cream assails me as I’m sprinting by, my heels clacking as if I were being chased by Death itself. Even when I don’t want whatever treat is chasing me down the hall, their very presence sends me into spasms. Just one of those little porcu-baubles could set me back a whole week; more if I allowed myself the hiccup to slide over into the peppermint kisses.
And speaking of stupid, I put myself directly in the path of the tornado last weekend, when I offered to bring my favorite homemade dessert to an office get-together. Peanut butter pie. No bake, no fuss, no chance of getting out of it alive. This is my comfort food, my You’ll Love This, And Me, Forevermore dessert, the thing that sets me apart from the real cooks in the crowd. I could forever give up nuts and fried chicken and all things frozen on sticks if I could still eat peanut butter, and I might be willing to give up sex for a while if I could have peanut butter pie. I’ll send the recipe to anyone who wants it. I was going to write it here, but even just recounting my own asinine notion is causing me to drool. Oh, Peanut Butter Mistress. Wrap me in your oily fatness and stick my tongue to my mouth.
I figured at the time that it wouldn’t bother me. I’m a new woman. I don’t need this. I don’t eat these things anymore. I’m immune. If I falter (which I won’t), I have Howard. I am strong!
I am stupid.
I realized my error when I started loading my cart with the ingredients (cream cheese, powdered sugar, graham cracker crusts, and the Great One herself, Jif peanut butter). All I wanted to do was rip the peanut butter jar open and stuff my face inside of it. By the time I got home, I was shaking so badly that Howard had to assemble the things. We made them just in time to load them up and drive out to my friend’s house. We arrived and I opened the back door to retrieve them. The pies had shifted during the drive and were sort of smashed over to one side. They were fine: a bit less pretty than usual, but undamaged and still very edible. I arranged them back on the sheet, and a dollop of one pie landed on my finger. Without thinking, I stuck my finger in my mouth to clean it off. And then I blacked out.
No, I didn’t, though I wish I had. I handed the pies over as planned, I made it all the way through dinner and dessert without a wrinkle, and I enjoyed everyone’s enjoyment of the pie without ever feeling deprived. When we left, I did as I always do, which is to leave the leftovers behind. They’re made in disposable pie tins, so there’s nothing that needs washed or returned. It really is a perfect food.
Since they served lasagna and chicken marsala , Howard and I had only salad and so starved all the way home, dreaming of 94% fat free kettle corn. We indulged, I had a bit of Turkey Jerky to stave off the dizziness I felt (pretty sure it was not blood sugar-related, but why risk it?), and we went to bed, me dreaming of dancing legumes, but otherwise unscarred.
Still, though, it’s been nearly 2 weeks and I can still see them, all whipped up and beautiful in their shells, the guests sliding the spoons into their mouths and then rolling their eyes in pleasure. I sigh and I nod to myself. Yes, it hurts. Yes, I want it. Yes, if I were a true WW, I would figure out how to do have one, just one, and still lose weight. But I’m not a true WW, and I can’t do it. Peanut Butter Pie is a red light food for me, and nothing short of binge would satisfy me. I have to stay away completely-leave the country, change my name, and hope that the Fat Lady never finds out.
I weighed in on Saturday at 168.50 pounds. I’m close to setting a goal weight, and when I do, I will post it here. I still have a ways to go. I’m writing this in my Size 6 stretch jeans, and while they fit comfortably, I can see my problem areas waving at me from under the denim. Plus, I discovered today that they’re 2% Lycra. So let’s see. Size 10 in no-stretch, Size 8 with 1% Lycra, size 6 in 2%. I figure if I could find something in 5% Lycra, I could be a Size 0. Ridiculous, but perhaps no more so than the fact that I still fight the Fat Lady at every turn, even though she’s but a whisper of who she used to be.
I’m eager to see how she reacts when I’m down to goal, my true fighting weight. Perhaps then it just won’t matter to me that I want these fat-making foods. I can face the want, and know that I’m making a conscious decision to resist, because that’s what I really want. Even peanut butter pie doesn’t taste as good as this success does. A year from now, I won’t remember this struggle. And next year, I’ll offer to bring fresh fruit or something that is better for everyone and safer for me.
I embrace my Fat Lady. It is she who reminds me of how I came to be here. I look this way because I choose to, and because I’ve fought for it. If I must wage battle every day, then so be it. Just please, don’t anyone remind me that Reese’s makes a peanut butter egg for Easter.
A the F(at Lady, Reformed)
posted by Former Fat Girl Gone Skinny | 7:44 AM
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