There comes a time in a girl's life when she puts on a pair of tight jeans and she looks down and she sees...something. Kind of hanging precariously over the side of the jeans. It is her waist. The tight jeans, they have become even tighter.
Naturally, for awhile this strange bulging is the fault of the jeans. The jeans have shrunk. They obviously have some kind of terrible grudge against the girl or some defect that causes spontaneous and irreversible shrinkage during washing - or perhaps they love the girl as much as she loves them and are merely trying to cling harder so that she understands how much she is loved by them.
In any case, the girl (who is me) is struck by the sudden realization that she can no longer take her jeans out in public. She is struck by the realization that...she is gaining weight. And she's not happy about it.
Imagine my shock at finding that I can no longer devour Brie in large quantities after work. I can no longer indulge in ice cream every night or full-fat Brown Cow yogurt (with the lovely layer of cream on top) every day for lunch. And I really ought to cut out that layer of butter I like to spread under the cream cheese on my weekend bagel. Am I gross? Probably. I'm probably gross for loving butter to distraction, yes.
But that isn't the point.
The point is that I've (abruptly) become something of a calorie counter. And it's kind of fun. Today, I have so far consumed only 922 calories, which is apparently only about half of the calories I need for survival. I don't know how I've managed to do this, but I think it's probably a fairly accurate estimate. Since I have become a Calorie-Counter (yesterday morning, in fact, in a sudden fit of...whatever it is that you would call this thing I'm experiencing), I've been measuring my food. And it creeps me out. But it also makes me feel confident that the aforementioned estimate of my calorie consumption is fairly accurate.
Don't get me wrong. I love food. I'm not really about calorie-counting, if that makes sense. I can't stand the thought of dieting. If it says low fat on the package, I assume it will taste like...like what? Have I ever, as an adult, willingly eaten anything that called itself low fat? No. Because it will taste like...that.
So I will do anything in my power to continue eating the delicious, fatty foods I love. I'm going all out for Thanksgiving, for example. I will most likely consume 922 calories (or more!) just during the snacking-while-cooking phase of the holiday. But it's starting to become painfully clear that I simply can't eat as much as I used to and still expect to be able to wear the new pair of tight jeans that I will soon buy in my most recent size.
Goodbye, half-a-wedge of Brie after work. Goodbye, my beautiful, beautiful cheesy olive balls. Goodbye, things that are not cheese but that are also extremely delicious and fattening. Goodbye.
3 comments:
If it makes you feel any better, The other day I was looking for a pair of clean brown pants to wear. And when I pulled some out of the drawer and put them on, I thought "Gee, these are really comfortable. Not too tight, not too loose... but they are awfully high-waisted." Then I realized they were maternity pants.
This, of course, happened in the same week that a 2nd grade student asked me if I was going to have a baby.
So, if the jeans thing really bothers you, but you don't want to detach yourself from that stick of Land-o-Lakes just yet, use my method:
After spending a little while mourning because I'm as fat as I was when I was 6 months pregnant, I promptly made some extremely rich brownies. (The recipe calls for a pound of butter and 36 ounces of chocolate.) I plan to take them to work tomorrow. No reason to diet when you can just make everybody around you fatter, right? :)
A devious yet totally awesome plan. Nicely done!
You are so lucky it too you until age 33 to have this problem!
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