We have officially survived seven days under the New Health Regime, despite various uprisings that threatened to topple said regime.
LCB lost 3 pounds the first day, while I gained a pound in (hopefully) water weight.
Then, as I was drifting off to sleep the first night, LCB quite casually announced, “By the way, did I tell you I already lost 10 pounds last week by cutting back quite a bit?”
I was stunned, unaware that there had been subterranean cutbacks in his little world. I considered my options at this point. Did he really need functioning appendages to continue doing his job? Okay, arms maybe, but he could totally do it without his legs. Or I could superglue his mouth shut in his sleep, which would at least buy me a few minutes of quiet in the morning. Or, I could wait until he left the house for a meeting or something the next day, and sneak a “Kick me!” sign on his back. Since these options did present some slight moral dilemmas in my mind, I opted instead to completely ignore him. It seemed like the Christian thing to do.
So we struggled through the week, spending some time each morning and evening
discussing listening to a gripping monologue that turned into more of a soliloquy when I left the room on LCB’s latest dietary achievements, while I basically spent the interim between the monologues/soliloquies trying not to be irritable.
Ah, it’s been good times at the Island Family house, I’m telling you.
Here’s what I’ve discovered about making dietary adjustments amid the hubbub of the food consumption of three small people. The biggest hurtle is the fact that I am still fairly involved in the food lives of all three small people. They all pack their own lunches now, for instance, but I’m clearly a consultant in a process, a role I’ve encouraged less their lunches all consist of candy, candy, and oh right, some more candy. Dinner’s easier, since we all eat one meal together that LCB and I prepare, but breakfast is a mixture of hands-on and hands-off, depending on the breakfast. Honestly, the hardest part of the day is snacking, since I now realize they participate in that activity approximately 52 times during the course of a 24-hour period. This means I spend a ridiculous percentage of my day watching them eat.
It’s killing me.
Even kid foods that I never understood the hoopla over, like SpaghettiOs and fruit snacks, for instance, suddenly look appealing. It’s freaky how that works. But instead of indulging, of course, I have to take the can of SpaghettiOs, heat it up on the stove, dish it into three bowls for the small people, and then sit and watch with a completely forced, fake-pleasant look on my face, all the while not eating. Or, at best, while grabbing a carrot. Carrots suck, by the way.
Friday night was especially difficult. Basically, as much as possible, I spend my weekend nights sitting and eating. It pleases me to do this. But I had determined to remain steadfast, so instead I ate more broccoli and egg whites and jumped around on my trampoline while feigning contentment in between rants. I even went on Twitter as a means of distraction, only to find virtually the entire universe talking about comfort foods, all manner of indulgent desserts, and of course, chocolate.
Saturday, I had determined that I would allow for a small indulgence after the small people were in bed by setting aside a glass of Shiraz and two Hershey Kisses. However, LCB threw me a curve ball at dinner time by suddenly asking if he should make a smallish pizza for us. You should have heard him.
“What do you think? I could make a thin whole wheat crust and use just a thin layer of cheese with minimal toppings,” he said enticingly. “It wouldn’t be that bad,” he added, to sweeten the offer.
I sat for a while, deliberating.
No, in fact, I did not. That’s such a big fat lie. I did not deliberate for one second. The truth is, I acquiesced without one single fraction of thought.
I was in.
So LCB made the pizza, and I will tell you, it’s entirely possible that, after a week of broccoli-and-egg-white-ish meals, I have never enjoyed the presence of flavor in my food more than I did Saturday night. LCB’s pizza sauce kicks it, let me just tell you. It was beyond. And then later, the wine? I opened the cheapest bottle we have, and LCB as my witness, it didn’t matter. I kept saying, “The flavor. The flavor!” and staring straight ahead, starry-eyed as I said it, gripping my super-sized one glass of wine to my torso, glancing lovingly every few minutes at the two Kisses waiting patiently on the tray table in front of me. For those three hours of Saturday night, I was in my own personal heaven.
Thankfully, too, LCB finally lost a smidgen of willpower for once, and, while attempting to wrap up the leftover pizza, instead consumed it. It was a fine evening all around.
The results thus far? In summary, after a week of reduced caloric intake, of praying my stomach wouldn’t start growling in quiet but very public moments (It’s insanely embarrassing, but my stomach growls and my hiccups have a volume that’s pretty impressive, if you are the type that is impressed by those sorts of things), of listening to LCB drone on and on about his diet, of lying languidly on the couch and then catching myself and forcing myself to pop back up again so my metabolism wouldn’t plummet, and of trying to squeeze daily exercise back into days that frankly got quite comfortable skipping that step altogether:
(Dramatic pause and then drum roll here)
If I jiggle around strategically on the scale a little, I’ve lost somewhere between one whole pound and not an ounce.
Impressive, isn’t it?
A similar manipulation of the measuring tape around my waist revealed similar results.
After Saturday night, I’m ready for week 2.
Bring it on.