I almost mugged a kid for his Auntie Anne’s pretzel yesterday. I took Aidan to the mall so he could run around the kids’ play area, and while we were perambulating around some impudent teenage boy was foolish enough to walk past me eating a soft, chewy, sweet, cinnamon-sugar pretzel.
As the predatory waves infiltrated my brain through my nostrils, I felt a Hulk-like anger and rage flow through me. Were it not for the stroller weighing me down, I might very well have vaulted over the planter and taken him, and his pretzel, down.
Oh, I am sick of dieting. Heartily sick to my core of healthy food and reasonable portions. Reasonable is code for “rarely full.”
I miss the days when I would sit down on a Friday night with half a pizza, a martini, and chocolate chip cookies for dessert. I remember with GREAT fondness the last 25 years of my life wherein I was blissfully unaware of how many calories I consumed each day. Yeah, my body wasn’t skinny but I didn’t really care because I had cupcakes.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m skinnier now and my pants fit much better. But do better-fitting pants buy happiness the same way a stack of French toast and a piping hot mocha do? Absolutely not. I won’t get belly-patting contentment and bliss from eating my smaller pants.
I blame my knee for this outburst. My left knee, the resident slacker knee, is injured. Again. I injured it during middle school and it’s never been able to get over it. I suppose middle school really does irrevocably damage you, one way or another.
In trying to overcome the weight loss plateau, I decided to increase the intensity of my workouts by incorporating some brief sprints while jogging on the treadmill. My left knee said thanks, but no thanks, and now I’ve got a sore left knee and I’m still not losing weight and all I want is to stuff my face without consequences and GRRRRRR!
So you see? Losing weight isn’t all sunshine and kittens. Not around here. Around here, you get a fair representation of the intricate psychological workings of a former glutton mourning her loss of gastronomical freedom.
Really, I’m sure Darren Aronofsky could do a riveting documentary of my mind’s inner workings and need very few special effects to make it absolutely terrifying.