My husband came home with Doritos the other day. Cool Ranch ones. A big bag.
You can see where this is going.
Junk food, for me, is a very slippery slope. I can sometimes manage just a little bit, which I indulge in sometimes just to test the theory that you should eat a small amount in order to avoid bingeing as a result of abstaining altogether. But the line between just a little bit and oh-so-yummy is pretty fine.
So I ate the Doritos. Not all the Doritos, but more than my fair share. And then a day or so later I wanted to finish the end of the bag, which would have been a nice, reasonable, moderate amount, but then the dog ate them. (Seriously. That’s not a dog-ate-my-Doritos lie.) I could have taken that as a sign, but by that point I really wanted Doritos. So I bought some more. Cool Ranch ones. A big bag.
Hey, don’t judge. They go so nicely with the Coke I’m addicted to.
Then there was last week’s Really Bad Day. On my way home from work I stopped at the grocery store to pick up something for dinner and while I was there my mom called my cell phone. I ended up crying in the middle of the grocery store. So I tweeted this…
…and damn if Twitter didn’t enable me. So many “Yes! Do it!” “Get chocolate!” “Buy sprinkles and whipped cream too!” suggestions that I couldn’t let people down. I bought the chocolatest ice cream I could find, grabbed the Kleenex, and bawled through two bowls of it.
It’s possible this is all emotional eating related to recent stress.
I thought about posting this as my “Be Enough Me” post last week, but I honestly wasn’t prepared to commit to doing anything about it. Last week was worse, but I’m still not sure if I’m ready. After sliding down that slippery slope into the ditch, however, I have to at least admit to it. Especially because this is totally unlike me. I usually do the moderation thing fairly well, but right now not at all. And I’m not exercising at all either.
The other day I tore a giant hole in the knee of the only jeans I have that fit me right now. This morning I mentioned that to a friend, who sympathized with the tight clothes predicament, and we got into a conversation about how elastic-waist maternity pants are really quite comfortable. I should probably do something about my eating habits before I get to that point, huh? Especially since my maternity jeans are packed away in a very inaccessible location…
I need something – some sort of catalyst – to prompt me to change.
The upside to this is that I finally have cleavage but, to use a friend’s expression, that’s not a good trade. I’m enough me as I am. I really don’t think having more of me would be a good thing.
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