I can calculate Weight Watcher's Points in my head, quickly list recipe substitutions to "healthy-up" a meal, and I have so many diet plans in my head I could open up my own diet center. Yet, when I cook, I turn up my nose at healthy options. Why have vegetables with fresh herbs when you can drown them in a heavy cream sauce and butter?
When I was growing up, my mom cooked low-fat meals for the family. Those meals were the reason I was skinny until I went to college. My healthy weight had nothing to do with the nutritional content of the meals. Without fail, her creations tasted like wood paneling in a rubber cement sauce, over fluffed sawdust. Wait, no, rubber cement has flavor. My mother watched everything that went in my mouth. Candy, cookies, and cake were strictly forbidden. Butter was a dirty word. I was once grounded for two weeks after my mother discovered that I had eaten cookies at the home of a friend.
When I was seven my mom went to a version of the Tupperware party, where housewives got together and bought naughty gag gifts and marital aids. My mom purchased a bag of genital shaped chocolate suckers for a friend that was getting married. Unfortunately, she didn't hide them well enough, since I made regular forays into her underwear drawer. One day when I was too "sick" to go to school, I discovered this treasure. I never noticed their odd shape as I inhaled them, and I never questioned why the chocolate was pink.
The year I turned 9 I went to stay at my grandparent's home, without my mother. My grandmother lovingly fed me what I wanted, and whenever I wanted it. I returned home five pounds heavier (my mother weighed me as soon as I walked in the door). To teach me a lesson, she forced me to carry around a five-pound bag for rocks for a week.
At age 10 my family went out for a rare restaurant dinner. As I nibbled at my dry chicken breast with a side of broccoli, I gazed lovingly at the butter that came with the bread basket. Oh the siren song of those cute little foil-wrapped butter squares. Of course the bread basket and butter were totally off limits.
When my mother went to the restroom, I palmed 3 packets of butter and stuffed them in my pocket. I was flush with my daring, and the fear that I would be discovered. On the ride home I checked my pocket repeatedly, amazed at my good fortune. When we got home I scuttled upstairs for my rendezvous. I slowly peeled of the foil, breathed in the scent, and stopped just short of rubbing my face in the butter. I was picking foil out of my braces for days.
When I was 14, my drama class sold candy as a fundraiser. I had an entire box of candy in my possession, and I even got to take it home. On the first day of the fundraiser I stuffed the box of candy in my backpack and smuggled it up to my room. I locked the door, so I could romance the candy undetected. The sizes, the shapes, and the smell of chocolate emanating from the wrapper, sent me into a frenzy that can only be described as deeply disturbing. The next day I went to school with what was left of the candy in my backpack. All day I dreamed of when I could again be alone with my windfall.
It goes without saying that the candy was gone in two days. Imagine my dilemma when I had to turn in the money to pay for that lovely box of candy. I don't remember how I got myself out of that little pickle, but the shame lives on. When I went to college I went crazy, and I doubled the "Freshman 15" expected of new college students. Plus I discovered beer, and I was off and running.
Not surprisingly my food obsession has carried into my adult life. I stash candy everywhere. I used to hide chocolate in my underwear drawer, but learned my lesson after too may episodes of ants in my unmentionables. At work I filled my desk drawers with a variety of food. I rarely ate it, but I just needed to know it was there. To this day, when I visit my mother, I can't do so without a suitcase of chocolate as a security blanket. At almost 40 years old, I still lie in my bed late at night, quietly unwrapping candy bars, so that nobody can hear.
Eating healthy still feels like a punishment, so I eat what I want, whenever I want it. It is easy to blame my mother for my eating habits, but I am finally learning that until I take some responsibility for my diet, I will repeat the same cycle, over and over again. In order to successfully fight my weight battle, I have to fully understand my relationship to food. Until then, I will continue to fail on every diet. And by the way? My mother has put on a good 50 pounds. If you'll excuse me, I have some rocks to gather.
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When I was growing up, my mom cooked low-fat meals for the family. Those meals were the reason I was skinny until I went to college. My healthy weight had nothing to do with the nutritional content of the meals. Without fail, her creations tasted like wood paneling in a rubber cement sauce, over fluffed sawdust. Wait, no, rubber cement has flavor. My mother watched everything that went in my mouth. Candy, cookies, and cake were strictly forbidden. Butter was a dirty word. I was once grounded for two weeks after my mother discovered that I had eaten cookies at the home of a friend.
When I was seven my mom went to a version of the Tupperware party, where housewives got together and bought naughty gag gifts and marital aids. My mom purchased a bag of genital shaped chocolate suckers for a friend that was getting married. Unfortunately, she didn't hide them well enough, since I made regular forays into her underwear drawer. One day when I was too "sick" to go to school, I discovered this treasure. I never noticed their odd shape as I inhaled them, and I never questioned why the chocolate was pink.
The year I turned 9 I went to stay at my grandparent's home, without my mother. My grandmother lovingly fed me what I wanted, and whenever I wanted it. I returned home five pounds heavier (my mother weighed me as soon as I walked in the door). To teach me a lesson, she forced me to carry around a five-pound bag for rocks for a week.
At age 10 my family went out for a rare restaurant dinner. As I nibbled at my dry chicken breast with a side of broccoli, I gazed lovingly at the butter that came with the bread basket. Oh the siren song of those cute little foil-wrapped butter squares. Of course the bread basket and butter were totally off limits.
When my mother went to the restroom, I palmed 3 packets of butter and stuffed them in my pocket. I was flush with my daring, and the fear that I would be discovered. On the ride home I checked my pocket repeatedly, amazed at my good fortune. When we got home I scuttled upstairs for my rendezvous. I slowly peeled of the foil, breathed in the scent, and stopped just short of rubbing my face in the butter. I was picking foil out of my braces for days.
When I was 14, my drama class sold candy as a fundraiser. I had an entire box of candy in my possession, and I even got to take it home. On the first day of the fundraiser I stuffed the box of candy in my backpack and smuggled it up to my room. I locked the door, so I could romance the candy undetected. The sizes, the shapes, and the smell of chocolate emanating from the wrapper, sent me into a frenzy that can only be described as deeply disturbing. The next day I went to school with what was left of the candy in my backpack. All day I dreamed of when I could again be alone with my windfall.
It goes without saying that the candy was gone in two days. Imagine my dilemma when I had to turn in the money to pay for that lovely box of candy. I don't remember how I got myself out of that little pickle, but the shame lives on. When I went to college I went crazy, and I doubled the "Freshman 15" expected of new college students. Plus I discovered beer, and I was off and running.
Not surprisingly my food obsession has carried into my adult life. I stash candy everywhere. I used to hide chocolate in my underwear drawer, but learned my lesson after too may episodes of ants in my unmentionables. At work I filled my desk drawers with a variety of food. I rarely ate it, but I just needed to know it was there. To this day, when I visit my mother, I can't do so without a suitcase of chocolate as a security blanket. At almost 40 years old, I still lie in my bed late at night, quietly unwrapping candy bars, so that nobody can hear.
Eating healthy still feels like a punishment, so I eat what I want, whenever I want it. It is easy to blame my mother for my eating habits, but I am finally learning that until I take some responsibility for my diet, I will repeat the same cycle, over and over again. In order to successfully fight my weight battle, I have to fully understand my relationship to food. Until then, I will continue to fail on every diet. And by the way? My mother has put on a good 50 pounds. If you'll excuse me, I have some rocks to gather.
Click Here!
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