I have a bit of an obsessive relationship with food. I dream about recipes and love savoring aromas. I allow flavors to linger on my tongue and I have fantasies of being a whiz in the kitchen who whips up an amazing dinner that has my family pounding their utensils on the table in eager anticipation of the wonderfully delicious meal I have conjured up from the meager ingredients on hand. My obsession also has a dark side.
I have long been a perfectionist in just about every area of my life. The worst part of being a perfectionist is that it is often paralyzing because a perfectionist will get discouraged if the results of whatever endeavor at hand is less than perfect. I can recall rewriting notes for classes because I felt my handwriting was not neat enough. My perfectionism carries over into my self image as well. Based on what my friends and family tell me, I have a very different perception of my appearance than others'. I see crow's feet, sun spots, scars, pimples, cellulite, excess weight, drab, frumpy, awkward and on and on.
How does all of this tie in with my obsession with food? I have often referred to myself as a non-discriminatory eater because I like everything. I love every vegetable regardless of scent, color or texture. I can't wait for road side stands or farmer's markets so I can enjoy locally grown produce. I don't know that I could ever get enough dark cherries-they are my absolute favorite and I have been known to hide them in the fridge so I don't have to share them. I just revealed another part of my obsession; fear that I will not get to eat every last morsel of whatever food it is I am craving at the time. My love of food is not only for the fresh and healthy. I also secretly lust over French fries, elephant ears, ice cram and pie. I feel almost naughty when I devour my gluttonous treats.
I think about food constantly. I have even prayed at night that God would grant me the strength to make healthier choices the next day. I do pretty well and eat a decent breakfast then someone brings in a fat laden, deep-fried, calorie soaked box of deliciousness and I nearly get the shakes trying to resist its temptation. I have the best of intentions when it comes to dinner but it usually goes all down hill after 7 p.m. I don't eat a scoop of ice cream; I get a sundae with hot fudge, peanuts and whipped cream. I don't eat a bowl of popcorn; I eat the entire bag. I don't eat a couple of cookies; I eat an entire sleeve. I think I am drawing a distinct picture.
My obsession with food and pursuit of perfectionism do not mesh well AT ALL. I think about food and look forward to the all the flavors. Later when I get dressed to work out, I look in the mirror and start mentally measuring myself. First I see all the dimples, pelted on the backs of my thighs then I work my way up to my waistline and loathe the extra flesh that either hangs over or is squeezed painfully within the confines of lycra. I then peer at my blotchy face and close my eyes and step out the door with the promise of eating less tomorrow.
It's an ugly cycle and I just don't know how to stop it and change my life. On one hand, I do not want to lose my love of food because it makes it easy to make choices and yet it also makes it difficult. So for the time being my obsession will continue full steam ahead and I will just keep on praying, keep on running and keep on hoping.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
The Debut of my Crazy Mine
A few weeks ago I pondered the idea of creating a new blog. I already blog for my employer, but sometimes feel the confines of limitations hinder the ability for me to freely express my thoughts, hence this little jumble of mindless drivel. It has been almost paralyzing for me to write my first blog because I felt pressured to unveil some profound piece that would shake up the literary world, cyber or real. I wanted my debut to be groundbreaking and sound like a great movie review, "Spellbinding," or "Run Away Hit". Okay, maybe my goal is a tad lofty but I still want this to be a place where my friends-real and imagined-can get a peek into my sometimes odd, little life.
This past Saturday morning my husband propositioned me (already, get your mind out of the gutter). He asked if I would like for him to accompany me on my morning run. The thought had never really crossed my mind. He used to come to the gym with me and would thoroughly piss me off when his naturally muscular and cigarette smoking ass would surpass my limited capabilities on any piece of equipment. He no longer comes to the gym with me because he is gone too frequently and he no longer smokes with the exception of trying to sneak a cancer stick before arriving home late Fridays or early Saturdays. Alright, I was game.
I planned to log 5 miles and Robert decided to bring our dog, Charlie, to help shed some of the excess he had gained through the winter. As we approached the head of the trail, I expressed my anxiety that despite running now for 3 1/2 years, he would make me look like a chump. He assured me we would go according to my asthmatic pace so we set off. It was a great morning for a run because it was around 60 degrees and no rain or glaring sun. We were nearing the 3/4 mile mark and I saw that Robert and Charlie were walking and Robert insisted that I continue and he would catch up. He trotted once again and I held up my index finger to indicate we were passing the one mile mark and I proceeded ahead.
My plans of a 5-miler went out the window when I got to the 1.7 mile point and realized that Robert was not going to last 5 miles. We turned around to head back home and to each person he passed, Robert remarked that yes I was his wife and yes I was better than he was. This is the mark of a true man, proud of his wife's abilities rather than licking his wounds.
Now this little fable doesn't end here. Not only does this man brag about me but he keeps look out for me as well. Just shy of the final mile I was cursed with glass stomach, rot gut, the trots. Running manages to get all of the organs working-not just the heart and lungs. No amount of deep breathing was going to calm the storm brewing in my intestinal tract. I was on the trail, nowhere near a bathroom or port-a-pot so the bushes infested with rabid mosquitoes was becoming ever more enticing. Robert knew by my clenched teeth, rapid breathing and pained expression that the situation was serious. He quickly left the trail to find suitable cover for his delicate wife (if you don't sense the sarcasm here, you don't know me well). At this point I likely had my backside gripped for fear of indiscretion while I worked my way through the tangle of branches, thorny vines and bushes. I found my spot and thanked God I had the sense to wear my Spi-belt with tissue. All the while my devoted husband stood at the trail with the dog and made certain I was not entertaining families with a full view of my pasty white rear-end.
Why in the world would I embarrass myself by writing about something so utterly ridiculous? Because I know darn well there are other people out there who have had to go through the same humiliating experience and they can sit back and laugh at my expense and be relieved with the knowledge they are not the only person who mysteriously wound up with bugs bites on their derriere. Runners are practically religious about what they eat prior to any lengthy run or race to prevent the very situation I just explained. Does a bear crap in the woods? I can't say I have ever seen bear scat but I can assure you runners do indeed, crap in the woods.
This past Saturday morning my husband propositioned me (already, get your mind out of the gutter). He asked if I would like for him to accompany me on my morning run. The thought had never really crossed my mind. He used to come to the gym with me and would thoroughly piss me off when his naturally muscular and cigarette smoking ass would surpass my limited capabilities on any piece of equipment. He no longer comes to the gym with me because he is gone too frequently and he no longer smokes with the exception of trying to sneak a cancer stick before arriving home late Fridays or early Saturdays. Alright, I was game.
I planned to log 5 miles and Robert decided to bring our dog, Charlie, to help shed some of the excess he had gained through the winter. As we approached the head of the trail, I expressed my anxiety that despite running now for 3 1/2 years, he would make me look like a chump. He assured me we would go according to my asthmatic pace so we set off. It was a great morning for a run because it was around 60 degrees and no rain or glaring sun. We were nearing the 3/4 mile mark and I saw that Robert and Charlie were walking and Robert insisted that I continue and he would catch up. He trotted once again and I held up my index finger to indicate we were passing the one mile mark and I proceeded ahead.
My plans of a 5-miler went out the window when I got to the 1.7 mile point and realized that Robert was not going to last 5 miles. We turned around to head back home and to each person he passed, Robert remarked that yes I was his wife and yes I was better than he was. This is the mark of a true man, proud of his wife's abilities rather than licking his wounds.
Now this little fable doesn't end here. Not only does this man brag about me but he keeps look out for me as well. Just shy of the final mile I was cursed with glass stomach, rot gut, the trots. Running manages to get all of the organs working-not just the heart and lungs. No amount of deep breathing was going to calm the storm brewing in my intestinal tract. I was on the trail, nowhere near a bathroom or port-a-pot so the bushes infested with rabid mosquitoes was becoming ever more enticing. Robert knew by my clenched teeth, rapid breathing and pained expression that the situation was serious. He quickly left the trail to find suitable cover for his delicate wife (if you don't sense the sarcasm here, you don't know me well). At this point I likely had my backside gripped for fear of indiscretion while I worked my way through the tangle of branches, thorny vines and bushes. I found my spot and thanked God I had the sense to wear my Spi-belt with tissue. All the while my devoted husband stood at the trail with the dog and made certain I was not entertaining families with a full view of my pasty white rear-end.
Why in the world would I embarrass myself by writing about something so utterly ridiculous? Because I know darn well there are other people out there who have had to go through the same humiliating experience and they can sit back and laugh at my expense and be relieved with the knowledge they are not the only person who mysteriously wound up with bugs bites on their derriere. Runners are practically religious about what they eat prior to any lengthy run or race to prevent the very situation I just explained. Does a bear crap in the woods? I can't say I have ever seen bear scat but I can assure you runners do indeed, crap in the woods.
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