Many of you know, if you’ve been reading my blog for awhile, that I struggle with an eating disorder. You can read more about that here. Lately, with the ongoing threat of Covid and the increased patient load at my workplace (you can read about what I do here), I’ve been succumbing to the urge to rapidly consume the contents of my cupboards, healthy or otherwise. I recently took the important step of booking an appointment to see a professional about my problem. I’ve always been a self-helper. Whenever my behaviours resulted in too many unpleasant outcomes, I would read widely on my issues and adopt new coping strategies. Often, this would produce small, lasting changes, but I’m finally ready to admit that I’ve done what I can and I need another’s perspective and guidance. Continue reading “Mountains are for Climbing”
When I’m tired, I reach for sugar to supply the zip I need
When I’m bored, a plate of nachos will suffice, a little spice
Will pick me up
When I’m depressed, you might have guessed, chocolate is the thing that frees the happys in my brain
When I’m sick with regret, well, I might as well eat the rest of it, the chocolate cake, I mean
When I’m kickin’ back, a bag or two of chips will do the trick to keep me casual and cool
And when I’m in a party mood, I need a table full of food, other partygoers optional
There’s a food for every feeling, there’s a meaning for every morsel
There’s a taste for every tension and a gulp for every grief
Since I always have my appetite to make everything in my world alright
Who needs a shrink or friends and family?
Just sit me by the fridge and I will eat my way through life
And I’ll be fat
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The word fat has been in my vocabulary since I was a child. I’m sure there was a time when I was small in size, but I don’t remember it. I was never a wisp of a girl, it’s not how I’m built. When I see pictures of myself in preadolescence, the first word that comes to mind is stocky. I’m reminded of an impish boy pointing at me on the playground, his eyes flashing, as he sang, off key, the popular, Ball Park Frank’s jingle, “They plump when you cook ’em”. He wasn’t inaccurate. Plump. That’s me, for most of my life anyway. Continue reading “Move it and Lose it: A Former Fatty on Going Lean”
I touched an open bag of celery the other day, but quickly withdrew my hand. Yikes, that was close.
When I was child, I was a picky eater. I had an over-developed gag reflex which I honed to perfection. No green thing could touch my lips and my food was not allowed to congregate. I pretty much subsisted on dry cereal, cheese, corn, and buns. Many a night, I sat at the table vacantly staring at the cold, bacteria-laden dinner I refused to eat. My parents had to warn me before going to someone’s house that I was to sit by my mother and she would give me what I liked. Under no circumstances was I to utter the “Y” word (yucky). My parents were never in the habit of cursing anyone, but Oscar the Grouch was an exception.
Continue reading “Gag Me with a Dessert Spoon”
Can fat people go skinny dipping?
What is flab? According to the Websters Dictionary, flab is defined as, excessive, loose, or flaccid body tissue. How boring. I can do better than that. What is flab according to Polly? How about jiggly jelly rolls, great gelatinous mounds of flesh, or excessive excess?
Continue reading “A Reflection on Flab”
My husband was encouraging my teenage daughter to take home economics this year.
“That’s so I don’t end up like mom, right?”
It’s true. I don’t like cooking. Okay, I’ll be more specific. I loathe cooking. I would camp out in frigid weather in front of the first store to make a Star Trek food replicator available. I find the whole process as distasteful as, well, my cooking.
Continue reading “Beam Me Up, Scottie!”
I love chocolate. I eat it every day and often at every meal. It’s a staple in my diet. It makes me happy.
I’m an addict, I know. When I was a teenager, I ate seven chocolate bars in one sitting. In the middle of the night, I hurled chocolate chunks over the side of the top bunk. My sister, the unfortunate occupant of the bottom bunk, vacated the room after being hit by the splatter. When my children and I go out for ice cream sundaes and they leave blobs of hot fudge at the bottom of their bowls, I wonder if they’re mine, while I clean up after them.
Continue reading “Chocoholics Unanimous”