It’s hard to lose weight when the most fun thing you do is eat. A sad commentary on my social life (and bad grammar,) I know. But, I own it. No matter what else I do every day, my internal food alarm clangs out, and I am excited to have another chance to dine.
Sure. I do other stuff. And some of it is fun. I bowl. I fish. I shop for things I don’t need but really want. All make me happy. But there is nothing more exciting in my world than to grab a menu, read my options, and make my selection.
As a teen, I was as skinny as a Pringle. Eating was something I did to please my mom and to fuel my body so I could do wonderful things. I was living life, battling angst, and thinking great thoughts. Mostly about boys.
Then I married and had children. Suddenly, I was responsible for making sure those I loved had food. My husband wanted things that were actually cooked. My babies set my schedule, making sure I cooked/served at regular intervals.
From opening cans to making bread, I expanded my expertise and actually kept them all alive and satisfied. They complimented and gobbled and buoyed my confidence. I was beginning to enjoy cooking…and, more importantly…I was learning that eating was FUN.
My kids grew up healthy and well-fed. My husband had his three squares and appreciated it. And I learned to look forward to fixing and eating food.
So now, here I am. My kids are grown and gone. My life has fewer demands, and I have time to actually think about what I want to eat and when I want it. The thought of a steak and baked potato revs up my heart rate the way cuddling used to do.
I look for excuses to eat out or have something delivered. After all, there is no reason to heat up the house for just two people. Why not call Pizza Hut? Let’s just jump in the car and head over to Denny’s. Wanna get a hot fudge sundae?
John doesn’t eat much nowadays; we’re like Jack Sprat and his wife. But he wants to please me. The event of eating is the thing that makes me happy, and he’s just along for the check and my chomping company. He nibbles and pats his concave tummy and waits for me to finish.
Conversation is sparse; we ran out of topics years ago. But we’re together and I’m smiling. That’s quality time and he’s content.
When my granddaughter comes over for a visit, I watch her scramble from her mom’s car and run toward me. In my mind’s eye, she is a golden-brown pancake swimming in syrup, rolling toward me right at lunchtime. We simply MUST take her to IHOP for her favorite meal.
I try to keep busy, so I won’t think about food, but what is life without anticipation? I anticipate food in all forms, followed by the angst of seeing my body morphing into the shape of Mrs. Potato Head. Even my body image involves food comparisons.
Maybe I need more hobbies, like sky-diving or zip-lining or marathon-running. But I don’t think they’d be as enjoyable as following a hostess to a booth, cracking open a slightly sticky, choice-choked menu, and filling my stomach with FUN.
