Category Archives: Weight Loss

The Half-Full Plate

So I went to bed at 7:44 last night.

(Yes, I realize that I’m really not setting myself up as the most marketable author for a book on how to live your best life in your twenties.)

Originally, I was only going to rest for thirty minutes and then get on to working out and running errands, and then I realized that I could barely keep my eyes open–and actually, I was done with work, had no plans with friends, and could in theory push off everything to tomorrow. So viva la procrastination it was.

Plus, I’ve been trying to listen to my body lately–which is not going so well.

One of the things I’ve often heard recommended when you struggle with binge eating (and yup, I do) is trying to eat only until you’re full.

Now if you have a healthy relationship with food, that might seem like a duh. But in my case, when eating is too often about other factors (enjoyment! escape!) it’s honestly been a bit tough to get accustomed to thinking ‘Am I full now? Is this what being full is?’

Because a lot of the time it feels like an irrelevant question, either because I’m following Weight Watchers and it doesn’t matter how hungry/full I am, I have X amount I can eat today, or because I’m just eating whatever I want, and it’s really not about being not hungry.

And one of the areas where I struggle the most with eating in accordance with Real Hunger is restaurants.

I love going out to eat. All the flavors, none of the work of needing to mince your own garlic or cube your own veggies. And: no cleanup!

But I also find it almost impossible to not eat my entire meal at a restaurant, no matter how many times I’ve read that current portions in most American restaurants are oh, 16 times the recommended amount of food or whatnot. (OK, it’s not 16. It’s like two, or three, or maybe, at Cheesecake Factory, five. I’d google it, but I’m lazy, and I don’t get paid for blog writing, so: google it yourself.)

(Because of course, you should not have to decide between mac and cheese and a burger.)

In theory, I get that it makes total sense to cut up your meat into multiple portions, and to cleave your rice into two or three piles, and just eat some of it, but oy vey, in practice, it just feels so darn sad to me.

And while it would be convenient to blame my parents, I tragically have absolutely zero memories of being told I had to finish my food at dinner or I wouldn’t get dessert or anything like that.

So maybe I was just born this way, thinking that leaving food on a restaurant plate–even when I know the plate contains enough food for several meals, and if I was debating how many rations I could fit into my wagon on the Oregon Trail, and aware that too much weight in the wagon could result in the premature demise of my oxen, I absolutely would not let anyone count this as one portion (90s educational computer games for the win!)–is just the saddest.

Which brings me to how I spent Father’s Day.

So for an embarrassingly long time, I’ve wanted to go to a nice steakhouse. And somehow I never successfully conned anyone into taking me. (Mind you, before you start to think I’m basically equal to Hans Christian Anderson’s Little Match Girl, I somehow conned my way into one job, airplane tickets, musical tickets, a free hotel stay in Rome, etc., etc., during this same period.)

So I asked my brother, who has some kind of business gig I can never understand but does involve occasionally hitting up nice restaurants, if he could recommend a steakhouse and go with me.

And somehow the only night we could both make it work was on Father’s Day, which makes perfect sense as our dad lives 3,000 miles away (and would pick Chinese over a steakhouse).

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(The first shot of our meal, all demonstrating why I am not about to start a food photo Instagram empire.)

So we ended up at Ruth’s Chris in the Crystal City neighborhood of Arlington, Virginia, because you can see the Potomac River wind past and watch the planes take off at Reagan Airport. Now if you’ve never been to Crystal City, you might wonder if this neighborhood was some whimsical Disney environment, a rip off of that ice castle in “Frozen.”

You would be very wrong.

The biggest motivation behind the construction of Crystal City seems to have been an abiding belief that there is nothing office workers hate more than being exposed to the sun. It is a bunch of clunky office buildings, and below them is a maze of basement restaurants and bizarre shops selling landscape art or fashion that seems to rely heavily on sequins, and almost all of it is in the ground and connected by tunnels lined with yet more shops. Last time I went to Crystal City, I saw the carcass of a dead bird in the underground tunnel leading to my parking lot … and I thought: this fits the vibe.

But yeah, Ruth’s Chris itself is on top of one of the clunky office buildings, so it did have a lovely view. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but when I saw the interior of the restaurant my first thought was ah, we’re back to hotel basic: everything looks comfortable, in bland colors, and there is no hint of a color or shape that would ever impress itself upon your imagination enough to be recalled a day later. Inoffensiveness maximized.

(In my defense, I kept finding myself in hotel ballrooms in 2011-2012, and amid taking notes and tweeting out politicians’ latest warblings, I had an inordinate amount of time to contemplate what exactly hotels were trying to achieve with their decor.)

So in between trying to help out waiters who were unsure whether to wish my brother a happy father’s day (and for that matter, a toll worker wished me happy mother’s day this year, which sent me down the path of a good, long meditation about how I am doing my hair these days), we analyzed the menu–and went for broke.

Cocktails. Calamari. Steaks. Mashed Potatoes. Brussel Sprouts. Creamed Spinach. Wine. And yes, we assured our attentive waiter, we could probably cope with a refill on the bread basket.

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Given that I had been wanting to do this for oh, a decade or so, I had already decided I wasn’t going to try to eat healthily at this one meal.

Then the crisis struck: after I’d had about four bites of my steak, I realized I was … full.

I was stunned.

Genuinely!

I ate a few more bites of the ribeye steak, which was amazing (although maybe a smidgen over salted?). I ate a few brussel sprouts, and some potatoes, and some creamed spinach … and just felt fuller.

And then I noticed, as amazingly delicious as every mouthful was, I honestly didn’t want to eat anymore–that somehow the discomfort emerging from being full was truly worse than the sadness of a barely eaten steak on the plate before me.

It was like the bizarre feeling I experienced when I first saw the Parthenon in person after having looked at a poster of it in my college dorm room all four years: the shock of recognition when you encounter something you’ve never known first hand, but have often contemplated..

(OK: I have been full before, so I might be exaggerating a little …)

So ultimately, I asked for a box for my steak. And to both my and the waiter’s stupefaction, the default box size was too small for the amount of steak I had left. So he somehow procured a larger box, and yes, I ate the rest of it as a delicious weeknight dinner the next night, along with some of the leftover sides.

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One of the things I learned in therapy is if you have a bad habit that you can’t break, it’s probably worth contemplating what you get out of the behavior (the idea being that in the long term you can try to see if there’s another path to get that reward sans the bad habit). So as I have struggled, time after time, to leave uneaten even a few bites at a restaurant meal, just to try to get acclimated to the idea of not eating it all, I have gone full-on self-centered and pondered why exactly I, who was born in the 80s and have never faced a food shortage in my life, seem to think that leaving oh, even three fries uneaten on a plate, is akin to sinking into a food shortage situation straight out of the Depression.

Which brings me to Pinterest.

So I have a very not cool fondness for cliches and motivational sayings, and sometimes I scroll through Pinterest to hunt for them. One of the Bible verses I encountered that way, probably set to a background of a field and someone’s sandalled feet, was “The thief cometh not, but that he may steal, and kill, and destroy: I came that they may have life, and may have it abundantly,” which is apparently from John 10:10.

(I do anticipate my future life, post weight loss, will exclusively involve sunrises.)

It’s a verse I’ve thought about it often in the past few weeks, because I’m pretty sure the bleakness of not finishing meals is, for me, a rejection of abundance. And in my own life, it often feels like my faith is a source of negation, not abundance. Don’t do this, or that, or oh, most definitely not that.

Which, if I was the type to embrace personal responsibility, I might concede that my own focus is partly to blame for this, that maybe if I slowed down and savored a little bit more the amazing things God has done for me, my mindset would shift … that I would not just intellectually believe “the rules” were there to liberate us from affections that can’t lead us to true happiness, but would emotionally believe that as well–and also cherish the gifts from God I so often take for granted.

But at any rate, I’ve been trying to think more of the paradox that God both wants us to live abundantly and that He also wants to lead healthy lives … which means my ultimate abundant life might mean a lot of uneaten french fries.

(Side note: I’m never sure what to make of the fact that I have almost no angst over accepting things like, oh, the Trinity, but I do struggle to understand things like the above.)

(I have no idea who this person is, but I can pretty safely say I’ve never left a fry uneaten at Shake Shack.)

I can see, sometimes, that lack of overeating could lead to other kinds of abundance: moving more easily, being able to do more, not getting tired so easily (and er, um, crashing at 7:44 at night).

But oh, I want it all: the energy and the food. I want somehow to be in a world where we can both afford a lot of food and where our stomachs can magically process it all without having to expand.

Yet that’s not our world.

So … I keep trucking on. Since that dinner, I’ve managed to not eat past fullness at an Ethiopian restaurant, an American restaurant (where I left behind a lot of fries!), and even at a Baskin-Robbins, where when I realized I didn’t like a flavor that was advertised as peanut-butter tinged because I couldn’t taste the peanut butter, I let the rest of the scoop fall into a liquid state.

Of course since then I have also managed to eat a full portion of take-out pad Thai as well (which I’d roughly guess counted as four Weight Watchers portions of pad Thai), soo … no worries of me becoming an annoyingly perfect role model any time soon.

In case you were angsting about that.

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The Little Things

This is it.

That’s what I thought to myself on Thursday, sweaty-faced enough that I had to keep swiping away hair tendrils latching on to my cheeks and forehead, as the escalator carried me out of the metro.

It seemed absurd that it was so darn tough to not buy and gobble down a chunky peanut butter cookie (or two, or well, three).

It shouldn’t be this hard.

That’s a thought I’ve had a zillion times. Over and over again, as I struggle with cravings and binge eating, there is a detached part of me that cannot believe it’s actually this painful to just not eat something.

After all, the downsides of being overweight are always there: breathing hard, knees that strain and a back that seems overburdened. Vaguely, because now it is more than half my lifetime ago, I can remember not feeling so, well, weighed down. I can remember not noticing my body as I did things.

But already I am irritated by this craving, tired of it. I don’t want to deal with this, I am thinking. I’ll just get the cookies and start again tomorrow.

And that’s when it hits me: I’m never going to get to the tomorrow I want until I can handle this kind of now, the kind where I’m swamped with cravings and yet somehow don’t give in.

Oh sure, there’s been times when I ate too much because I had real sadness or genuine difficulties. But too often for me it’s the little things, the mild prickings that I somehow cannot just shrug off or accept.

After all there is nothing seriously wrong this Thursday. I am unpleasantly hot, and my decision to wear a long-sleeved dress—because how could it matter? It’s breathable fabric and a dress, what’s a few extra inches of fabric?—was a mistake, but even more so, I am grumpy about this muggy, swampy humidity that seems to want nothing more than wheedle its way into my skin, sucking out all the moisture and bringing it to blend with the atmosphere. It doesn’t have to be this way, I think once again: if you are going to live in a humid climate, I recommend not having spent your entire childhood and college years in California. Because then you know it doesn’t need to be this way, that the summer sun can beat, and yet not demand offerings of every scrap of moisture everywhere.

(A Weight Watchers-tracked summer sweet.)

I know that among all the things I ought to just let go, that this is one of the most obvious: I can move or I should learn to accept it. I am not going to change the climate of Washington, D.C. And yet … it baffles me. What good is served by humidity? Why must anyone ever in any part of the world live this way? (and yet I know there are people who strangely prefer humidity to dry heat!)

I am also tense because I am about to start the busiest part of my workday: one of the strange components of daily journalism is that it’s the afternoon and early evening hours where it’s the most urgent. I’ve spent my whole adult life accustomed to this reality, and yet there still seems to be a bit of shock, that in the waning hours of the sun, it’s suddenly time to be the most on, the most focused, and to have the shortest amount of time to solve what problems inevitably arise.

And I’m irritated because once again I’m dealing with an annoying eyes problem. I have a disease called Kerataconus, which I’ll probably go into detail about someday, but anyway for now here’s the gist: it’s made it so my non-corrected sight is horrible. And while I can see fine with contacts, there is the maddening reality that there is no way to cure or improve Kerataconus itself, except if you have a corneal transplant (which apparently is something your eye has a lot of drama about and aside from the general ick factor, is not a good idea until you’re much worse than I am). Oh, and doctors can’t predict how fast or slow your disease will progress.

So for someone like me, who is a little overly fond of having things controllable, this is a real bugbear. And now today I am picking up the latest test pair of contacts and I find out that there is a twist: there is a slight mark on these contacts and I’m meant to put that mark in a very specific place in my eye, presumably to maximize the vision I get from the contacts.

Here’s the twist: I can’t see the mark.

So, that’s great.

So I’m in the doctors’ office—which is a strange, slightly trendy, very sleek-gray-dominated place that also seems to be marketing glasses with a pushy intensity that always strikes me as a little embarrassing—and I’ve got my contacts off and people are assuring me, yes, there is a mark, can’t I see it, and it’s occurring to me that now I’m at the point I can’t see well enough to get to the point where I can see well enough because apparently that involves finding this darn mark.

This is a new twist in the eyes saga (and guys, I’ve had to tell to the doctor that sans contacts, the only letter I can make out is the top “E” on the chart, so believe me, I’m no stranger to facing my lack of sight) and finally I resolve it by putting the contacts on with rampant disregard for where the mark is and figure I’ll sort this out at some later juncture.

Right by my doctors’ are an abundance of bakeries and coffee shops selling cookies and pastries and everything decadently sugary; I march past the lot, descend into the metro.

But now, coming back up, I really, really want something to take the edge off. Something to obliterate my worry about how I am going to find this mark, and something to make me forget how muggy it is.

I know I have a Greek yogurt back in the office, a Greek yogurt that doesn’t taste bad and in theory, has 15 grams of protein, although I’ve never had the kind of fullness with this yogurt I feel like ought to occur after ingesting its massive amount of protein.

I know the fact that I do want a cookie and I don’t want the Greek yogurt means this isn’t about Real Hunger.

I know that I really do want to lose weight, to be healthier and feel lighter.

But oh, how I also want to take the edge off.

And then I realize: I can’t count on some mystical future where something like this will be easy for me. I can’t just get the cookies now and assume it’ll be easier tomorrow. It might be easier tomorrow! Some days I really don’t have much in the way of cravings.

But at some point, if I’m going to get to a healthy weight, I’m going to have to make it through the slough of cravings. I can’t talk myself out of this. I know it’s ridiculous. I get that I have a million things that make me #blessed. (Sarcasm aside—I do!) I know I have my yogurt and dinner coming up and I am not hungry, nor will I be.

I know, I know, I know.

And yet …

I still want the solidity of those stupid peanut butter cookies, that mixture of peanuts and flour and peanut butter and sugar. I want the brief escape; I want to not be reasoning with myself but to just simply feel OK, no brain exercises needed.

“I think if you have the expectation that you’re going to be happy throughout your life—more to the point, if you have a need to be comfortable all the time—well, among other things, you have the makings of a classic drug addict or alcoholic,” writes Carrie Fisher in “Wishful Drinking,” a book I was reading on the metro in commutes this week.

OK then.

Ultimately, I don’t buy the cookies. I don’t know why. I’ve certainly had this same dialogue before and gone the other way, plenty of times. Maybe it’s because I’ve been trying to pray to want to be healthy. Maybe it’s because I’ve been trying to remember more why I want to be healthy. Maybe it’s because part of me is so darn tired of failing too. Maybe it’s all of these things.

I don’t eat the yogurt. But I do stop at Chipotle, get a burrito bowl I can justify on Weight Watchers, and bring it to my office. I don’t eat it until six. But it’s halfway compromise—something I want to eat that is there. It’s not the most healthy, for sure. But unlike a handful of chunky peanut butter cookies, it has some nutritional value—and is acceptable for dinner.

So that’s that.

I’ll go into more details later about what I’m trying to do with blogging about weight and weight loss—some kind of glorious manifesto that won’t sound too stuffy, but will also show I am Very Insightful—but in the meantime, I think my reasons here are two-fold: (a) I wonder if being more open will help me be more steadfast in my dedication to changing my life and (b) I love weight loss stories online, but I’m always annoyed about how they generally only arise when someone’s done or close to it.

Well, I’m in the trenches of the messy middle now. It’s often not pretty. It’s a lot of mind games about thinking about what it would be like to feel different in December or next June. It’s a lot of faith, and it’s a lot of trying to find some kind of strength within myself—when I sometimes feel there is nothing more to plumb. It’s a lot of bad days mixed in with the “good” days.

And oh, it’s really hard.

That fact often shames me. It shouldn’t be hard! Not eating piles of junk food every day is something loads of people do all the time.

But for whatever reason—genetics, personality, bad habits, etc., etc., — it’s tough for me.

So … yeah.

And welcome to My Journey.