Just when you thought you were rid of me forever, I return triumphantly with a close-up photo of my crazy alien hand trying to look all calm and cool lodged in my pocket. This is the illusion of Instagram, friends. To the untrained eye, this photo says something like
Look how casually hip I am as I show off the subtle tuck of my dolman top paired with a wispy scarf woven from the eyelashes of a unicorn. Oh, and be sure to notice the perfectly painted pale pink manicure and trendy gold necklace. #blessed
Excuse me while I gag.
If you've spent any amount of time here in my neck of the woods, you know that pretentious bovine excrement like that is sooooo not my jam. Let's keep it real, shall we?
Man, I wish it were socially acceptable for me to wear yoga pants to work.. Instead, I had to jam my abundant trunk section into these jeans that just came out of the wash because they are on the only work acceptable jeans I have left that only have a small hole in the knee as opposed to a gaping hole in the knee which I get is considered fashionable for 14 year olds who will happily pay $110 of Mommy and Daddy's dollars to purchase, but I prefer to save them for hanging around the house while I pretend to dust and sip a Malbec. So instead, I get to jump up and down and flail about on the bed while I try to cram a ten pound sausage into a five pound casing, aka my 7 for All Mankind boot cuts. After a little cursing and a whole lot of rearrangements of the souvenirs my three sons left me around my midsection, I got those suckers buttoned. Thank the Maker for whatever genius invented the dolman top. It's just blousy enough to cover the volcanic eruption of fat and skin that had bubbled up over the surface of my waistline without anyone being the wiser. I claim victory over you, jeans. Naturally, it is time for a selfie. Only, I haven't washed my bathroom mirror in 3 years so there are smudges and toothpaste splotches all over it so now the photo looks like I have some sort of ghostly tampon hanging out of my lady-parts. And hey there curling iron that is ever-so-conveniently pointing directly to the area in question. Is there a filter that just cuts to the chase and adds a blinking neon arrow right above my baby-maker that says, "Watch out! One wrong move and that button's gonna blow!" At least my nails look good.
Welcome to the crazytown that is my head, friends.
But I did practically do an entire Zumba class in my bedroom that morning just in an attempt to get those god-forsaken pants to button. I was ready to either spit nails or go eat a deep-fried Snickers for breakfast. I got pretty down on myself; not gonna lie. Heck, it wasn't that long ago that I was flaunting my skinny-tude all over this here blog, writing about my weight loss journey and my new healthy food choices and my 27-minute 5K and other such vomit-inducing nonsense. Seriously, how did you all put up with me? I'm actually shocked nobody beat me over the head with my own running shoes. My comeuppance has arrived, y'all.
And it is brutal.
So the button incident woke me up and got my head back in the game. I figured it was high time I quit eating pork chops with sweet potato risotto cooked in butter and white wine drenched in cheese and butter and served with a side of butter and garnished with a flourish of cranberry gastrique and love. A couple days before I decided to dial my head in to my new approach to food, I went out on a date with my husband and we shared a filet and an order of lobster gnocchi that was so good I actually made noises while I chewed. You know.....noises.
It was a gluten, butter, cheese and fat induced euphoria, friends. The Malbec was just the icing on the cake. Oh yeah, and we totally had cake later too.
Now I spend my Sunday afternoons meal prepping. Sometimes Evan helps me because it I had to do it all the time I would lose my ever-loving mind.
Those larger containers of food near the bottom of the photo were originally packaged for Evan to take to work, but he left them behind so I totally sharked them and they became mine too. I'm sure I broke them up into several meals though because I have an iron fisted grip on my portion sizes, don't you worry. *cough cough*
Chicken, fish, veggies, healthy carb. REPEAT.
Welcome to my new life.
No gluten, no fried ANYTHING, dairy in very VERY small amounts. Less chemically modified junk (bye-bye to all that chemically altered fat free, reduced fat, processed junk). I've been referring to it as Paleo-ish because I still allow a small amount of rice, beans, and other healthy grains like quinoa into my diet.
Grass-fed beef is super expensive and it makes me want to punch someone in the throat but I buy it anyway because the Internet told me to.
Almond butter does not quite do it for me like peanut butter can.
Also, I'm pretty sure my sweat now smells like coconut.
Coconut milk coffee creamer.
Coconut milk whipped cream.
Coconut milk in my Starbucks chai.
It's safe to say that I've officially crossed over the threshold and joined the ranks of the many I have mocked as I relied on them for their gratuity. Now I'm the one trying to not be a pain in the rear as I request the gluten free menu and place my order with a super-obnoxious list of omissions and substitutions.
I haven't been to Culver's in two months.
I switched gyms and I'm back to working out at least 3, sometimes 4 or 5 times each week.
My kids usually still order chicken nuggets and french fries and quite frankly I'm usually too tired to argue with them because I spent all my energy on kettlebell swings and weighted lunges.
The number on the scale hasn't moved as I would have liked. In fact, it's actually gone in the wrong direction. But after only a couple of weeks, I am finding that I actually feel better and my body is responding well to being fed better fuel and getting forced up off the couch from time to time.
It's meant more time at the gym and in the kitchen, less time on the computer. But it's been a good thing. A really good thing. I'm feeling more confident in my own skin again. Slowly, I am remembering what it is like to have control over my body and the food that I fuel it with, rather than letting it control me.
Then again, I did drink coffee the other day with coconut oil and grass fed butter in it.
Because the Internet told me to.