Posted by Sherry , Tuesday, August 31, 2010 Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Vacation is one of those words that, for most people, conjures up images of beaches, palm trees, relaxing book reading in sandy lounge chairs with men named Raul bringing you fruity drinks with umbrellas and double shots of liquor.
Which is why I honestly cannot call what I went on this past week, a vacation. Because when you add a child to the mix, the fruity drink is usually apple juice, the little umbrella is a choking hazard and Raul and his supermodel wife Margarita are staring at you rudely because your child is touching their Ralph Lauren beach towels with her mint chocolate chip fingers.
The double shots of liquor however, still make an appearance.
As I like to call 'vacation' with a toddler: “Same Shit Different Location”.
A Banded vacation, however, is a tad different than it used to be. I won't bore you with the details of what I ate or drank or how little I exercised, but I will tell you that the quantities of whatever made it into my gaping maw were WAY less than they used to be. Coffee with lots of milk has replaced a breakfast of donut topped donuts. Deli-meat roll ups have replaced pool-side pizza for lunch, and although I can't say I didn't pop a few Golden Oreos while enjoying my trashy novel, there were over 2/3 of them left in the carton when we got home.
The best part of this isn't necessarily the food choices themselves, its that I'm SATISFIED with them. I'm not lusting after something I 'shouldn't' have or eating that last piece of key-lime pie just because its there. I'm full. In the uplifting words of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.: Thank God Almighty, I'm FULL AT LAST.
Another strange thing Leona suggested I do on this vacation was bring my scale with me. And get this, I ACTUALLY GOT ON IT. EVERY DAY. As of this morning, I've not lost or gained a pound. Success? Not really. Acceptable? Definitely.
Being banded has forced me (in a good way) to start examining my relationship with food, my appearance, my clothing size, my emotions and the number on the scale. I haven't really 'gotten there' yet with any of these relationships but the one that really chaps my hide is the one with the scale itself.
I want to love my scale. I want to shower it with love and affection. I want to adorn it with jewels and squeeze it and call it George. But I just can't. I hate the damn thing. I even hate it when it gives me a 'good number'. Why? Because I hate that I'm letting a freakin' number on a scale DEFINE me and my mood of the day. Normally that is Matt Lauer's job.
In a perfect world, I would throw the scale away. But I can't. I've always kind of known that throwing away the scale wasn't possible for me. Even when the number was creeping up every week and I cried when I stepped on it, and cried harder when it started CREAKING, I still never stopped getting on it.
Since about age 13, I could have told you how much I weighed, any day of the week, down to the ½ pound. I could also tell you the middle names of every NKOTB member and say the entire 50 United States in alphabetical order.
When my surgeon's P.A. told me early on that I should just go by clothing size and not worry about the number on the scale I didn't just laugh out loud, I got as hysterical as an unhinged villain. Then I punched him.
I'd love to be one of those people who could just be all pretentious-like, cross my designer jean clad legs, bat my LATISSE eyelashes and say “I don't need a scale, as soon as my jeans start to feel tight, I start watching what I eat”. But we all know that the only people who can really do that are Heidi Klum and GOD. The last time I read Cosmo and followed the 'throw your scale away' advice I ended up in maternity shorts. Not pregnant.
Body By Pizza – one of the most inspiring and inspired weight loss bloggers I've ever read, followed the advice of some of her followers and tossed the scale for a couple of months.
She decided to use how her clothes fit to guide her in healthy eating and moving. Get this, she gained FIFTEEN POUNDS over the last 60 days. Moreover, she was doing P90X THE WHOLE TIME.
I've heard the Nazis used this P90X program to weed out fatties from the elite race. Unfortunately Hitler didn't account for the invention of Frutopia, Whoppers and moving sidewalks so we still roam the Earth, looking for RingDings and plus-sized capri pants. How do ya like them apples Adolf?!
Like me, it sounds like Body by Pizza needs the scale to keep her honest *Sigh*.
It sucks for both of us and its not fair but my scale took the 7 hour trip with us to the beach anyway. He sat between the cooler full of Greek yogurt and string cheese and the bag full of bathing suits that are almost too big. Yes, my scale is a 'He'. Who else but a man would have invented such a torturous device?
And although most of my exercise came in the form of mortar & pestling guacamole or getting up to pour myself another glass of pinot grigio, he (my scale) recognized my eating efforts and rewarded me with an 'acceptable' number that I then picture-messaged, somewhat proudly, to my personal trainer.
I've always hated having “the man” keep me down' but now I kinda like it.