Here's the scoop, dearest friends. Failure isn't fun or something that I'm ever proud of. It is something that has always made me sick to my stomach. I know I'm naive in thinking that I don't fail often, but I'm either ridiculously good at lying to myself about it or I'm so pompous that I can easily forget the bad because I'm always hanging on the successes. Mr. Rogers and Sesame Street told me I was a winner, and I haven't forgotten that since. A convenient way to make sure that you always win is to bail when you feel like you're about to lose. I've been doing this since back in the day when my sister and I would play a four day game of Risk or Monopoly until I felt the tides turning against me and I'd flip the board over and tell her to pick it up. Generally speaking, I'm also pretty good in high pressure situations, but as I thrive I always manage to wear myself down to the point where I get overwhelmed with smaller, less important things. I tell you this because I feel like both traits are responsible for the sputtering along of this blog.
First, the bailing. I'm not pinning this one on anyone but me. In the past three weeks, I've spent roughly 10 nights at home and over two full days in a car. I was on other people's schedules and around other people's foods. These aren't excuses, simply facts. They aren't excuses because I vowed to live by the rule of moderation, so no matter what was in front of me, I should have been able to have it without feeling like I was falling on my face. However, it started to get really easy to lose control. It first started when I stopped at Burger King last Tuesday night on my way to Sioux City. It continued the next morning when we stopped at Burger King again the next morning for breakfast on the way to Pierre. It continued when we went to a Mexican restaurant for lunch and I couldn't help but fall into my old ways and feel the need to win the imaginary contest of getting the most food for the buck. I didn't want to do it, and I felt awful after I did. These feelings of guilt and remorse eventually start to build, and then the sadness brings back the old need to eat some more to make it go away. Then came Thanksgiving, and I did the best I could. I only made one trip through the line, and I took smaller portions of everything. Then the desserts came out, and everything looked so fantastic. I decided a piece of pumpkin pie wasn't enough, so I took some of this chocolate pudding dessert that my sister had made. This isn't an indictment on anyone nor am I passing blame, but before I sat down at the table I started getting the cat calls about "So much for the diet!" and "Can't wait to read about this one on the blog" as everyone around me shoved three or four pieces of pie down their faces. I was so full I didn't have any room left for the entire piece of pumpkin pie, but for the first time in about three weeks I pushed past the boundary and went ahead and finished it anyway. The next day lead to a fairly shitty meatloaf, mashed potato, and macaroni and cheese dinner at Perkins that was covered with gravy. Even though it tasted awful, I didn't leave a scrap on the table and even had some of my aunt's patty melt. Houston, we have a problem. Suddenly, I'm no longer a human and have transformed into the Incredible Bulk, which has in common with the Hulk the bulging body and changing of skin color, but unfortunately only leads me to unbuttoning my pants as my face gets red and sweaty. You wouldn't like me when I'm hungry!
I needed more. I begged my sister to stop and get me an ice cream cake at Dairy Queen on her way home. After all, it day one of my four day birthday celebration, and I needed something sweet to celebrate with. She obliged, and so I ate some more. Saturday brought a stop at Dairy Queen for lunch (I just had a cheeseburger and small fry, so I took what little pride I could in that). That's where it started going really crazy. I'm guessing I drank somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 oz. of beer and three Windsor Diets (that's right, even after 200 oz. of beer I'm still conscious about my waistline). I also ate nearly half a pizza at Boston's, which probably was my only saving grace from being found face down on the bowling alley. It turns out when you don't drink often and then drop 20 lbs., your body does funny things to you when you try to be a rock star. I figured 29 would be my responsible year, so I better get all the wild and crazy out in one last night. The next morning featured a brunch buffet that I barely made a dent in because of the burning sensation in my stomach, and then a stop at Burger King for a chicken sandwich and a piece of Cookie Dough Pie (evidently I developed a sweet tooth) on my way home that night.
So, now I'm back home, and I should be back in control. Except that, like a crack addict, I've tasted the highs and was currently riding some major lows, so I needed to make myself feel good again. Like Halle Berry in Monster's Ball, I just wanted to feel good. Monday was actually my birthday (and the inspiration for the name of this blog), so I decided for lunch I'd have three of my favorites: an egg salad sandwich, a cup of potato soup, and an iced tea. Could have been worse. And then I stopped at the grocery store for the first time in about three weeks, but instead of being a good boy and loading back up on fruits, veggies, and soups, I decided, Hell! It is my birthday. I deserve to eat one of my favorite supper items. So, I bought the ingredients to make spaghetti and cheese bread, went home, and made a meal that could feed a family of ten. You'll never guess what happened to me on Tuesday! I was sick, and not just a little sick, but a lot sick. I'd abused my body so badly for a week that it revolted. I was tired, stuffed up, running to the bathroom every ten minutes. I thought I had learned my lesson. I went to work yesterday, and decided to start my morning off with the fruit plate the cafeteria offered. It was good and filling. Then I had a delicious Maryland Crab Chowder (only 160 calories in a can!) for lunch. I was feeling like maybe I had control of the reins again. That is until I drove by McDonald's on the way home. I was tired, exhausted, had no groceries, and felt like I was starving. I reluctantly pulled into the drive-thru, and by golly, the McRib was still on the menu. "Well," I said to myself, "you've already screwed everything up. Might as well get one before they go back into hiding." And so I ate my McRib and fries on the drive home, something I swore I was done doing. Then in a fit of self-pity and loathing, I stopped at Dairy Queen for a Blizzard. I thought to myself as I finished my 40,000 calorie supper that this was my last meal like this. I realized I had thought this thought so many times before, but I wasn't mad. I don't know how to describe the feeling. It is a perfect store of hopeful and helpless, and I guess it was enough to lead me to a cup of yogurt with fresh blueberries this morning. Maybe I should change the name of the blog to 1509 Thursdays.
Next, the overwhelming part. I'm the most arrogant humble person you'll ever meet. I'm a walking oxymoron. I want so desperately to be successful and to know that people are noticing and caring, but then after it happens I want to run into hiding and to be left alone. If you're always at the top of the mountain, then somebody is always trying to push you off and the expectations become that you should remain there, but if you get to the top of the mountain and then hop on a sled back down, you get the thrill of coming back up again and the accolades that come with it. This blog is a perfect example of it. I started it because I thought it might help me, but also because I wanted to show off a little bit. I wanted people to know I was doing well, and in the process see that I could effectively communicate in this medium. You know what? You did. And so did a lot of other people. This blog started with like 20 site visits a day, 18 of which were probably mine. You know how many hits I had on the last regular post? Over 400! In a three day period I had over 1,000 different times that someone cared enough to click to see if I had posted anything new. Suddenly the writer's block set in. It wasn't that it got too personal for me. Hell, I'm an open book. It is just that I realized I had a lot of people cheering me on and caring about me, and I suddenly became nervous and shy Jeff that wanted to sink back into the wall and not be noticed for awhile. Unfortunately for me, you people still cared. You still wanted to know how I was doing and where I was in the process. A blog is an island, so I couldn't deflect attention to someone else and say, "Hey, let's make this person feel good for awhile!" You were all bound and determined to see me through, and I guess I knew somewhere deep down inside that I couldn't help but disappoint you all. So, I flipped the Monopoly board.
But I woke up this morning and decided I didn't care because you guys don't care. I messed up for a couple of days, including my 29th birthday that I had so desperately wanted to roar into. In the period of blogging and not blogging, I hit my 20 lb. mark, and now I get the opportunity to hit it again I guess. The scale this morning indicated that I hadn't completely bombed out, but I'm probably somewhere in the +5 department (not counting the Blizzard that has yet to permanently attach itself to my thighs). So, I'm eating my yogurt. I'm going to the store tonight to get my soups, fruits, and veggies. I'm not going to wait until next Monday to start again because I can't afford to. This being healthier nonsense obviously hasn't set in as a lifestyle yet, but I need to stop expecting to undo 28 years of nutrition ineptness in three weeks. I'm going to be better, for you, for me, and for the future. In the meantime, I'd encourage you all to read this interesting article that my friend Lacey posted on my Facebook wall. Again, this story isn't an excuse, but in the wake of this past weekend, I can't help but know that this could be something I'm up against.
http://www.npr.org/2010/12/01/131698228/overeating-like-drug-use-rewards-and-alters-brain?sc=fb&cc=fp
Writing from a padded room in fat rehab,
The Incredible Bulk, errrr, I mean Jeff
