I. Hate. Food.
Okay, that’s a lie.
I love food.
Especially anything with the words sugar or peanut butter written all over it.
But I hate food.
Because the stuff I can’t seem to get enough of is the stuff that makes you start to feel your behind jiggling when you chase your naked 2-year-old down the street (don’t worry, there were no cars). Because I don’t care what people say, there must be sugar in heaven -- a whole cottage like in Hansel and Gretel (minus the creepy, child-devouring witch). Because no matter how much “working out” I think I’m doing, I always eat just enough to compensate for it.
Oh blah, you’re thinking. I don’t want to hear another woman’s fat-rant! Well, too bad. You’re here now. And the farther down the page you get,
I guess you could call me a runner. I “run” (I’m not convinced what running is, really. Some old lady can probably speedwalk faster than I run) 6 days a week. Sometimes I switch things up by riding my bike or doing awesome Netflix fitness videos from fitness instructors no one has ever heard of. I ran the entire time I was prego with my #3 baby and started back up right after. Feel free to clap.
But guess what? It’s not enough.
Because of that whole “I-have-to-eat-something-but-I-don’t-want-to-make-anything-so-I-think-I’ll-just-finish-off-the-bag-of-chocolate-chips” thing.
I’ve spent most of my life fighting my kid-in-a-candy-store eating habits. Seriously, exercising is the easy part most days. Get up, exercise, don’t worry about it the rest of the day -- score. Food… not so much. Especially with kids. Who wants to go down to the basement for another can of tuna after making sandwiches for two other people? Not me. Too much effort. Call me lazy.
I’m not really sure where these horrible habits come from. On NBC’s The Biggest Loser, everyone seems to blame trauma from their past. I don’t blame my trauma. I’m not even going to blame myself, because when someone whips out a heaping plate of d-o-n-u-t-s at a Halloween carnival, there is absolutely nothing inside of me that can resist a bite (or nine) of that crispy, frosting drenched fryer confectionery. Or chocolate-chip cookie dough, despite its (horribly dangerous/don’t eat it kids!) raw egg element. Or soft homemade pretzels dipped in cheese sauce. Or Reese’s PB Cups. Or cheesecake. Or any and all other delights that have that great white devil (sugar) listed first in their ingredients label!!!
Whaaaeeelll... we'll chit-chat more later about my intensely interesting dietary habits. I gots me a fruit pizza (sugar) in the fridge and it is just screamin’ my name ya’ll!
Boy I hate food. I just hate it.