You're Going to Make It After All

Yesterday, I made my two coworkers look at my butt. And, good friends that they are, they congratulated me because my butt, it seems, is a bit smaller. I wore a pair of cargo pants that I haven't been able to squeeze into for quite some time. I'm starting to get the hang of this new way of eating, and it's not that bad. I'm rarely hungry. Truly hungry, not just bored or anxious. I do have to admit that I miss some things. I could really go for some mint chocolate chip ice cream, and I'd wrestle a bull moose for a plate of fried pickles. I know, technically, I could have a half-cup of ice cream or an ounce or two of fried pickles. But I don't want just an ounce or two. I want a heaping platter. And therein lies the problem. Once, when I was only ten, I consumed an entire peach cobbler. I'm talking about a made-from-scratch peach cobbler in a nine-by-thirteen Pyrex casserole dish. That unhealthy mindset is the reason I weigh only slightly less than a Mini-Cooper. And that's what I have to fix. Why have I always felt the need to consume my food like Cookie Monster, with crumbs flying and falling from my mouth as I make num-num sounds? So, for now at least, no ice cream, fried pickles, or a host of other food items that send me into a feeding frenzy. Like any relationship that leaves you in a bad place, they've had to be nixed until I'm healthier and more responsible, physically and emotionally. But if my progress thus far is any indicator—and I believe it is—that day will come more quickly than I might have imagined.

~Alan