manicotti malaise

Last night was Writing Posse. About every six weeks or so, a group of us, all women, gather at a member’s home and workshop. Mostly we critique poems, but we’ve also got an essayist in the mix, so it keeps things interesting. We drink wine, have recently implemented a nopotsmoking rule (the ingestion of THC, most of the time quite potent, seems to invite some potentially dangerous dynamics), eat delicious food oft’prepared by the host, and workshop. Sometimes, as was the case last night, we roll other celebrations into Posse, like a birthday or engagement announcement. Suffice it to say, I ate too much, drank a little too much vino and capped the night off with a frosty pint of ESB. I’d abstained from alcohol since the previous weekend, and was at the tail end of my period, and I think I was particularly susceptible to getting all warm and buzzy. Friday nights in Denver are notorious for massive DUI sweeps by ticket-happy cops. Driving home was probably not the best idea. Luckily, I had a ride.

So I was told last night that I looked like I’d lost weight. 13 pounds I announced proudly, raising my arms above my head in some kind of Mary Lou Retton stick-the-landing stance. I AM proud. But I also ate way too much last night—stuffed manicotti, a heaping salad plate of spinach greens and strawberries sprinkled with those sinfully delicious fried onions that Americas use for their ubiquitous Thanksgiving green bean casseroles, a smallish pie-shaped slice of foccacia, aforementioned wine. Oh and from-scratch chocolate cake with fresh raspberries and blackberries. I picked at the berries decorating the cake with an abandon I have not allowed myself since starting this weight loss journey. It was something to put into my mouth that seemed fairly innocuous, and much better than the second piece of cake that I really wanted.

13 pounds.

All too comfortably I slipped back into my age old habits of overeating last night. I allowed myself to lower the resistance wall and let the old Fuck It voice climb into my secret, up-until-then-well-tended garden. I could feel it creeping in as early as 3:00 yesterday, when I bellied up to a bar, ordered a Sunshine Wheat with lemon, and read through the Posse poems one last time. Work had let us all go early due to the Easter holiday, and my office had a working lunch scheduled for 1:00 at said restaurant/bar; we finished our meeting by 2:30, so after walking my boss out, I grabbed my poetry binder from the truck and went back into the bar. One wonderfully cold beer and three critiqued poems later, I walked outside into the hot spring afternoon and went to pick up some wine for the evening. It was my requested “contribution”. Not cake. Not bread. Wine.

I also had to stop by the local record shop to grab a couple jewel cases. As luck would have it, I spied a nearly new copy of Sarah Harmer’s latest, I’m a Mountain, in the used cd section and snapped it up immediately. $8.99. Not bad at all, since I’d already decided that I simply couldn’t lay down $19.99 for the limited edition of Beth Orton’s new one. Budgetary woes have curtailed my monthly cd purchases. Credit cards be damned. I don’t use ‘em anymore at all.

13 pounds. I lift a ten pound free weight and think “this much weight is no longer hanging from my frame…plus three MORE pounds.” I don’t want to stop now. I can’t stop now. I have to just let last night be what it was and start from HERE, from NOW. I enjoyed myself last night, but was also keenly aware (especially post-devouring a mega heap of manicotti) that I was eating too much. I could have said, when the Italian deliciousness (stuffed that day at a local Italian grocery) was being served, “oh, half of that serving, please” but I didn’t. I was hungry. But I also remember feeling full once I’d eaten half of what was on my plate and I didn’t stop. Stopping would have meant getting up from the table, taking my plate into the kitchen and leaving it there. That seemed rude, somehow. Every bite of the dreamy manicotti melted in my mouth. The company was optimal. The zinfandel I’d brought—Earth, Zin and Fire from a winery in Lodi, California—was plush with berries and pepper. I couldn’t just put my fork down. Mmmm Good overrode sense, wiped out self control.

I trip up occasionally, yes, but for the most part I’m managing to maintain a consistent exercise plan and eat pretty well, especially when it comes to fruits and veggies. I’m less gassy (well, I am) and sleeping better. I can walk three flights of stairs at work and not feel like I’m going to faint. I’ve hit 35 minutes on the elliptical at level 8, and that’s nothing to sneeze at. My intent is to make permanent, health-conscious changes, and I believe that I’m on the right track. But social functions are still my greatest weakness. My gregarious nature emerges in those situations, and an appetite for excess follows directly in its wake. In time, I hope to learn how to enjoy myself without feeling deprived or like I’m missing out on something that simply should not be missed. I’ve got to learn this particular way of balancing all my hard work with my desire (unchanging, so far as I’m concerned) to play hard. I’m not talking dropping acid and climbing trees; I’m not talking kamikaze shots chased with red bull and falling into bed at 3 a.m. I just want to figure out how to be sensible without losing my sanity or feeling like I’m offending the cook by leaving too much on my plate. (That is SOOO my upbringing. Another blog on that particular topic is waiting for me down this long ass road…)

13 pounds. I clutch the number to my chest like a trophy.

The irony does not escape me: I must lose in order to win.