the tenacious ten: day nine

If surrender is part of the key to freedom, then it must be determined what, exactly, is being surrendered to.

Surrendering implies a battle.  A resistance.  A fight.  So that then begs the question: What am I resisting?  And why?

These are the questions that will lead toward surrendering to the right things.  What I've determined so far is this:

Discipline. I resist discipline because I am rebellious.  Because I don't like being told what I can't do or can't have.  Because I am tired of not having what I can't have.  Because I am tired of not having. 

Reality.  I resist the reality that my body responds to certain things better than others.  Because I want to eat what I want to eat.  Because I rationalize this is practicing all things in moderation.  Because I don't like my reality, and I want a different one.

Rest.  I resist being still because I am afraid I will get fat.  I am afraid I will get lazy.  I am afraid I will get complacent.  I am afraid I will get comfortable.  I am afraid I will get lost in the silence.  And so I don't allow for it.

Leading.  I resist the promptings of the Holy Spirit because I am afraid of what he's going to ask of me.  Because I don't trust he truly has my best interests at heart.  Because I suspect he cannot, or more accurately will not, meet my deepest needs. 

Intimacy.  I resist drawing near to God, to my husband, to my own inner being.  Because I don't believe their love is unconditional.  Because I fear opening my heart to them only to be rejected.  Because I question their motives.  Because I question their hearts.

These are the battles in which I am engaged.  The entities to which I must surrender if I am ever to be captured by Freedom.  I question if I am able.  But I am told I can do all things through the strength of another more powerful than I...

There are battles we all fight.  Things we all resist.  Truths to which we must surrender.  When you feel that fear or rebellion within your own spirit, what is it you are resisting?  Feel free to tell me about it...

for the record...

...looking at Sugardaddy's brownies is not helping the carbohydrate cravings. 

I'm just sayin'...

the tenacious ten: day eight

It is probably not a coincidence, it occurs to me as I struggle to get back on track after a weekend of swerving on and off my path, hands frantically gripping the wheel, that I am currently getting ready to write the part of my book that is about surrender.

Probably not.

I suppose it might be helpful, maybe, to actually practice what I'm preaching.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

No matter how far I've come, no matter how much weight I've lost, no matter how long I've kept it off, it still comes down to this: I can't control it, but I can't not control it.

My weight. My body. My eating. My appetite. My will power. My desire. My thought life. My life, in general. I have no control. But I can't, for the life of me, stop trying to grasp for it.

The Word says he who seeks to save his life loses it. Does it logically follow that she who seeks to lose her weight gains it?

Surrender. Yielding control. Taking my hands off the wheel. Screaming in terror as my car heads toward a tree. Do I hit the tree? Or do I find my way through the forest?

I don't know.

It's out of my hands.

the tenacious ten: day seven

Spent the weekend with a houseful of people and pets, thanks to our alma mater's collegiate choir being in town on their spring break tour.  Entertaining company is always a challenge for me when I'm trying to lose weight.  Or maintain.  Or any time that involves eating, which is all of my life, as I tend to eat on a daily basis.  I have the best of intentions, but once there is Mama Mimi's pizza fresh out of the oven or breakfast casserole likewise fresh, well, the intentions that were so black and white suddenly fade to gray.

One more piece of pizza won't hurt, I tell myself.  Then it's another.  And another.  Suddenly, I've had five over the course of the entire evening.  Why do I do that?  I don't know.  I wish I could figure it out.

I hate it when other people are eating things I enjoy and I can't eat them, too.  I feel punished.  It feels unfair.

I can't stand knowing there is are special foods in the house.  I cannot stop thinking about them until they are gone.  I become completely obsessed.

Here's the weird thing.  We gave up sweets for lent.  So the cookies were not even a temptation.  Why not?  I don't know.

This is what I know, and what I don't know.  The difficult truth is that this eating thing continue to be a mystery to me, despite so many, many things that should make it not a mystery.  I will think more about it tomorrow.  Tonight, I am spent.

the tenacious ten: day one

After a weekend of carb-loading, today began the attack on the Tenacious Ten.Two months on the "miracle diet" did not produce a miracle, unfortunately. My weight loss stalled after a five to eight pound loss and began to taunt me from there, inching up and down but never getting any lower. I decided I would switch to the lean, restricted version of eating clean, hoping it would take that last five off. But upon weighing myself the day I was to begin, I was shocked to find that the last five was really back up to the last ten. And then, I completely lost it over not losing it.

The last week, wherein I wallowed in my post-weigh-in freak out, was spent half in futile moderation, half in an all-out carb-fest. All gains that were made in the last two months are likely gone. This is what life is like in my body. I won't bore you with how incredibly demoralizing it is to keep going round and round and round with the same ten pounds. Suffice it to say it SUCKS.There was a public service announcement that ran when I was younger that pictured someone holding up an egg. This is your brain, the caption read. Then the body-less hand flung the egg into a skillet and it exploded, egg bits scattered all over the pan. This is your brain on drugs. I don't know how effective the announcement was at preventing drug use, but the phrase became a part of our lexicon. This is your brain. This is your brain on chocolate. This is your brain on milk. This is your brain on chemistry. This is your brain on homework.

My brain on a diet is a MESS. My body on carbohydrates is even worse, though not as graphic as the egg. Rest assured, you don't want to see it, nonetheless. My body on carbohydrates—a smidgen too much whole wheat bread, one too many Kashi granola bars, a bowl too many of high fiber, high protein cereal—and my middle gets squishy and soft and my pants start to cling in all the wrong places. The problem is, as you might have guessed, that I loveloveloveloveLOVE carbohydratey foods. Love. So restricting my carbs for a month, without the tradeoffs the "miracle diet" provided, well, let's just say it's not my favorite idea.At all.

Today is one day down. Egg whites with a half cup oats. A protein smoothie. An apple with two hard boiled eggs. Chicken chili with black beans and a scant amount of brown rice. WITHOUT the tortilla chips and cheese my children used to adorn their own. Sigh. A 30 minute walk, a 30 minute weight work out. I'm not full speed ahead yet, but I'm at least facing in the right direction today. That's a start.Tomorrow brings a 10 hour work day that will hopefully end in a brisk walk. Another step in the right direction.
Provided there are no homemade baked goods in the break room.

taking on the tenacious ten

So. Here's the deal.Seven years ago, I lost 100 pounds. I kept it off easily for five years. In a random and ill-timed course of events, I gained back ten pounds two years ago. I freaked out. In trying to lose the ten, I gained another. I came completely unglued. I'm writing a book about it, so I'll leave you dying for the details, except to let you know I've lost the second ten. But here's the thing.

The Thing is this last ten pounds. I've spent two years trying to take back off a measly TEN POUNDS. I'm going insane in the process. So here is where the rubber hits the road.Now, before I go on, just so we're clear, here is what I do NOT want to hear from you, should you have the urge to say it:

• Maybe this is just God's way of saying you should just accept this current weight. Bull-pucky. God wants me to spend my money to further his kingdom, NOT on a closet full of new Fat Girl clothes.
• Maybe this is your set point. It wasn't five years ago. So I refuse to accept that it is now.
•  Have you tried____________ or ____________ or ____________ or ____________? The answer is YES. All of it.
• What worked for me is ____________. I'm not you. And my body does not respond, in ANY way, shape, or form, to formulas. But thank you for your input. Truly.

That being said, here is what I've determined:

• My body is not responding to gentle, moderate tactics. I'm going to have to get hard core if I want to wear my Fit Girl clothes again.
• I do not WANT to get hard core.
• I am going to have to do it ANYWAY.

Tomorrow I begin Taking on The Tenacious Ten. Hard core. I am following Tosca Reno's Stripped diet, which combines Clean Eating principles with increased workouts. She promises I won't die. That is the best I can hope for. I will chronicle my efforts here, daily, for both your encouragement and amusement.

If Tosca Reno is to be believed, I'm in for a month of hard core lean eating and intense exercising, with the desired result come the end of the month. We'll see which lasts longer here—my efforts, or her book!

(not) weighing in on my week

I'm not weighing myself today, and you can't make me.

The week has been rough. My inner pendulum is swinging again. Everything within me is rebelling against restriction. The struggle has been intense, the mood heavy, the thought life consumed. I am fighting for peace of mind. I am getting closer, but I'm not anywhere near there yet.

I'm finding that, while the commitment to the writing is producing results in that part of my life, it is coming at a cost to other areas. Time, alas, is not a limitless resource. If I spend my time writing, I'm not spending it doing other things. Like, say, exercising. Which is a problem I've not yet determined how to remedy. My thoughts are a bit overwhelmed with it, as of late.

I've been thinking a lot, too, about this venue, and how to best use it. There may be some changes coming to how and what I post here. I think this is a good thing. It just is not quite clear yet what that will look like.

So between the low mood and the lack of exercise and the change of diet and the gray pallor of the day and the fear of the result, I am not weighing myself today. Which is, realistically, a victory. I have overruled the compulsion to seek comfort in the number on the scale. Today.

As for tomorrow, well, stay tuned...

out of my head

You can tell when I'm frustrated with how things are going. Everything goes internal. I stop writing about it. I stop talking about it. But I certainly don't stop thinking about it.When I'm frustrated, all gets quiet on the outside and the inner rioting begins. But not tonight. Tonight, I will write.

Tonight I will quiet the thought that the diet isn't working. Because it is. It's just not working fast enough and far enough. And that is a different issue entirely.Tonight I will squelch the voice that screams I'm never going to lose weight. Because I will. And I am.

Tonight I will unplug the treadmill of planning and scheming what I'm going to do next when it becomes apparent this isn't working. Because my head hurts too much to follow a pattern of thought beyond the next 30 minutes. And in 30 minutes I will be in bed, so what does it matter?Tonight I will turn down the volume on the inner tapes playing a continuous loop of self-hatred and disgust. Because I don't even have the energy to complain and criticize. And I'm trying to make peace with the body that gets me where I need to go.

Tonight I will give voice to the tiny whispers of hope. I will give voice to the questions and comments from friends about how I look. I will give voice to the fact that I can pull my favorite jeans up over my rear end. I will give voice to my efforts at sanity and moderation. I will give voice to two months of discipline and the fruit of my efforts.Tonight, I will turn on the lights and watch the scavenging roaches that are fear and control scatter back into the darkness. I will leave the light on. I will make a mental note to pull out the Raid tomorrow.

And then, I will go to bed, in peace.

moderation, my fanny

I almost didn't do it. I had been avoiding it lately--afraid of what I'd find and what I'd do once I found it. And so I went for three weeks maintaining total abstinence, in complete ignorant bliss, not knowing what the scale had to say about what my body was or wasn't doing. I'd tell you it was a peaceful, serene three weeks without this constant, subjective feedback, but that would be a lie. Feedback, alas, comes in many forms.

Over the past three weeks, feedback has come in the form of pants that fit better one day, but then clinging exactly the same as they used to the next. It has come in the form of bloating throughout the day to the point of having to peel my pants of at night. It has come in the form of checking my reflection morning, noon, and night, to see if it looks any different. I'm unfortunately no less neurotic simply for having not stepped on my scale.

This morning, however, I am slightly more neurotic for having stepped on the scale. All the feedback over the last few days--pants fitting better, people commenting on how I look, the image in the mirror looking a little smaller--all seemed to indicate that there should be a new number on the scale. And a lower one, to boot. So I took a deep breath, crossed my fingers, and took a gamble. And was immediately reminded once again that what SHOULD be and what really IS do not often line up in my world.

My scale blinked the same flippin' number at me today as it did three weeks ago. Three weeks ago. Are you beginning to see why my body makes me crazy? Three weeks of miracle diet, with very few exceptions, and the scale still reads 145. I don't know what... I don't know why... I don't know how... I can't even complete a sentence. There are so many possible endings to each of those beginnings.

Eight pounds lost, five to go. And the scale is not budging. This scares the crap out of me. Why? Because it's beginning to look like I might need to do something drastic. And I'm just not sure I'm up for drastic.

Over the past three weeks, I had two pieces of pizza and a slice of cake for my son's birthday. I cheated. Yes. I admit it. But I did so in a healthy way. I did so in moderation. I did so in order to not swing from the extreme of legalism to the extreme of anarchy. I felt okay about it. The next weekend was my women's group retreat. I went off the diet for one day--ONE DAY--and ate in moderation what everyone else was eating. And this past weekend, we had a birthday celebration for a friend, and I cheated for one meal. ONE MEAL. I did not binge. I did not go hog wild. I did not go completely off the deep end. I ate what everyone else around me was eating, and I did so in moderation.

Here's what makes me CRAZY. Moderation is not enough. Apparently, a few slices of pizza and a couple of desserts over the course of three weeks, even done in moderation, are enough to completely derail any semblance of progress. That makes me utterly, ragingly insane. If I want to take off this last stinkin' five pounds and fit back into the rest of my "fit girl" wardrobe, I'm going to have to be completely, 100% perfect. I'm going to have to resist eating like everyone else at next week's potluck. I'm going to have to possibly go even more drastic with the diet. And I'm going to have to work out even harder. And I don't know that I have it in me to do that.

Some days, I wish I were just okay with being fat. Some days, I wish I just didn't care. Because some days, I just don't think I have what it takes to fight this life-long battle with a body that wants to be covered in a nice, thick, warm layer of fatty flesh. I know what it takes to do that. And today, I'm sick and I'm tired and I'm just not up for it. Not for today, not for this weekend, not for the month, not for the rest of my life.

Tomorrow will most likely look different. I will try to cling to that and put the blinking number and the swirling thoughts and the raging confusion out of my head for now. As for how I shall succeed with that attempt, well, we shall see...

bread

Today was back-on-track day. Or, it was supposed to be back on track day. Instead, I somehow ended up at Panera, with a beautiful chunk of whole grain baguette on my plate next to my soup and salad. And, well, you know. I just succumbed.

Perhaps it is this upper respiratory crud that has me in its grip that weakened my defenses. Perhaps. I just knew that I was going to end up with carbohydrates on my plate, and I didn’t have the urge to fight it this time.

About six weeks into the miracle diet now, and I’m still not quite there yet. I had kind of thought I would be done by now, which I must admit is a bit disheartening. The results had been so immediate and impressive the last time—I expected a similar result this go-round. As usual, life does not turn out as expected. But I’m okay with that. I can slide into a pair of jeans I could not pull up past my hips before Christmas. That means, slowly but surely, something is changing. As long as it keeps moving in that direction, I will not lose hope. Yet.

The good news is there is not a food event on the horizon for the next several weeks, enabling me to concentrate on sticking to my diet for a good three or four week stretch, hopefully getting me to my goal weight by the end of March at the latest. If I can steer clear of Panera and the magnetic pull of fresh-baked bread, I should be good.

I hope.

And to hope, after all, is progress for me.

weighing in on weighing in

145. A new number on the scale. Though not a very low one. I suppose after my carboholic binge at Buca di Beppo's last weekend, I should be glad it's not 147. But I'm not. I want it to be 140. Because I want to be DONE.

Pants continue to get the tiniest bit looser. But the change seems to be happening by millimeters. I did the Big Diet because I wanted BIG CHANGE, FAST. This is not fast.

But it is change.

I must confess there is fear about the 145 mark. It has been a threshold, in these past two years since I regained 20 pounds and completely lost my marbles, that I have not been able to cross again. These next few weeks will be crucial, both mentally and physically. I must persevere and keep eating meat and cheese when what I really want is a bowl of cereal, eating eggs and bacon when what I really want is bread pudding, eating a chef salad when what I really want is corn chips and salsa. And I must hang on by my fingernails to the hope that this will actually work again.

Tell me this will actually work again.

victory

I did it.

I spent an entire day away from home in a foreign land and stuck to my diet.

I sat in the car with my family as they ate bagels, and I ate veggies and protein.

I watched my husband drink Starbucks, and I had water.

I went to a restaurant and sat at the same table with french fries, and I ate my cobb salad and remained carb free.

I laid in bed while my kids had candy and caramel corn, and I had a fat free bran muffin.

For whatever it's worth, I battled temptation today and went to bed basking in the glow of victory.

One day down, two to go.

the morning workout

(Subtitled: #@%$#*&%#@*#!!!!)

While five years of working out consistently has brought about a certain amount of discipline and routine, it has never brought about any type of desire or enjoyment. EVER. I keep waiting for that moment people talk about—I just couldn't wait to get to my workout. It felt so good to workout today. This experience eludes me. I workout because I HAVE to. I workout because if I did not, I would gain 50 lbs just by breathing. Truly. Writing, I enjoy. Creating art, I enjoy. Singing, I enjoy. Hiking, I enjoy. Reading, I enjoy. Working out? I do it because I MUST.

So this morning, because it is my writing day and I wanted to get a full six hours in, because I have to cart my kids to appointments after school, because I have a meeting at the church tonight, I got my warm, comfortable, almost pain-free body out of bed early and went down to a cold, damp basement and trudged away on the elliptical trainer for 45 minutes when I could have been still in bed. For some of you, this will make you roll your eyes in the same manner as my pre-adolescent daughter. You do this daily. Well, good for you. I do not. I have chronic pain and I don't like mornings. This is not my norm. But I did it. I drug my butt out of my comfortable bed and made myself uncomfortable so that I can now plop my butt down in front of my computer in peace, knowing that I have battled the bulge already today.

The war is not over. But today's battle has been won, while it was still dark outside.

You have no idea what kind of a victory that is.

the first official work out of the year

Subtitled: "10 Reasons Not to Cry While On the Elliptical Trainer"


Despite some serious walking over the past few days and the discovery of kickboxing available to me on-demand via Netflix a week or two ago, getting my fanny back into gear for a serious workout was not my favorite thing I did today.


I've never been one of those weird people who LIKE working out. I LOVE to walk. Provided I have company, I can hoof it at a crazy pace for hours. I like spinning. Probably because I get to sit. And because my instructor would play Joan Jett while we climbed hills. THAT I can get into. I tolerate the cardio interval class at the gym. It's kind of almost like dancing, but with a lot more equipment. But strength training? I HATE it. After 15 minutes of lifting weights, I want to cry. After a full workout, I sometimes do.


That being said, I got back on the elliptical trainer today for 30 minutes of leg-numbing hi-lo intervals, then did an upper body workout just for kicks. And while I did not cry, I did not LIKE it, either. If I can walk tomorrow, or lift anything above my head, we'll be in good shape. Until Wednesday, when I torture myself yet AGAIN.


Remind me why I do this?

a new year, a new diet

Subtitled, "You Know You're Desperate When You Begin The New Year's Diet on December 27^th."


Two years and still the same @$#%*@! 15 pounds clings to my midsection. Here is what I know:

1. Dieting at my mother's house is not only an impossibility, it's insane.
   
2. My body loves me some carbs. My figure does not.
   
3. Eating clean and exercising regularly is not enough to overcome the carboholic fanny pack I've accumulated.
   
4. Going low carb has worked for me. It has been the ONLY thing that has worked for me.
   
5. I am going low carb again. For 15 pounds.
   

Bought a big honkin' bottle of Benefiber at Costco, and we're good to go. Literally and figuratively.


Cheers! Here's to getting off this crazy ride!

it's been a long, long time

Over a year has past since my last entry. Let's review then and now.

Then: Struggling to take off the 10-20 pounds I regained after the half-marathon in 2008.
Now: Struggling to take off the 10-20 pounds I regained after the half-marathon in 2008.

Then: Obsessing about not fitting into my skinny wardrobe, and no longer having a fat one.
Now: Obsessing about not fitting into my skinny wardrobe, and no longer having a fat one.

Then: Trying to coax and cajole my body into giving up these last ten pounds to get back to my normal weight.
Now: Trying to coax and cajole my body into giving up these last ten pounds to get back to my normal weight.

Then: Going completely insane in the process of trying to figure out why my body won't respond.
Now: Going completely insane in the process of trying to figure out why my body won't respond.

Then: Struggling to get through the holidays without gaining ANOTHER TEN POUNDS.
Now: Struggling to get through the holidays without gaining ANOTHER TEN POUNDS.

Then: Near a point of complete despair and hopelessness.
Now: Near a point of complete despair and hopelessness.

If nothing else, at least I'm consistent.

I hope to get back to writing again, if for no other reason than to get out of my head. I know all three of you who have been checking will be breathless with anticipation.

self-imposed famine

I am recalling, as I contemplate the reading on my scale this morning, a comment Kim made fairly recently to a post on this blog. A fellow writer, and a darn good one, Kim has a way of being direct while at the same time saying something in a way you've never heard it said before. Normally, I find this very enjoyable. This time, it caught me off guard.

Bad news, she writes, none of the experts have come up with a better way to lose weight than a self-imposed famine. I chuckled as I read it, but deep inside, there was something about it that was decidedly not funny. Not Kim, mind you, but the deeper implications of this particular comment. I stored it away, along with some notes I scribbled as I processed my emotional response.

The thoughts have returned this morning, ready for me to explore them further. Despite two weeks of working out hard and reigning myself in, I have not only not lost weight, I have gained two pounds. While I am confounded, I am not surprised. I could feel it. I knew it in my body. But knowing it and understanding why it's happening are two entirely different things.

I know enough to know that I obviously am eating more calories than I am burning, so I need to re-evaluate my intake. But I also know enough to know that I was NOT eating so much that I should have gained weight. Maintained, perhaps. But not gained. This is what drives me to despair. I am trying not to go there, today. But the urge is strong.

I return to my notes from Kim's comment. I already deprive myself. I already say no to ice cream with the kids, to a third or fouth peice of pizza, to cookies in the break room, to french fries or garlic bread or pastries at Panera. I already reign myself in. Why must I do it more?

I already work hard. I already do some form of exercise, which I still, for the record, don't LOVE, four to six days a week. I walk, I cross-train, I strength-train, I interval-train. I already push myself beyond what is comfortable. Why must I do it more?

This is the struggle. I get that I have to watch what I eat and work out, and will need to do that forever. What I don't get is why I work out harder than my husband and don't eat half the stuff he does yet weigh 30 lbs more. What I don't get is why we can eat the same foods in the same portions and I gain weight and he does not. And what I don't get is why on earth God thinks this is a good idea.

Self-imposed famine. How much? How long? And to what end? Can I do it, knowing my body may or may not respond? Do I want to? (No.) But do I want my clothes to fit again? (YES.) So, what choice do I have? (None.)

Self-imposed famine. Restrict. Deny. Reign in. Work out. Burn.

And pray that the God of body fat has mercy on my soul.

So today looks like boycotting the gym (though I have a sinus infection on which I can lay blame), and eating whatever the heck I want, because I'm done. Tomorrow looks like paying better attention to my caloric intake and getting serious about getting this weight off. Because I'm done.

And so, at least for a season, self-imposed famine it is. Not to an extreme, mind you, but to a greater degree than what has obviously not been working. We'll see if my body plays by the rules this time...

the best laid plans...

The fight to not freak out is never-ending. The battle for control over my thought life is tiring at best, excruciating at worst. Take today, for example.

Prior to my birthday this past Saturday, I'd lost seven pounds on my way back to my pre-sucky-winter "normal" weight. My clothes were fitting better, my mood was hopeful, my spirit was lighter. I was encouraged.

I was not even fearful about the weekend. I knew what was in store. I had a plan. Hiking and ice cream on Friday. Salad for lunch then dinner out with dessert on Saturday. Back on my eating plan come Sunday. It was a good plan. It allowed for treats, allowed for celebrating, allowed for a little birthday revelry. And it allowed me to maintain the all-too-important momentum that had built over the last few weeks. It was a good plan, and I followed it well.

Problem was, I did not plan for a surprise party.

I did not plan for chocolate cake with mousse in the middle and real butter cream frosting. I did not plan for homemade apple strudel. I did not plan for kettle chips and chocolate chip cookies.

One day of celebration--of enjoying the love that was behind these wonderful, delectable treats--and the familiar tightness in my waistband is back with a vengeance. The number on the scale is higher. And the sinking in my spirit is much, much lower.

It was ONE day. I know this. I'm right back on track. I know this, too. But...

The momentum was stalled. The progress interupted. The direction of the scale reversed. And for someone whose greatest fear is that the weight won't come back off, again, this can be panic-inducing.

So, I am trying today NOT to panic. I'm trying to silence the voice in my head that screams, "SEE!!! This is what always happens! You're doomed to be fat forever!"

I can ignore it for a while.

But I can't, for the life of me, make it shut the heck up.

rambling in my fatigue

I'm not avoiding writing. Not much, at least. No more so than I'm avoiding everything else. There is just a pervasive lack of time for anything other than the necessities. Do I squeeze in a workout, or write? Do I have the energy for either? Do I even have the desire?

Spent the weekend at a string of unavoidable food events. I have yet to master saying no to the bounty of the buffet. Is it a lack of discipline? Gluttony? Guilty pleasure? Joy in God's culinary creativity? All I know is that Helen's lemon bars made me happy. And so I ate several. In addition to my German Chocolate Chip Cookie Bars, which also made me happy. In addition to the "Texas Caviar," which also made me happy. In addition to...

Food makes me happy. I have yet to determine if this is good or bad. What it does to my body, however, at least in the current quantities, is decidedly NOT good. But here's the thing... one lemon bar is just not enough. So where's the limit? Thirty-eight years, and I've yet to figure this one out.

Lemon bars and chocolate chip cookies and chips and salsa--happy, colorful moments in a gray, melancholy life. Without them, lots of them, what is left?

quandry

How can I possibly eat LESS when I really want MORE?