You Killed my Fitness, Prepare to Die.
Little did I know how prophetic the last post really was. After falling off the wagon and missing Yoga-X for Happy Hour, I fell even further going out for a huge Mexican dinner with family on Friday night. It was a family event, you know, so it’s not like I was going to miss it for a diet that never makes it past Thursday. And this is it. This is the very thing that has prevented me from successfully slimming all my life. The apparently unworkable intersection between a Healthy Diet and A Life Worth Living. It killed my fitness, prepare to die
Part of the problem is, of course, that I personally feel a life with out margaritas, chips & salsa, beer, fries, burgers, frosties, cheeto-s, frappuchinos, beer, any appetizers–really, and beer is simply not worth the effort. But there are other difficult aspects to dieting than just the mere denial of everything for which the taste buds yearn. There’s the social element.
Not wanting to be “That Girl”
If you’re a woman, I’m guessing you’ll be nodding your head in empathetic agreement right along with this part, and if you’re a man, I’m guessing you’ll be shaking your head in confused condemnation about how crazy women get about food. And OTHER women. I’ll admit it. I get crazy from time to time when it comes to food. And for whatever reason, I get crazier about food when other women are involved. No matter how many years it’s been since the bra burning, or how quickly Gloria Steinem just deleted this blog from her Google Bookmarks, it’s the truth. I want to be slimmer, I want to eat well, work out, and try hard. I just don’t want anyone else actually knowing I have to work at it. Effortless is style.
So when I’m out to eat with family or friends, ordering food becomes a little tricky. I have to go out with them. And we always talk about the fact that we should really find activities to enjoy with each other that amount to more than a mere calorie-fest. Somehow we manage to solve the rest of the world’s problems when we get together, but we never quite get to the bottom of that one.
And I know we aren’t the only chicks hard at work on it, either. I don’t want to order what should be eating (see picture) and make everyone else feel weird for eating what they actually want to eat. Sometimes when I’m out with my girlfriends I order first, and order big. Then someone else in the group orders a Caesar salad, chicken grilled and dressing on the side. This is where I feel a fog of self-conscious funk waft over the table as I, and I presume other fatty-philes in the group, think, “Damn, she has more self-control than me. No wonder she can get away with those white jeans!”
Another reason I don’t want to order what I should be ordering, and this I will admit is really sick, is that I’m loathe to tip my hand about the fact that when it comes to me and fatty foods Love is a Battlefield. So I just order whatever. Sometimes I even overcompensate, and order something really fatty. Doesn’t that add to the effortlessly stylish mystique — “How DOES she do it? She should be HUGE eating like that!” — it doesn’t? Oh. I thought it did. It’s a stupid mind game with only one player, you say? Oh. I though I was ahead.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but my guess is that down inside every woman, no matter how independent, free-spirited, or liberal-minded, there exists a tiny bit of torture over what she’s eating vis-à-vis what her friends are eating. Hell, I think even Susan B. Anthony sucked it in for the cast-drafting of the silver dollar.
Not wanting to be “That Other Girl.”
“Yes, I’ll take the enchiladas without cheese, sauce on the side, really just shredded chicken on a dry tortilla — which I shouldn’t probably have but hey, you only live once. Maybe I’ll also take a side salad, no cheese, dressing on the side — on second thought just wave the ranch dressing around somewhere in the vicinity of my salad, and that’ll do. Oh and a Skinny-Girl Margarita.” It’s cringe-worthy, right? I was hard-pressed to believe anyone could stomach being the Picky-Order-Person at a restaurant, but then I met a group of people with a whole new attitude. After a little blog-surfing I’ve come to understand that the Picky-Order-Person knows:
- This is my own body.
- I alone am responsible for everything that goes in it.
- I alone am to laud or to blame for the effects my body bears as a result of what I put in it.
But, even understanding all these things in my rational mind, I still feel very self-conscious putting in a picky order with a waitress. However mad I feel at myself for this though, because it ain’t her hauling the extra inch-and-a-half around her midsection, when the moment comes to order wrong and eat right, I cave and order right.
Mainly because anyone who’s waited tables knows, and anyone who’s eaten out has heard, all about what happens to That Other Girl.