Whatever

And the revelations continue. On our epic, 20-hour roadtrip, Professor Taco and I had occasion to discuss many things, among them, my current project. Right up there with the myriad other ways the professor is the best goddamn thing that ever happened to me is the way he helps prod me along toward revelations. The way he somehow knows what's in my mind just a second before I do.

Most recently, in Gladiola (our little red station wagon), somewhere in, I think, Quebec, or maybe it was just outside Toronto, that part of the trip is a blur (though let me digress here to say that I packed the healthiest cooler ever taken on a roadtrip. Baby carrots, sugar snap peas, homemade hummus, whole wheat pita, plain organic yogurt with ground flax and frozen fruit, roasted tofu and peppers in whole wheat wraps. We didn't stop once for road food, and we were delighted with ourselves for that). Anyhow, where was I? Somewhere in Upper Canada. Discussing the project with the professor. And he said, the thing with you is that if you want a burger, or you feel you've been good and you can afford to eat what you want, you just say, whatever. Thing is, he said, you say it all the time.

And it's true. He's right. I do. I say, whatever, it's just a burger, whatever, it's just french fries. It's just cheese, it's just white bread, it's just pie, it's just pistachios, it's just chips, it's just whatever. Whatever, whatever, I'll make it up somewhere else. Problem is, I never do. I don't keep track of the whatevers, and before I know it, all I've eaten all week are whatevers. I don't compensate with salad, or extra workouts, or more water, or grilled fish, or a day without starches or...well, whatever.

It's like living in a casino these days, being inside my head. Lights and bells going off all the time. My name is Stephanie, and I am a Whatever-Eater.

And this would be why it looks like I don't have a problem with food. I mean, maybe I don't. Maybe I have a problem with math. Or history. Or some other high school subject. Say, gym. I'm not a binge eater, not usually. Oh, I can eat a lot of pistachios in a mindless way, but not every day, and not enough that those alone constitute this avoirdupois. It's more that I eat each meal as if it is totally unconnected to every other meal. As if there is no narrative thread to my eating. No storyline, no consequences, no cause and effect. So though I don't eat a lot each day, I don't necessarily run a tab in my head, right at the front of my mind, of what I've eaten, and what that means I should eat next. It seems to me that perhaps this is something healthy people do.

Well, how do you like that? That one's pretty obvious, probably. To me, though? An epiphany of Joycean proportions.

Christ, for a smart person, I sure am dumb.

In other news, the scale here at the ancestral palace would seem to suggest I've gained four pounds since I started working out, then went down half a pound overnight, then back up two and a half the next day. Yes, I know I shouldn't be weighing myself every two minutes. But after, what, 15 years spent rarely stepping on a scale, I guess I feel like I have lost time to make up for. Or something. Truth is, I just need a new place to start from. So I'll take the number I saw on the scale here the first time I stepped on it, the one that has me four pounds up. I'll take that as my new starting point, and measure myself against it.

Speaking of measuring myself, I did that again this week and recorded some changes, in the bust, calf and upper arm. Slight ones, but changes nonetheless. And I'll lay off the scale for a week, checking in again next Monday.

Anyhow, I'm here for a month, hanging with the parental unit (god, I remember when saying that was cool. Now, I fear, it marks me as old and dull. Damn! Well, I may not be able to do anything about being old and dull, but I'm fucked if I'll be old, dull and overweight.). It'll be challenging...I'll have to be sure to cook a lot so I can make sure I'm eating the way I want to. There's an awful lot of stuff in this house I would never have around my own, like jellybeans and ice cream and chips and things that come in boxes. There is also, however, a treadmill. So instead of eating chips, I'll walk for half an hour. Should be ok.

Meanwhile, the professor is heading to France and China, finishing up his time with the band. We'll be apart for a month, each with our own challenges. Mine, to lose ten pounds by November 1, his to get ready to quit smoking by the same deadline. Before long, we'll be not just an art-powerhouse couple (hee!), but also a lean, mean, clean air breathing machine.

Sorry, again with the rhyming. I'm sentencing myself to 35 minutes on the treadmill for that.