Friday, February 22, 2008

Eatin' Pants

Do you know what "eatin' pants" are? Of course you do. You don't?

Eatin' pants, or its grammatically correct phrase, "eating pants" are close cousins to the sweat pants family. Eating pants, though, are a step-up, a fancier version, shall we say, as not to be immediately detected as its lazier cousin, made purely of comfy cotton and an elastic wastband.

Worn with a fancy top, the eating pant can easily be mistaken for a nice dress pant. The magic, though, is where a nice dress pant might pull, might cut off circulation upon sitting, might say, remind you, as it's digging its zipper into your belly button, "DO NOT ASK FOR THAT SECOND BREAD BASKET!," the eating pant forgives, for it is your friend.

It becokens appetizers, a full bowl of the savory, sauced up pasta of your choice and dessert! Don't forget dessert! You can have every last bite as your pants expand and contract with every delicious morsel.

So yesterday, I go out with my friend R for lunch as we are both going to celebrate our belated birthdays. R is a devoted WW devotee so I figured I was in "the safe zone" as far as eating. (The "safe zone" being defined as, "You will be throughly humilated if you eat anything with more fat or calories than your eating brethren. You will be given the WW stink eye if you even think about looking at double fried potaoe skins with a cereal side bowl of sour cream." Humiliation helps, ladies.)

I should have know we were in trouble when it was aggreed upon that the restaurant would be Cheesecake Factory. Even though I knew I would be eating healthy, I put on my eating pants for thorough relaxation and eating maximization, afterall, I had not had breakfast. I tried to channel the woman who leads our WW groups on Friday. And had, I gone today, I could probably recall her name. Let's say it's Lauri.

Lauri says we must visualize and pre-plan everything. If we know we are going out to eat, say for lunch, we must have a healthy breakfast and perhaps, snack on some healthy almonds on the way over as we are visualizing ordering our half salad, dressing on the side.

Hmmmm, well, I hadn't had breakfast and the only thing I could snack on, on the way there was an M&M I found on the floor board of my Jeep. At least, I think it was an M&M, it tasted chocolate-ty. Anyway, I do my visualization technics driving the whole way there.

"Lunch size BBQ Chicken salad with dressing on the side, please. Lunch size BBQ Chicken salad with dressing on the side, please. LUNCH SIZE BBQ CHICKEN SALAD WITH DRESSING ON THE SIDE!!!!"

Okay, I got it down, I'm going in, I'm feeling good.

The waiter comes over. "May I take your order?" My friend R goes first.

R: "I'll have the Liguini with Chicken and Sundried Totatoes in the Cream Sauce."
The waiter turns to me, "And for you, Miss?"
Me: "I'll have the same."


And just like that, poof, will power gone. Lauri would not be happy.

If I had to be real and from what i remember of Lauri, she likes us to "get real," I would have to say I have fallen so far off the WW plan, I'm practically eating like I imagine J. Lo was the last week she was carrying twins.

This has to stop. But only I can stop it. More writing down every morsel, more journaling about the emotional roller coaster that is my life to get all the feelings down on paper so I am not left alone with them at night. (They beckon to be comforted with ice cream and who am I to say "No.")

More, gulp, moving. This has been my biggest issue. Though I have cut down to just two gym memberships, I don't use either really. Ugh, all this getting real makes me want a donut. Oh, that's the other thing I have to do, make sure there are good groceries here all the time.

Because when I moved and when I groceried and when I ate right, the only thing I called eating pants was a pair of size 8 jeans.