Oh look! More unoriginality from the Queen of Shake-Shake. No, no, I’m not talking about tests again. Although I could because I have another story of how I fought the law and, well, I think I won instead of the law, but I’m not sure if I did.

But NO! I’m not talking about tests again. I’m talking about weight! Again! If I’m going to do something, I might as well fully embrace it. Today I will fully embrace unoriginal topic ideas by writing not only about weight, but of my yo-yo’ing weight.

Unoriginal topic at its finest, people.

And I know you are totally interested in my unoriginal experiences with yo-yo’ing weight, so I’m going to explain in detail how I go about losing and gaining weight. (this is where you roll your eyes)

Immediately following ovulation, I notice an increase in muffin top and lack of flat stomach. Hmmm, I better cut back on eating like a fucking asshole and exercise more.

The next week (the week before Aunt Flo), nothing has changed except I’m getting fatter! The muffin top is even larger, my stomach even bigger, and I covet elastic waistbands like an 80-year- old woman. By the time my period arrives, I figure nothing I do matters so I might as well eat whatever I want.

Commence with stuffing my face like a fucking asshole for three or four whole days with things like Reese’s peanut butter cups, chocolate chip cookies, Doritos, and those nachos from Moe’s.

But then! After my period, my stomach magically deflates (magic meaning my magic PMS medicine, which is an awesome concoction of Gas-X and Ex-Lax) and all the retained water is gone.

I realize there is hope and I start eating better and exercising more. This goes on for a week and then it’s all wow, look! No bloated stomach, muffin top ain’t that bad, clothes are fitting better. I don’t need to be so strict with what I eat. This frozen chocolate chip cookie dough ball won’t hurt me. Or another. Or another.

And then it starts all over again.

Now that I’m in my mid-thirties, I see a lasting affect of this hormonal eating. That “lasting affect” could also be called an official size 10 pair of jeans. Yes, it is official. I broke down and bought a size 10 pair of jeans.

But wait, I can hear some of you now. Oh, I would *love* to be a size 10! Well, that’s great. For you. A size 10 isn’t great for me. While I’m tall (5’8″), I have a small build and a size 10 means lumpy dumpy for me. And besides, just because there are other people in the world who would be overjoyed to be a size 10 doesn’t make it ok for me to gain weight.

Here’s where we fuck with ourselves though. When I went up to a 6, I thought I should be a 4. When I was an 8, I thought I should be a 6. Now a 10 and I think I should be an 8. The only time I thought I looked good was at a size 4.

Isn’t that insane? Even my doctor said to gain weight when I was a 4. Can you imagine in this culture of epidemic obesity a doctor telling a patient to gain weight? I think that he could see my rib cage through my chest gave it away, don’t you? But I didn’t listen to him because (hello?) I looked like the girls in the magazine. It wasn’t until we were trying to get pregnant that I thought, hmmm, some body fat might be a good idea so I’ll have more regular periods. I let myself gain some weight.

I won’t lie to you. Having chocolate milk shakes every day was FUN.

But it seems I’ve embraced the philosophy of body fat = regular periods so well that I have them 27 days on the dot, a day ahead of schedule! What can I say, I’m an over-achiever. (but one in recovery)

Is there a point to this story?

If you look at the top of my right sidebar, I’ve put up a food diary. Every “diet” says it’s essential to keep a food diary when losing weight, so I bought a cute little notebook for that purpose. Only no one reads my food diary but me, and apparently I don’t care about being accountable to myself, at least when it comes to eating like a fucking asshole. If I ate 5 chocolate chip cookies on Monday (which I totally did), I can write it down, but all it does is make me feel guilty and we all know how well guilt works in diets.

If guilt was all it took, we’d all be some skinny bitches, wouldn’t we?

So I’m going to write it here on my blog sidebar. I’m going to be completely honest, meaning I’ll tell you when I eat a handful of goldfish crackers while helping Payton with his homework. Ok, two handfuls. And I’ll also tell you when I clean not only my plate, but the boys’ plates at dinner. (Come on, you moms know you do this too.)

How do I know I need to do this? Because I had the idea yesterday and when I grabbed that handful of goldfish crackers, I thought, whew, I’m glad I don’t have to tell on myself on my blog today!

So I’ll be putting up everything that goes into my pie hole and I’d like to invite you to call me out on it. If you see I’m eating like a fucking asshole, feel free to comment or email me and say Hey Heather! You’re eating like a fucking asshole! Stop it!

Or

Heather, I’m so proud of you for NOT eating like a fucking asshole today!

Or!

Heather, you’re a fucking asshole no matter what you eat. No wonder Smerik Drag blew you off.

And if you’d like to make your own blog food diary, let me know because I’d love to have an open invitation to come tell you when you’re eating like a fucking asshole too.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, October 8th, 2008 at 7:45 am and is filed under All About Me. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.