The biggest issues I have boil down to food. My weight, blood pressure, even psychological stuff like how I soothe a wounded ego or fight boredom or celebrate, all tied to food. Food doesn’t argue with you. It’s easy to manipulate. Treat it right and it’s the best thing in the world. Don’t pay attention to it and it will let you know. Cheap food can be just as tasty as expensive stuff. Seriously, give me a pot of homemade, creamy macaroni and cheese, at about $5 for a potfull, over the $800/oz Beluga caviar. I mean, seriously, greasy fish eggs? Puhleeze.
The nasty diet I have been on since November has worked. My methods of dieting have managed to keep me from despair or insanity. That is, I follow it kinda strictly (pretty much really) 6 days a week then one day a week I eat exactly what I want, how much I want, all day long. I can behave for 6 days if I know that 7th day I can go hog wild. Also, 6 days of behaving make it impossible to behave TOO badly that 7th. One’s stomach and tastebuds won’t allow one to eat half a salty fried chicken, no matter how badly one might want to.
So anyway I got all this fantastic news via bloodwork kidney function’s improving, all that good stuff like blood pressure, triglycerides and cholesterol are improving…all because I’m walking a mile 3-4 times a week and watching what I eat.
The hardest part has been accepting that I can’t eat whatever, whenever, like I could 20 years ago. I guess that’s what happens with age. Except that, I’m still 23, right? I mean, when I got my hip replaced (the old hip made me feel like I was 70), it was like time turned back, only, the metabolism didn’t.
However, seeing is believing.
And, to celebrate? All the women’s magazines say to celebrate something like this with a manicure, or a new haircut, or maybe take yourself to a movie or something. Don’t Use Food.
Well, I’m using food. So sue me. Saturday is My Day To Eat. It’s when I eat what I want. A plate full of tacos. A couple of pieces of fried chicken and some creamed potatoes. Butter peas with hot sauce. Bacon.
Terry has offered to cook and I said I wanted a steak. Not a super lean sirloin or a teeny recommended bit the size of a deck of cards. I want a ribeye, nicely marbled with that little tail of fat at the end, the one that gets crusty and brown on the grill and I can save as the last, disgustingly luscious bite. I want to be able to dip bites of it in salty steak sauce, and to pour the juices from the platter onto a fluffy baked potato. And people, screw the salad. I get salad the other 6 days of the week. I don’t want dessert. My taste for sweets has diminished to a degree that I’m content with a spoonful of sugar in my Irish coffee. Give me a nice, medium rare ribeye.
Tomorrow, I’ll eat a salad, a bowl of salt free (homemade) soup, perhaps a sandwich with no fat, salt free meat of some-sort. And I’ll be fine with that.
Food, it are my friend. It doesn’t backstab me unless I abuse it. It’s always there. I intend to take good care of it so it will take care of me. Fair enough?