Skip to main content

Diet Camp

In my twenties, I could eat more or less with impunity--quantity did not matter--and though I knew a rude awakening would happen in my thirties, I nevertheless didn't *know* a rude awakening would happen in my thirties.

*One of my wisest friends had advice. She was discussing the problem of eating-while-you-are-cooking. This is a problem because, as you cook, you have many delicious foods laid out before you. And you sample--and sample--and sample--over a forty, fifty-minute span, so that, by the time dinner is ready, you've actually consumed one dinner. You've had a dinner, and now you're sitting down to a second dinner. My friend listened to this complaint, and said: "Chew gum while you cook." And my mind exploded.

*Sometimes, my shrink interrupts my dieting stories with horror. "Butter? Don't cook with butter!" And: "Red peppers will do strange things to your stomach, especially as you age." And: "Remove the skin from the chicken. No milk in your coffee. Long walks throughout the day. No food after 6 PM." All of this is intriguing, but it makes me wonder if my shrink is an actual human, in the actual world. No food after 6 PM?

*My great ally is herbal tea--which I can shovel into my face without guilt--but then my bladder revolts at two in the morning, and three, and four, and five.

*Sometimes, to stop the evening eating, I try to will myself to brush my teeth at an absurdly early hour (e.g. 6 PM). I know, if I brush my teeth, I won't eat any more food, because the thought of brushing my teeth *a second time* will be overwhelming. So I try to use my laziness--my anti-toothbrush feelings--in my favor. But often the act of climbing the stairs to brush my teeth--just to come back downstairs and watch TV and not eat--seems Herculean. And I don't do it. So this toothbrush plot is more like a draft; it's more like an unrealized dream, a blueprint for privatized space travel; it's not happening yet. Maybe one day.

Those are my thoughts on food.

*P.S. I will be away for several days. I'll resume writing around July 8. Happy Summer!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

  When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

 Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...