Late Night Snacking

I’m not sure if a bowl of leftover pinwheels dripping with smart balance, sprinkled with parmesan, is what you’d call a “late night snack” but that’s what I just wolfed down as I casually read through some blogs. That and the piece of hearty bread slathered with same smart balance. Shit, where’s the booze to go with it? Oh yeah, red wine season is out. Margaritas coming back in style again soon, I hope.

So what’s with the eating, I say? I ask myself. I say, self, what’s with the damn eating. What void are you trying to fill. What body fat percentage are you willing to accept tomorrow when you slap your big, cold feet on the scale and knowingly prepare for a wince? Hmm? Hmm, self?

I’ll be satisfied to lose 5 more pounds, but 10+ is truly the goal. However, I have absolutely zero discipline for most things in my life, so what would be the difference with the weight thing. I love to eat. Unfortunately, the food doesn’t exactly have to be all that tasty for me to just eat it – it’s not like I’m snacking on the gourmet. It’s like the act of chewing and the change in flavors in my mouth is most satisfying – from something stale that could probably just benefit from a toothbrush, to the juice from a single grape, or the creamy coolness of a little smart balance. (At least I’m balancing “smart” with buttery goodness.)

So I’m now considering if it’s even worth my time to come up with a new schedule or diet or REGIMEN (ick, what a manly word). I know I most likely won’t stick to it. But in deciding NOT to make a plan or LIST about this I’m admitting self-defeat or something. No, I’m copping to the fact that I’m a loser. Shit! I’m not a loser, am I? I mean, we all lose. And that’s what I intend to do, dammit. 10 more stupid post-baby pounds. He’s ONE next month, I think I can do a little sacrificing for my own personal happiness here. Thing is, I have to sacrifice eating for regained svelteness.

(And then there’s the whole next train of thought…. svelte again? I don’t think so dear. Not with that bread-ball tummy (thanks, Jen) to those little saggy sacks called boobs, to the strange weave of stretch marks across my ENTIRE mid-section…..)