Lettuce for Breakfast

Everyone has a basic value that determines how they react and behave.  It’s at the core of every decision they make, and is hopefully the quality they will be remembered for.  Here is mine:  I don’t eat lettuce for breakfast.

Seriously, I don’t care what country you live in, what religion you are, or how strict your diet is, you do not eat lettuce for breakfast!  It’s just wrong on so many levels.  It offers nothing of value to the meal, it has no flavor, no nutrients, and no color.  I mean what is the point of eating the stuff?

And why is it that whenever you’re on a diet you have to eat lettuce at every meal, till you’d rather run into the wall screaming.  When did lettuce become the icon of healthy eating?  Who decided it was the magic food around which all diets should revolve?  Why is it we have to torture ourselves with this poor excuse for a vegetable and what is so flippin great about it?  It’s not like it is so delicious and satisfying that you don’t feel the need to eat anything else is it?

“Fill up on salad” is probably the biggest diet myth heard today.  Whoever wrote that (and I bet it wasn’t Shakespeare) is laughing all the way to the bank.  There is nothing filling about a few pieces of insipid green, water filled, fiber strands.  In fact there’s hardly even any fiber or carbs in it, so what the heck am I actually eating?   It tastes like a poor cousin of grass, and goes slimy the instant it touches anything hot. 

 The reality is, we use lettuce to hide the fact we’re eating nothing.  Too familiar a sight is the overweight dieter at a social gathering with loaded plate of lettuce adamant they are ‘stuffed’, saying “yes I tried the beef”, while frantically looking under the lawn clippings on their plate for the sliver of protein allowed on the latest craze diet to attack their common sense.  For at least saving us from having to tell Miss ‘none of your business’ that we are trying again to lose weight, I give lettuce it’s due.

Self trickery is another common use for lettuce of course, whereby the plate loaded with salad is supposed to make us think we’re eating a lot while our rumbling tummy protests otherwise.  Give us some credit!   Today’s consumer is smart enough to realize that not only will eating a whole paddock of lettuce make them choke and gag, it will NOT under any circumstance make them feel full.  It will only make them hate lettuce even more! 

Surely it’s better to have nothing on the side than to stuff salad sown your throat like a participant in some kind of hideous Fear Factor challenge.  In fact, having to eat a whole lettuce would be enough to make me walk away from the prize.  It’s just not worth it.  Everyone has a limit and that’s mine.  Live cockroaches? – sure, boiled pig rectum? – no worries, moldy fish milkshake? –  make mine a double!  But eating a whole lettuce – forget it!  There are some things I just won’t do.

Maybe I’m being a little harsh, probably even fanatical, but no fancy recipe or special dressing is going to change my mind.   I don’t eat lettuce for breakfast.

God, please take me now

Did you know that gym memberships surge in January then die back to normal in May?  It’s true.  You get a bit panicked after the roast dinner and dessert frenzy of December 25th and before you know it you've gone and brought some lycra, the matching shoes, sweatband, towel and bag, and booked a personal trainer for some torture at the gym.  After 3 weeks, some thigh chafing, a sore butt, and 6 pounds of protein powder you realize working out at home is a much better idea, and add another machine to your growing collection.   During a particularly arduous session on said machine you realize an amazing thing.  Exercise makes you pray.  True statement.  check out this session of mine, when I get 40 minutes into a 60 minute workout and can no longer figure out why sweaty eyelids are a good thing…

“God! (I wheeze desperately) God!, show me your mercy!  Take this fat from me, take it God.  I bind this fat and send it into the sea!  Oh merciful God!  Please take this roll from my waist as I sleep tonight – I promise I’ll never eat another pie, and if I do please give me leprosy.  God lift this burden whose yolk is heavy! In Jesus name I pray.  Oh and thank you that I have legs to exercise on.  Amen”

40 minutes into a 60 minute cardio session you’re not just talking to God, you also start talking to yourself… “40 minutes down, 20 minutes to go, 40 minutes of pain, 20 minutes more, two-thirds done, one-third left, I’ve done 40, most only do 20, 40 is good, 60 is stupid.  God loves 40, 40 days and nights of rain, 40 day fasts, 40 years in the wilderness.

“God!  I know you believe in the power of 40.  You understand that 40 is all it takes to change a situation.  I feel you leading me to only do 40 minutes of cardio today and the next and probably Wednesday as well as I have a sore ankle and don’t want to miss this weeks episode of Biggest Loser.  God you are so wise and compassionate, thank you that you lead me and teach me your ways”

(43 minutes)
At this point the sweat runs into your eye and your thighs have become cellulite bricks.  Your life flashes before your eyes and there is a disconcerting amount of french-fries featured.  Co-starring is the chocolate brownie that contains exactly 200 calories a piece and had its way with you during the great sugar crash of 3.20pm

“God! Thank you for sending me a vision in my time of need.  I see clearly the decision I need to make.  I must call Mom and counsel her not to make any more brownies, there are other ways she can love me.  Also, I’m not sure if I can go on much longer, so please take care of my babies and help my husband find a new wife; preferably less attractive than me.  Amen.

(48 minutes)
Will this nightmare NEVER END!?  It’s as if time has stopped, the seconds are like minutes, all logic and reasoning has left you.  It’s hard to even conjure up the motivation picture that usually works… you, a bikini, a cruise ship, and not a roll of fat in sight.  I mean bikini’s are sooo 90’s, and too much exposure to the skin is very ageing, and who on earth would want to go on a cruise anyway – hello people – remember the Titanic?!  

“Oh God!  Take me! just take me now.  If this is life, then who needs it? I beseech you God – hear my cry! Release me from this bondage of exercise and sweat.  I know you want me to have blessing and abundance, but 1000 calories a day is not abundance, and my chafing thighs are not a blessing.  Take me to Heaven where I can have my new body- I’m sure there’s a song that talks about ‘no more dieting there’ and  I’m ready God, I’m ready!

(51 minutes)
Must keep going, can’t stop now.  Need to burn 400 calories (who could ever stop at one piece of brownie?) and get sweat marks on your t-shirt to prove you worked hard on this ridiculous machine.  Who ever invented such a thing is a sick, sick man who obviously never carried an extra pound.

“God!  Please forgive the man who made this machine, and help him see the error of his ways.  I know you love him like you love me, but it must be MUCH harder.  Soften his heart God and his belly too, so he has opportunity to experience the torture of this machine in person.  Thank you that you are righteous and just.  Oh and please block my nose today when I drive past KFC, you know I have a reaction to the smell which causes me to drive through and order stuff.  Amen.

(55 minutes)
Only 5 minutes to go…on the home stretch now… I am strong, mentally and physically strong; I am a champion; others would have stopped at 40 but not me– no way!   Nothing can stop me now.  Bikini - here I come, cruise ship – all aboard!    I always say ‘God helps those who help themselves’, so maybe you can help me stop helping myself to the brownies!   Amen.

LYCRA LEOTARD 'nuff said.

You may have convinced me that exercise is important, and its possible I could accept that carb’s are not God’s gift to dieters, and on a really good day I’ll support salad as a side dish, but there is no way ever you could make me believe that Lycra is a good idea.

You would think it would be important while exercising to cover our less flattering features, rather than enhancing them with shiny fabric in ‘look at me’ colors and styles that don’t cover your cellulite, but rather hug neatly to every dimple and bulge.  I mean call me crazy, but does anyone else find this whole ‘wear comfortable clothes for exercising’ thing disturbing?  I haven’t worn anything comfortable since I leapt off the rack into the plus-size section.

It’s like wearing black because it’s ‘slimming’.  Hullo!  There is no such thing as a slimming outfit when you weigh 200 pounds.  Forget Lycra – I am most comfortable in my bootleg sweats – and that’s what I’m wearing - as soon as I start exercising of course.

Theories on exercise are numerous and varied, and there seems to be as many professional opinions as there are infomercials for systems to tone, trim, train, tighten, taunt, tease and torture yourself.  I myself, am marching bravely towards the worlds largest collection of diet and health books (second only to my collection of recipe books), and had to build an extra garage for all the exercise equipment I bought while eating peanut butter toast and raspberry twists in front of the T.V.

Like many desperate housewives, it was common for me to hit the pavement safely smug in the knowledge that walking is the best form of exercise.  (ha!  Who ever dreamed up this one is my HERO!)   As a bonus I can deliver a self-righteous lecture to hubby and kids while I huff and puff my way through tying these flippin laces. (excuse me while I CATCH….oww chest pains…MY…..what the heck is wrong with flipflops anyway?.....BREATHE…whew…mental note to buy slip ons)  And as any fatty with a brain knows, it can all be accomplished without breaking a sweat on a convenient walk past the store with enough time on the way back to scoff an entire packet of fat free, chocolate covered, low carb, double dipped, unsalted, organic grown honey roasted peanuts.  They’re healthy after all.  The packet says so!

When the novelty of showing off my latest exercise outfit to the neighbors wore off (day 2), I would move to exercising indoors, and fortunately owned a whole library of videos, dvd’s, inspirational books, and a plethora of dusty equipment that will do just the job.  (I guess I could go buy a real clothes rack if I have to.)

As soon as I can find a patch for that oversized ball, and a leotard that will fit both butt cheeks I’ll be exercising like you wouldn’t believe.  Do I need say more?  Of course I never did it.  Who wants to bounce around their living room (okay so I generously use with poetic license the word ‘bounce’)  terrorizing small children, and worrying that Pastor So-and-So might pop by for a visit?  No thanks, not me.

So what other options are there?  TaiBo?  TaiChi?  Fat camp?  Swimming?   Bahahaha! LMAO (if only that was actually possible)  Swimming?!   That is a good one!  (loud guffaw followed by choking as overactive imagination conjures the image of me in the swimsuit I don’t own, cos girlfriend – I don’t do swimsuits!)  

I know there are whole clubs dedicated to this, the pursuit of physical health, but maybe you have forgotten the wall to wall, floor to ceiling, dimple to pimple MIRRORS in there!  Mirrors for Africa.  Mirrors that make sure every person in the building can see you from every angle. Mirrors so carefully avoided at home, in fitting rooms, on car visors, and in compacts, now mocking in their unrelenting reflection of the sum of all my sins – yes – THOSE mirrors!

The problem is, my ‘don’t-stand-if-you-can-sit-eat-often-use-treadmill-as-laundry-sorting-area’ plan is not working.  So in a moment of possible insanity, and with a very dark pair of glasses, I ventured one day through the front door of Hades, and managed to join the gym without looking anyone in the eye. 

I learnt how without muscle to give my body shape and form, I could easily end up being the lady in church with upper arms that can praise the Lord all by themselves.  I also learnt that Lycra went out with the old millennium and there’s not a shiny crop top in sight.  Gosh – and I spent a fortune on this one-piece leisure suit in ‘lipstick pink’ with sequin trim.

If it wasn’t in the Bible, I could probably talk myself, and a whole army of sweat-drenched, mirror dazed, stair climbing, cardio freaks out of the need for exercise, but He said it was a good idea, so it must be true.

I’ll never love the sweating, the outfits, or the mirrors, but I’ll take the chance to see once and for all, if my butt looks big in these pants!

No, I'm not Pregnant!

That’s it.  I can’t take it any more – I am just going to make a t-shirt that says “no I’m not pregnant – just fat”.  I’m sure it would save both “Miss Nosey-pants” and me a lot of embarrassment.

 The first few times I was asked this evil, wicked, straight-from-the-pit-of-hell question I was completely confused and shocked in a naïve innocent way, never of course thinking I was actually big enough for people to think I was pregnant.  After a while and having been asked more than once in the same day, I learnt to graciously brush over it so the (rude) questioner didn’t feel bad.  After yet a few more times I started saying “no I’m not due, but I’ll never wear this top again!”.  I mean, why should I be the only one who’s embarrassed? 

Of course you can always say you are due in 4 weeks, but only if you’re sure you won’t be seeing that person ever again.  I found this answer good for people on a bus, in another town, with distant forgetful aunties, and in the checkout line.   However, after many more of these embarrassing encounters, and now just flipping sick of it, I have learned to put a surprised, and devastated look on my face and say  “No, I’m not pregnant, just fat!”.  There’s no quicker way to shut a rude person up.

For the record, and as a sound piece of advice – DO NOT, under any circumstance ask a big woman, or in fact any woman, when she is due unless you are absolutely, totally, 150 percent, willing to bet large sums of money, can see the head crowning certain that she is pregnant.  Just don’t do it.  It’s none of your business anyway!  If she wanted you to know she was pregnant she would have called you, or sent one of those ‘I’m having a baby, come to party where you can give me presents, and smell chocolate in a diaper’ cards.

I mean it’s right up there with saying “man, have you lost weight?  Last time we met you  were a whale and now you look great, you must have lost a ton!”  to someone who just bought a better fitting pair of jeans.  Don’t do it!

This whole pregnant look is a major downside of being one who seems to just get bigger and bigger around the waist.  You know the type – slim legs, slender ankles, no boobs, and a tummy that’s surely holding a set of quintuplets.  Forget apple or pear shaped – I'm talking rat shaped, with a huge body and tiny legs that can’t possibly support that girth can they?  Of course I don’t have the tail, but since turning thirty I definitely have a ‘whiskers’ issue, which left unchecked could reach walrus proportions. – Please God never let my eyesight go!

I can never decide if this rat shaped body is easier or harder than the other body type which can be identified as having a flat tummy, enormous boobs which make all shirts hang nicely, and thighs and butts that make wearing pants not only difficult, but just a really bad idea.   I obviously can’t wear skirts for the same reason, and a whole lot of other reasons which might include it being mistaken for a tent in which a whole village could take shelter.

One of my friends has this other body shape, which means although we are the same ‘size’, we can never wear each others clothes, and she never gets asked if she is pregnant.  My pants have to be huge to fit around my waist, then hang baggy off my thighs, and she can’t get them over her hips but needs a piece of rope to hold them in to her waist.   Perhaps if I was rich enough to have them taylor made I’d have the perfect pair of pants, but until then I’ll just keep pretending I purposely chose, and am loving this ‘hammer-time’ look.

One thing I’ve learned for sure is this; whatever I hate about my body, someone else wants, and whatever I wish I had, someone else hates.  We are all different, unique, handmade, one-of-a-kind creations, and every inch of us is loved by the same God who placed the stars in the sky.  For that reason alone we can boldly face the world with a smile that will overshadow any rat-like body or baby bearing hips.

So for now and until the next time I hear “so when are you due?” I’ll try to remember to smile, smile, smile, - maybe then she won’t notice when I smack her one!