True Life: I Use Healthy Substitutions to Rationalize My Binge Eating

Actual conversation that recently occurred between myself and two dude friends at a bar:

  • Dude 1: What did you guys do yesterday?
  • Dude 2: Well, I texted Nic at seven and he was like, “Uhh. I just ate an entire large pizza all by myself. I’m in for the night.”
  • Nic: Yes, that’s what I did. And it was glorious.
  • Dude 2: Where’d you get it from, by the way? That place down the street with the best pizza ever?
  • Nic: No, I went to the one with mediocre pizza that’s a little farther away.
  • Dude 1: Why would you do that?
  • Nic: Because they have whole wheat crust.
  • Dude 2: …And yet you still ate an entire large pizza.
  • Nic: Hence the need for whole wheat crust.
  • Dude 1: That is ridiculous. That’s like me saying, “I’m going to order a greasy bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, but it’s okay because I’m getting it on a whole wheat bagel.”
  • Nic: You just described my Dunkin’ Donuts food order.

Indeed, I have an immense talent for justifying epic food binges by making random healthy-sounding substitutions on a completely arbitrary basis. But I mean, it makes sense, right? If I’m going to give in to any of my myriad pregnant-lady-esque cravings anyways, I might as well try to sneak some essential nutrients into my system along the way to nourish the fetus mitigate the damage.

Lately I’ve found myself indulging my sweet tooth with these Kashi cookies:

IMG_20140301_093847They’re basically like crack – if crack was all natural, made with seven whole grains, and contained fourteen percent of one’s daily fiber intake per serving – which I’m almost positive it doesn’t. (Although I technically wouldn’t know for sure. So if you happen to be a crack dealer and I’m wrong, please forgive me. I apologize for giving your… crop? …such a bad reputation. By the way, while I have you here, can you explain to me what exactly crack is? I get so confused when it comes to street drugs. I’m from Connecticut.)

The box pictured above, by the way, is empty – and yes, that happened within the course of a single day.

STOP LOOKING AT ME THAT WAY.

Am I doing health wrong?

 

Advertisements

I Had Strep and then Got Touched Inappropriately by a Large Bear, Kind Of

On the Sunday before the Sunday before Christmas (are you with me?), after a long day of football-watching and beer-drinking, I passed out at ten at night. Then I woke up at one in the morning and couldn’t fall back asleep. So naturally I stayed up and watched DVR-ed episodes of Super Soul Sunday all through the night until skipping my way to the gym with an inexplicable amount of energy at about five. Then I went to work, drank a gallon-ish of coffee, crashed sometime shortly after lunch, and proceeded to watch my health violently deteriorate at a staggering pace over the following two days until I was eventually forced to go to the doctor where I tested positive for strep.

The weird thing is that it wasn’t the sore throat that bothered me so much. It was more so the severe headache that lasted for forty-eight hours and was accompanied by this weird hot and cold sensation that I’ve since been told is what normal people refer to as a “fever.” I apparently hadn’t had one in so many years that I didn’t even realize what the oft-overused term actually referenced, and yes, I realize that this makes me sound about as smart as Jessica Simpson circa the “Chicken or Fish?” Incident of 2003. Totally oblivious, I aggressively blamed my office environment – alternating between the phrases, “Why is it always so fucking freezing in here?!” and, “UM, WHICH ONE OF YOU JOKESTERS TURNED THE HEAT UP TO EIGHTY?” – until a doctor told me that my temperature was 102 degrees. Then everything clicked, and I was like, “Oh. So that’s what that is.”

Though I initially wanted to address my illness with some healing affirmations and health-positive mantras, the doctor was super anti-that. So I listened to her, and as it turns out, drugs are the fucking best. I got some prescription pain meds along with a cycle of penicillin, and by Christmas Eve I was healthy and drunk and joking with my soon-to-be-married brother and his fiancée about how my Best Man speech is likely going to be eighty-percent about me and twenty-percent about them. Or maybe ninety-ten if I end up having an extra shot of whiskey beforehand and decide to be a total self-absorbed dick. Or maybe seventy-twenty-ten (the ten being Mariah Carey) if it goes over three minutes.

And so that’s what I’ve been up to for the past few weeks. Other highlights of my little holiday sabbatical include:

1. Tailgating and watching the last Pats game of the season in the pouring rain, but feeling too happy and tipsy and grateful for life to really give a shit about something as trivial as being soaked and freezing.

IMG_20131229_155433_674

Of course we won.

2. Ringing in the New Year up in the Catskill Mountains with some of my best friends, a pool table, and one quality cigar that may or may not have made me throw up later (as per usual when I smoke cigars atop mountains).

IMG_20131231_205950_260IMG_20140101_102801_510 IMG_20131231_241532_366

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And 3. Getting molested by a bear. (An actual bear. Or, rather, a bear-replica. But either way, a bear, the animal. Not to be confused with a large hairy gay man who is likely into sexual accessories of the leather variety – which, for those of you not privy to gay-lingo, is actually a thing.)

IMG_20131231_141434_930

Confession: I liked it.

In related news, I’m not making any grandiose resolutions this year, so yay! You’re spared a list. But I will say that the one word I intend to live by in 2014 is this: Simplicity. As in, not making shit unnecessarily complicated for no reason. Can you imagine a whole year of that? I’m pretty excited about it.

So here’s to a healthy, happy, grateful, healing, hilarious, adventurous, just-uncomfortable-enough-for-growth, strep-free, successful, SIMPLE year ahead! I love y’all.

 

I Ingested Windex and Lived to Blog About It

So, the other night I found myself in a familiar position: Windex-ing my bathroom mirror while getting ready for a date.

(Note: This was not because I planned on having the guy over to my place – we were, in fact, actually meeting in his town. I just enjoy having a streak-free shine on my bathroom mirror at all possible times. Plus, as any of my ex-roommates can attest, I have this problem where my bathroom mirror always gets inexplicably filthy for no reason.)

(Or maybe it’s less “for no reason” and more because I brush my teeth like a coked-out toddler, but whatever.)

(…are coked-out toddlers a thing? I really hope not.)

Anyway. As I waxed-on-waxed-off the reflective surface with a fresh Windex wipe, something (and I have no clue what, which clearly goes to show how important it was) startled me – causing me to abruptly jerk my hand toward myself. Then, in the midst of the hand-jerk, my finger got stuck on an innocent-looking-but-actually-very-dangerous corner of the mirror… AND IT WAS SLICED OPEN. (Or just slightly cut, but still.)

Frazzled, I instantly put the bleeding finger in my mouth for some nurturing self-licking…

…only to find that THE WINDEX WIPE WAS STILL IN MY HAND!

And so before I knew what I was doing, I licked it. I licked the Windex.

I licked. The fucking. Windex, y’all.

IMG_20131106_213653_669

Possibly the worst reenactment ever, because a) I had an ACTUAL wipe in my mouth, not just the package, and b) the look on my face was about ten times more terrified than it is here, but c) I’m posting this anyways because I look skinny and that’s really all that matters in the end.

After my life quickly flashed before my eyes (mostly a montage of Mariah Carey, football, cheesecake, and sandwiches… oh, and friends and family), I suddenly went into survival mode and started scrubbing my tongue and rinsing my mouth (with water, Listerine, and – inadvertently – tears) and spitting vigorously into my sink while internally repeating the Sanskrit mantra Om Namah Shivayah (“I honor the divinity that resides within me”… I know this thanks to years of earnest Hindu study Eat, Pray, Love) to myself until I finally felt like a human again.

Then I looked down at my cut finger and saw that it wasn’t even really bleeding, which led me to remember how a phlebotomist recently accused my blood of not flowing, and so then I proceeded to fall into an emotional spiral of panic about how I must be dead inside. (Or something.)

But then I closed my eyes and gave myself a few more meditation/affirmation/breathing minutes – my new this-time-in-English affirmation being, My body restores itself to its natural state of perfect health.

(It should be noted that I was going to go with something more like, My blood flows like a fucking river, but then I thought it might be too specific – because what if the lack of blood-flow was the result of a greater health issue? And so I figured that My body restores itself to its natural state of perfect health was a much better catch-all blanket affirmation, as opposed to the original, which would have probably just been the blood-flow affirmation version of a Band-Aid.)

And it totally worked! After a few minutes, I felt calmer and more relaxed, and I even started to bleed a little, which, in this case, was totally a win.

And so then I put an actual Band-Aid on my finger, and the whole thing ended up being a bit more anticlimactic than it would have been if I had never snapped myself out of my HOLY-SHIT-I’m-DYING spiral in the first place. Which, actually? Was a refreshing change of pace. I think maybe I’m going to try “not flipping out over small things” more often now.

Maybe.

(Although on second thought, is ingesting Windex really a “small thing”? OMG no, it’s huge. I totally underreacted.)

 

Facebook Promotes Obesity, and I Don’t Appreciate It

I woke up this morning and realized that there exists a very unfortunate correlation between my eating habits and the marital statuses of my Facebook friends.

It kind of goes like this:

  • Engaged friends: sugary cereal with whole milk.
  • Married friends: burrito bowl from Chipotle.
  • Friends who just got engaged this week: entire box of Oreos.
  • Friends who just got married this week: multiple pints of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, various flavors.
  • Friends who just got married this week and have already posted photos from the wedding: all of the above.
  • Ex-boyfriends who are now in relationships: all of the above plus a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese, loaf of cinnamon swirl bread, entire tube of unbaked cookie dough, and the salt of my tears.

Thanks for the double chin, Zuckerberg.

Side note: I am still seeing [Awesome Guy Who Still Needs a Proper Fake Blog-Name] and he’s still awesome. But – contrary to what I’d secretly hoped – this post seems to suggest that his presence in my life hasn’t obviated my extreme need for therapy, so I guess I’ll have to get on that soon.

         Totally unrelated: My mom’s dog in his new winter coat. You’re Welcome.

 

Happy Friday!

 

Someone Called Me Fat — and I Survived

If you’ve ever read a blog post of mine, you’ve probably noticed that I sometimes like to write about how I seem to love feeling inadequate — especially when it comes to potential husbands. As a result, I’ve been confronted by a few close friends for being too hard on myself and putting myself down too often in my writing.

I usually respond to this criticism with, “But my low self-esteem is what makes me me! Without it, I’d be totally worthless.”

(Please let that remark simmer for a moment so you can fully appreciate the irony.)

Let me assure you, my low self-esteem is admittedly exaggerated in this blog (I swear I don’t hate me). Still, I do sometimes have to remind myself that the gallon of ice cream I guzzled the other night doesn’t make me entirely unlovable. This is why I have these strategically-placed post-its in front of my desk at work:

                                   Repeat out loud in sets of five for best results.

When not convincing co-workers that I’m weak and emotionally fragile, these affirmations can be a huge help and are highly recommended for anyone else who occasionally guzzles ice cream and feels unlovable.

Speaking of ice cream, let’s discuss the sole source of all my issues — my fatness. (Note: I am referring to gay-fatness, which is its own, effed-up scale. Straight people often tell me I’m thin, which, coming from straight people, unfortunately means nothing.) This fatness (along with my body image issues in general) has been the main focus of my life for the past several days — mainly because this was said to me last week:

“I mean, you’re not that fat. I still wanna have sex with you, or else I wouldn’t be here.”

Seriously, that happened.

It was during a conversation between myself and Lou — a guy I had been spending time with over the past month in spite of the fact that on our first date he openly admitted to only wanting a casual friendship with benefits (something I think we all know I’m incapable of by now; see: any past blog post).

I think I ignored my better judgment with Lou because he’d kiss me affectionately and feign an interest in my feelings every once in a while, so I was at least able to pretend that he cared about my well-being on some distant level.

For the sake of my mental health, I’m going to refrain from recapitulating the entire fat conversation. I’ll just say that it started with Lou helpfully suggesting that I stop drinking beer on a nightly basis, eat healthier, and start going back to the gym. It ended with the above-quoted declaration of my fat-but-not-fat-enough-to-be-rejected-for-sex-by-Lou status.

Because my work post-its clearly weren’t enough to combat the severity of this situation, I went into full self-hatred mode and actually went to the gym with Lou a few days after the incident.

I’m still sore from that workout (both physically and emotionally).

Here’s a tip: If you’re ever craving a traumatic experience, simply go to the gym with your super-in-shape non-boyfriend and allow him to coach you through various weightlifting exercises while you cry on the inside and fantasize about him getting killed in some kind of freak bench pressing accident.

First of all, Lou was lifting about three times as much as I could. This added a horribly quantitative element to how much better than me he is. Secondly, whenever he’d spot me, I had this whole how-many-reps-until-I’m-good-enough-for-you?! thing going on in my mind. (Answer: Infinite.)

Despite the trauma, though, I woke up the next day feeling better about myself than I have in a while — and I couldn’t help but wonder if Lou is some kind of evil genius.

By doing what he did, he has provided me with the following revelations:

  1. I got called fat — something that I’ve lived in complete fear of for all of my gay years — and I survived. The world kept spinning. No puppies died, I didn’t fall out of a window, and Manhattan didn’t burst into flames or sink.
  2. My diet kind of was crap. While I made healthy choices whenever possible, there’s no getting around the daily beer consumption and penchant for buffalo wings that Lou unabashedly called me out on.
  3. At some point in my crazy-busy life, I stopped going to the gym altogether — and I did feel less healthy because of it.

Thanks to Lou, I’m now more motivated than I have ever been. I’m eating healthy and being the most active I’ve been since before I went to grad school and gained twenty pounds. It’s kind of awesome — and I swear the impetus behind it is not to gain the approval of a gym-obsessed gay man; it’s to feel better about myself and maybe decrease my odds of heart disease down the line.

So in the end, despite the fact that I wanted to cry hysterically and stab Lou in the eye at the time of his fat comments, I’ve come to realize that — even though he was being insensitive — he was not being intentionally malicious. He’s just a health fanatic with a hot body who couldn’t help but comment on the fact that I am not living up to my healthy potential.

That or he’s just a judgmental prick — which might be okay, since I love feeling inadequate anyways.

 

%d bloggers like this: