Ode to the Days When My Bottom Was Smaller

Once upon a time, I rented a room in the student ghetto of Boston where I cohabitated with two girls, two boys and two dogs, not to mention the ever shifting group of hippies in the first floor apartment and the creepy guy that lived in a tent next to the washing machine in the basement.

Storing enough food for five humans and two animals in one refrigerator is tricky at best. Luckily for my roomies though, I can’t cook. Since leaving my father’s household, I’ve subsisted mainly on salad, veggie burgers, and couscous. These fantastically yummy treasures are conveniently healthy enough to curb the effects of excessive alcohol consumption. But times have changed. This has not been my diet since Beau and I moved in together last summer because – and my mouth waters just at the thought – Beau cooks like the dickens.

Now life is full of meat and carbs and the occasional side dish of something green. I’m a spoiled, ruined woman. Despite Beau’s absence in the house this week (he’s in Florida to start that project that will steal him away again in February) and a grocery trip consisting entirely of veggies, faux-meat products and Lean Cuisines, I am unable to go back to my old ways. In the 36 hours following Beau’s departure, I consumed: an entire bag of chips, an unmentionable amount of ice cream, half a bottle of wine, two cups of white rice, all the leftover burrito fillings in the last remaining tortilla and four waffles. What about the broccoli in the crisper yearning for consumption? It’s still there. Oh. It’s very much still there.

And what did I do with my new found freedom from the oppressive presence of Man? Did I put on a little Kelly Clarkson and shake my money maker in front of the mirror? Did I do pilates? Did I pluck my eye brows and paint my nails and slough the dead skin from my elbows? No. I was too busy ingesting EVERYTHING in the house to do any of that. I sat on the couch inhaling approximately a week’s worth of calories and giving myself a tummy ache.

As I’ve said before, I’m not hatin’ on my fabulous chubbiness. I’ve been plump since I was a kid and I’ll be damned if I drop below a size 10. That said, I must reiterate: a girl has her limits. Eating chicken parmesan once a week, GOOD. Eating entire contents of the fridge once a week, BAD. What I’m hatin’ on is this bizarre spell that cohabitation has cast on me. I think other women refer to it as “letting yourself go.”

It would seem I am in sore need of some disciplinary action. As such, I have decided to run a little experiment. I have set the following goals for this evening:

1. Do not snack pre-dinner
2. Eat something healthy instead. This does not include: condiments eaten from the jar with a spoon, ice cream straight from the container or cheese in any form.
3. Dance around in underwear or exercise otherwise for a minimum of 20 minutes.
4. Drink a cup of tea while reading. Just because it sounds quaint.

Now that the bag of Tostidos is no longer a threat, I feel optimistic as to the outcome. Full report tomorrow.