CLEAN MY FLAPS!! A foodie's guide to weight loss

Once upon a time, I was a skinny girl. Then some things happened. I hit 12 and I moved to a town I hated, a neighborhood filled with people where I didn’t fit in. How did I fill my loneliness and my time? Food. It was the year of the microwave and cheese-filled hot dogs. I was stuck in a neighborhood with kids who lived different lives than I did—dance lessons, designer clothing, and foreign nannies.  My foreign nanny was my mother who I could aggravate into cussing at me in Dutch (that’s how you learn all the good words when you’re bilingual). It was the year I discovered an obsession for writing too—a nice solitary and stationary activity that called to my soul more than those cheese dogs ever would.

This isn’t an excuse or a pity party. This is a statement of fact. This is where it began.

I struggled through junior high, high school, college. I couldn’t make friends easily. I don’t party. I am not a drinker. I’ll have a drink or two. I can talk a good game. But truth be told I don’t much care for it, I don’t like to lose control.

Which is ironic, because I can’t control my eating. Some say it’s a failure of character. Most will tell you that no one stuffed food into my face for me. But it’s an addiction. It’s mental. It’s a craving. Carbs whisper memories to me: the smell of a bakery, the smell of foods in Holland where I spent time visiting my grandparents. I can tell you love stories about having Dutch pancakes on the beach in Holland: big, thin crepe like things covered in powdered sugar and rolled into a tube. Dutch croquettes, the smell of hot chicken fried and put on a sweet roll from venders on the streets. Happiness and food.

I dealt with all this.

Then came a point in my life where I started to figure it out. I started to walk. I got into shape. I got thinner. I started to gain confidence and I didn’t feel the need for that barrier between myself and the rest of the world. Don’t let anyone fool you. Most fat people are soft inside and that layer of blubber is a barrier because it’s easier to be hated for that or called names for that than it is for someone to completely reject what’s really inside, that core that’s buried underneath. Fat is insulation. But I was losing it. I would walk every day. I would watch what I was eating. I lost a lot of weight. I fit into clothing that I hadn’t fit into since Junior High.

Then I met the man who would be my husband. I stopped walking,

I started eating again. To escape. To hide. To insulate.

It’s a habit. It’s an addiction. Your brain knows it’s wrong, but you do it anyway. Then you hate yourself for doing it and you eat some more to make yourself feel better about doing it. 

It’s a habit and even though I am at a point in my life where I don’t really care what people think about me, the habit continues. I’m happy. I don’t need to insulate. I’m pretty sure I’m strong enough to take whatever hatred comes my way. I know who I am. I am comfortable with who I am. Say what you want, I look myself in the mirror and I know things. I know I’m a good person. I know I have a good heart. I know all my sarcasm isn’t really mean spirited. I know that I need to remove myself from toxic people because they just aren’t healthy for me and I recognize that I’m not a person who can or wants to deal with that kind of drama.

The husband is gone. I love a new man, the right man, and he loves me back. He loves me, not what he sees or what others perceive. He’s seen what is behind all the walls and he didn’t run away.

But when I look in the mirror, I see someone who is an addict. A person who overeats because there’s some trigger inside that is convinced that insulation is needed.

I need to share great news. I’ve found something that works on my head, on my addiction. I have tried dieting. But let’s face it, I like food and I’m really not prepared at this point in my life to stand in front of everyone and swear off chocolate and ice cream for the rest of my life. I like the memories, I like trying new foods. I’m not going to become a vegan or a rabbit.

But I need to find a better way. I think I found it.

I watched the show Hoarders a few times. It has an effect on me. Usually what happens after I see that show and all their piles of filth, I’m up until two in the morning scrubbing the corners of my kitchen floor with a toothbrush.

I discovered this show My 600­-lb Life. It’s a show about people so insanely obese that they can’t function. I mean they can’t walk, they can’t get out of bed. They live for nothing other than food.

When I watch it, the thought of food is nauseating.

Seriously, try to eat some ice cream while watching a 700 woman who can’t fit in a shower so she’s got to go out on the porch and be hosed down by her boyfriend. I mean, these people. They’re young, they’re housebound. They can’t do anything for themselves. They get out of breath walking five feet. They think of nothing but their next meal.

And when they eat…..they spill food all over, it runs down from the corners of their mouths and to their double chins. Their clothing is covered in stains. 

They can’t put on their own clothes. One woman had to call her neighbor to come help her pull up her pants…and there comes her neighbor while she’s sitting there in all her bloated glory to help out.

There are other things which kill the appetite. They have these folds of flesh that don’t get clean and down get dry and they need help cleaning their folds and getting some baby powder in them. 

They have open sores on their legs or pustules of infection which are caused by lack of circulation from the excessive weight. They make excuses which sound a lot like me making an excuse for an extra serving of Chinese.

How does this work for me other than the obvious revulsion that I can’t possibly allow myself to come to that?

Well, I’ve started doing things to counter life like that.  I park far 

away from store exits, I only eat when I’m hungry, I try not to snack between meals, I need more vegetables…Blah, blah, blah…all that crap I’ve told myself for most of my life.

HERE’S THE SHIT THAT REALLY WORKS:

1] I told my cousin about my plan. She told me a story about a woman who decided to put bread in those folds to absorb all the moisture and then she forgot about them. Moldy, yeasty infection.  The green fuzzy nightmares I’ve had….and then Doug chimes in “Maybe she wanted to hold onto the sandwich for later in case she got hungry.” Which was barf-inducing enough to pretty much make me less carb addicted.

2] All those people can’t get into cars. They’re way too close to the steering wheel—I moved my seat closer so I can’t help but be a little uncomfortable and be reminded of those people who aren’t going to ever be ejected in case of an accident because they’re squeezed in so tight they can barely breathe.

3] I have a fat dog. I make her watch the show with me and I tell her that we’re going to have to do this together.

4] I bought a bunch of mandarin oranges. Whenever I have the urge to snack, I eat one of those instead of anything else. I’m pretty sure I now have enough vitamin C in my system to stave off the Bubonic plague.

5] The other day, when Doug got home from work, I laid on the bed all starfish like while he was in the bedroom talking off all the tools of his job and I yelled, “Clean my flaps! Clean my flaps!”  The look of sheer horror on his face was awesome motivation for continuing on this path for another day. I’ll probably try it again when I’m feeling the need for motivation. That one works best.

6] In secret, I lie on the floor and roll around like my arms and legs won’t come in to my body. Think Violet in Charlie and The Chocolate Factory. And then I yell “Help me! Help me!!”  and when no one comes, I know that if this happens to me, I’m going to die—or at least lay there until Doug gets home and can call EMS—he’s got a bad rotator cuff, this wouldn’t be good for him. Hopefully the dogs and the cat don’t eat me alive before he could get to that—they seem really a little too happy to jump around on me and bite me and bark at me while I do this.

I think I got this.