Martyr

It's been five months since I started logging what I eat in an attempt to be all that I can be. Can I be pain-free? Can I have energy all the time? Can my skin glow without mineral make-up? Can I avoid being bloated and hormonal altogether? The answer is a resounding "NO."

But I did lose the bliss of nutritional ignorance.

Things I Used To Think About:

• Jane Austen
• Europe
• The Enjoyment Mowing Brings
• Others 

Things I Think About Now:

• Butter (specifically in shortbread form)
• Cream (in mousse or alfredo form)
• Bread (in any form)
• All Cheese (except American...that's not cheese)

I've had to change the battery in my digital food scale. I know that one cashew is 7 calories. I can tell you the weight, in grams, of an avocado by sight. I have stopped counting out 56 spaghetti noodles since I can eyeball a serving now. Sadly, I can taste the sugar in a Wheat Thin and the fake cheese/grease in a crunchy Cheeto, albeit the Cheeto still satisfies me.

Five months ago I would have guessed that it would be easy by now. But every day is still 24 hours and I can only sleep eight of those away. That leaves 16 hours to master my culinary weaknesses and hunt for willpower. I know, I know, it's about replacing bad habits with good ones. I don't know when it will ever be fun and easy to choose jicama over brownies. I resentfully watch Greg and RE eat their syrupy breakfasts with sides of sausage. I've become the food martyr, letting my tasty former life die for the cause of a ship-shape body strong enough for prospective IVF/pregnancy.

I do feel improved. I'm fantastic at drinking 10 glasses of water and I'm getting way beyond the needed fruits and veggies. For the love, I'm buying turnips! I am sleeping soundly. Greg says my skin looks better, but I should probably attribute that to my new Clarisonic (thanks, Rattie). Everything is healthier except my mind. Lately I've been fantasizing about hiding in the coat closet with a jar of Nutella and a butter knife.

One step at a time.