The need to cast out ‘a’ kilo

Women are always worried about weight and that extra amount of skin (fat) that falls over the sides of your jeans; however, it amazes me how less concerned are women who are ACTUALLY overweight, in comparison with those who aren’t but can find an ounce of fat in the slimmest body.
So I’m talking to a friend the other day, and we’re describing the painful experience of having to eat outside after the hundredth time during the week…
I’m not joking!
After you’ve received every family member you could possibly hold as a guest in your house in a crazy short amount of time, eating in restaurants (doesn’t matter how good the restaurant is) it’s an excruciating experience to endure.
We were teasing about that when she said, matter-of-factly:
- … because I need to banish a (one and only) kilo that’s been bothering me non-stop because it doesn’t go away! I mean, I love my wine so I can’t give up that glass with every meal, do you think if I cut the flour, would “it” cry uncle?
And all the while that she’s talking I’m thinking “what is her problem?... is she drunk while we’re talking and I’m not realizing?... mmmhhhh… maybe she needs to lay down the wine after all”.
Because, you see, she’s what I like to call a ‘feather weight’ person.
Her height holds 54 kilos perfectly fine… and I don’t know why is she soooo worry about 1(one) kilo when I need to figure out how the hell am I going to get rid of half my body mass?... and I’m not fretting that much… should I?
I mean, I’m plump where women are supposed to be plump… I miss when we were babies and everybody loved our body fat (babies of the world: enjoy society’s acceptance of your body fat while it lasts).
There you have it; women are psychos when they’re obsessing about their chubbiness (or lack of. for that matter).
My friend was still fretting in my ear about the “kilo” that was stalking her… I love her to death—it’s just as well we didn’t hook up to meet that day... What with the bitching about being stuck with 2 pounds of fat she didn’t ask for and didn’t want, and the way she manages (quite unconsciously, I’m sure) to make everything about her . . . nope, nope, nope. If she was with me now, I probably would have jammed a needle full of morphine into my heart before the end of the day.
I’m chubby but happy… deal with it!
PS: R.B., don’t kill me now!

Home alone… well, not entirely alone, considering our neighbor (aunt M.) and Buono (my dog)

Last week, my husband had to travel to the Dominican Republic for a family matter. It was a last minute decision, so I stayed home while he went there to accompany his relatives.
The best thing to have the house all by yourself is that you don’t have to lower the toilet seat every time you go to the bathroom, you have the TV remote all to yourself (so long to fighting games, winter Olympics, the news, action movies), cooking is out of the question and best of all, you get to sleep late because you don’t have to wake up at 7 am when your husband goes to work everyday (this is only for unemployed wives, as me).
I was looking forward to five days of tranquility and relaxed time… reading is my hobby (or obsession, my friends would say) and I had some pretty interesting subjects to start with.
Buono is a fine companion for these situations, he doesn’t bark (strange quality in a dog), he only eats, drinks his water and visits the balcony twice a day…
Aunt M. is the only member of our families that lives in NYC and we share this routine of getting together over coffee every afternoon.
So my to-do-list wasn’t bursting with events… five days weren’t that bad… were they?
My only problem was that hours on end I spent it home alone, reading or job hunting (searching is too-soft a word for my aggressive application process) or cooking… so I started to really miss my husband’s company.
Well, not all the time… having the TV remote at my command was a good thing… and sleeping late wasn’t that bad… but, by day two I was fed up with being by myself.
After some crouching and whining I decided that comfort food was all I needed; but then I remember this stupid gall-bladder diet!!
So I headed for the supermarket, scouted the Ice Creams section and had to settle for a Fat Free Sorbet... fruity flavor, of course… it’s too much to ask for the Ice Cream makers to develop a Chocolate sorbet??? Where is the "cream" in Sorbet??.. There were supposed to be called: "Ice Fruity flavors, nothing like Ice Cream"
P.L.E.A.S.E! I’m being punished for something… I know it!
Luckily, I got the opportunity to get together with my friends and go to NJ where we had lunch, talked endless hours about us, our husbands, their problems (we are too perfect to be criticized), Yoga lessons (no matter how my girlfriends sold this one to me, I’m not buying it that it’s even an exercise) and of course, recipes.
My husband came home, tired out of his wits and missing me like crazy… it’s nice to know that he was suffering as much as I do while we were apart; even thou he was in a tropical weather, and I was freezing my butt off in a glacial climate.

Eighteen days of dieting and my metabolism doesn’t take the hint

It’s been more than two weeks since I was forbidden to eat anything with fat or cream or butter or sugar… the list goes on and on.
However, as usual, I haven’t lost more than three pounds; which it’s nothing considering the obligatory effort I’m doing, because my lazy metabolism it’s in the wrong page of the book… lost as always.
Realistically, if heaven would be the good naughty things that we have in life and give us pleasure and joy… and hell would be the flat-out boring things (like low-cholesterol, fat free, no-sugar… puaj!); I’m definitely a “heaven girl”; probably that’s where I’m going in the after life, I say probably because my gall-bladder removal crushed all my chances to being an angel in the white paradise, because with this diet I’m definitely destined to be at the bottom of the flame-burning hell.
My current alimentary chart is missing a lot of levels; the size of my stomach is more or less, the size of a pea, my clothes are non-loose fitting (no-change there) and I still can’t sleep in a comfortable position because my inner-things push at my internal scars when I try to get at ease while I rest.
And you imagine what I have to endure when is dinner time and I have a non-dieting husband to feed?
He: Honey, its dinner ready?
Me: Ohh… yeah!, come sit at the table.
He: what’s this? salad? (he’s thinking: grass?)
Me: sweet bunny, do you remember our wedding vows? … for better and for worse… ring a bell? (I’m thinking: if I have to eat cardboard, so do you)
Needless to say that cereals and milk are a constant menu for my husband’s dinner now… twelve days more to go until I can start adding items to my diet… come to mama dear heaven!