'Elastic is my friend' and other untruths about being fat

I had a "Eureka" moment the other day when after getting out of the shower, I found myself reaching for a pair of clean pajama pants instead of putting on real clothes - such as jeans. Instead of going with the flow like I usually do, I actually stopped myself a moment and thought about why, after taking the time to take off my pajamas and get showered, would I opt to go and put pajamas back on....in the middle of the day. The word "elastic" flashed in my head like a bolt of lightning. Apparently I have started to equate my pj's with the only comfortable clothes I own and that, my friends is a dangerous zone to be in. What it says to me is that I no longer feel happy or good in the "day clothes" that I have. This is a problem in more ways than I care to think about.
I can't believe that I didn't realize this before but, I think it's only fair to get the word out that diet help need not come in the form of powdery shakes or pills that make us jittery....The simple solution is a rigid waistband. That's right....in other words - DITCH THE ELASTIC.
I quickly mentally reviewed my wardrobe for the past 4 or 5 months and sure enough, what I remembered wasn't pretty. For the most part, with the exception of nights that I have class or go out with friends (which has been minimal since the wedding, sadly), I have been parading around the house in the comfort of my stretchy pants. Whether they be of the pajama variety or "athletic" track pants, it doesn't matter. They all have the same common denominator: an elastic waistband and that "hey, there's plenty of room in here" feeling that until now, seemed like a good friend. Twenty some pounds later, I have come to the conclusion that I've not only been sleeping with the damned enemy, but I have been spending nearly every lousy waking moment with it. Spandex, elastic, nylon - they're all bad news as far as I'm concerned. I cannot believe how fooled I was by their forgiving ways. Note to self: Never trust a pair of pants that forgives you a week long binge of candy and cookies without busting a seam. Never.
I am confident that if spandex didn't exist, the world would be filled with far less obese people. It makes us complacent. The attitude is - well, at least my track pants fit. And they don't recognize when you gain 5 lbs, or 10 lbs - or hell, even 20 lbs. They are magical pants in some ways....but unlike Glenda the Good Witch, they do not use their magic for good - just evil.
I find weight gain to be a funny thing. You always know it's happening but you don't want to acknowledge it. Perhaps I thought I had shrunk my jeans, because, after all, my stretchy pants told no lies. The reality of it is that had I worn only my jeans these past few months and ditched the old comfies that allowed me to expand without judgment, I might not be in this big fat jam right now. Pun intended.
But let's face facts, my pajamas really didn't put me here (and I really don't know where "here" is today because I refuse to get on the scale and destroy a perfectly good day ahead of me. But don't worry - I will soon. I know that I need to). I have been turning a blind eye to everything I have been eating lately. I feel like hell, yet continue to do it. And why? That is the multi-billion dollar question. If only I had the answer.
I really wish there was a literal mental switch that could be turned off, or on - depending on its function. If it could turn off my desire for sugar, great. If it could turn on my desire to be a workout-a-holic - even better. All I know is, I am dying here. And if I want to be honest - so is my husband. We are both on the the same track - and it is bad. And while it may not be sudden death, this thing that we are doing to ourselves will kill us. It will be slow and painful and the worst part is, it can be stopped and we have not stopped it. I want to though, and I will. We will.
So I am going to make a conscious effort to see less of my stretchy pants and more of jeans. The ones with not a lot of "give." Just to remind me that these are the only pants I have for outside the house and once they don't fit - I am not buying more. There will not be a bigger size. That I can promise you.

You are getting veeeeeeery hungry.....

I have a very good friend that has been a smoker for years. We're talking since jr. high or high school. We are both turning 40 this year so you do the math.
Last month she went to a hypnotist to quit smoking and guess what? It worked. To know that a woman who coveted cigarettes like there was no tomorrow could suddenly just up and walk away from them gives me great hope that willpower exists, even if you have to get in the way of some mind-fuck hoodoo-voodoo.
I actually went to a weight loss hypnotist years ago - probably much like the one Aimee went to, since it was in a hotel conference room setting with about 150 other fatties trying their last ditch effort to get skinny. I can't recall all the details or even who I went with, but I do remember not being able to concentrate because some big loud deeply entranced man was sawing big-time wood two seats away from me. So, needless to say, it didn't work for me, but that's not to say this isn't the answer for some people. Who knows - maybe the seminar I went to mistakenly booked the wrong hypnotist and we ended up with the one who normally conducts anorexia hypnosis to try to get them to love food again. In that case, my therapy was a success!
In all seriousness, Aimee's mom quit smoking through hypnotherapy so I really wish her the best for her success on this journey to Cleanerlungville. It's been just under a month and she is doing great. Her exact comment was that she just felt like smoking "wasn't for her anymore" and that she "didn't do that kind of thing"......huh? Really?
So of course that got me to thinking about food and how food is probably as much of a focus of my life as smoking was for Aimee. Both can kill you in excess - we know this. Yet Aimee lit up like the Surgeon General's warning was about as serious as a knock-knock joke and I throw my fat cells a party like it's 1999 most days of the week. We do these things not caring, or maybe we do care, but not enough to stop. And don't even get me started about the lack of exercise....that in itself is a whole other blog post (or ten).
Granted Aimee got help in the way of hypnotherapy to help her walk away, cold turkey, from those nicotine demons. But even without being hypnotized, if I could just look at cake and say, "That's just not for me anymore. That's not what I eat," and actually MEAN it - well, let's just say my pants might feel a hell of a lot looser. I know I can't walk away from all food cold turkey, but I do know that it is high time I took an extended break from my love affair with homebaked bread and all things sugary.
I actually wrote Aimee an e-mail today congratulating her on her success and I told her how proud I was of her determination to commit to a healthy life style. Truth be told, I am envious of that kind of willpower. I don't know if any amount of hyponosis could deter me from ripping into the Lindt truffles Josh's mom gave us for Valentine's Day.....a straight jacket and a muzzle might be be the only way to keep me from those little chocolate balls of heaven. Or hell, depending how you look at it.
Bottom line is I am really depressed over my current situation, and as we already know from last years posts of ups and downs on the scale, only I have the power to change it. The question is when will this change kick in. When will I care enough about myself to make it work - to say, "You know what? NO - I don't want that cake, cookie, pie, candy, doughnut (see a theme here????) pizza, or cheese laden anything you can imagine - just NO."
I'm waiting for the word to become comfortable on my lips. I am waiting to feel like being healthy is who I really am. God, I hope the wait is a short one.