Gah. I lost my zing. My mojo, my muse, whatever. It’s gone (as you may have noticed by the three month cone of silence). But today, finally, finally, finally, I think it may have come back…if only at a teensy tiny percentage of what it once was.
There is a whole lot going on in my house. It’s teacher conference time (boo!), the girl child is learning fractions without a proper grasp on multiplication (double boo!) and my boy seems to have gone back to the terrible two’s (this does not qualify for even a triple boo…maybe a triple glass of wine). And the husband is beyond broken. We’re looking at back surgery in the next month, with a four to eight week no-working, no-driving, no-nothing hiatus. This carries with it its own sense of foreboding, as I am arguably the worst caretaker for anyone on the planet (excluding my children, of course…please don’t call CPS on me).
So, the writing thing? Yeah, it’s fallen to the way-way-wayside. Lately, I’ve had friends dropping oh-so subtle hints about it. To the point that I wish I could throw something out there just to appease them, but apparently, it doesn’t work that way.
Until today. Today, another lovely friend asked me to proof an article she’d written. I went to town on that bad boy. I don’t know what it was, (sorry, M…I may have tweaked it to the point of losing your entire driving theme), but something about editing someone else’s words got my fingers flying…so I decided to share one of my many fails with you. Here goes.
I am a terrible eater. Terrible. I know about the seven or seventy foods you’re supposed to buy organic. I know that the calories you put in your mouth have to go somewhere, and never where you want. I know about moderation. But I always screw it up when faced with anything chocolate or carb-o-riffic. Which brings me to my lifelong diet struggle.
I’ve been 115 pounds. I’ve been 220 pounds. I’ve cut the tags off my size eighteen pants (because without that tag, no one was the wiser to my 80 pound gain, right?) and I’ve rocked some ridiculously small doll sized 2’s. Right now I’m somewhere in the middle of the two, and honestly, it’s fine.
Except nothing in my closet fits. Gahhhh!
It would be fantastic if I had the gamut of sizes I mentioned housed in my closet. But of course I don’t. Because I’m one of those people who lose five pounds and proclaim to the world that “I will never be that size again” and quickly donate everything that I’ve outgrown. Why? Because I’m a giver. Also, it may be pointed out that I never, ever learn my lesson.
So I stumbled onto this new fangled (or new to me, anyway) way of eating. The Paleo way of eating. As you’ll soon find out, I am not an expert on this AT ALL, so if you want to know what it’s all about, look it up. The bare bones description is that you eat like a caveman, and the strictest form of this includes no dairy, no refined sugar and no grains. None.
So I went full tilt on this Paleo thing. I found the blogs, I read the research (okay, it was wikipedia), I printed up recipes, and then I found the mecca of paleo love on pintrest, and it was OVER.
Do you know what I found? I’ll tell you. I found Paleo cookies! Paleo cookies, people! And not just cookies, either. Paleo brownies. Paleo cakes. Paleo BREAD!
So, I did what any reasonable person would do and headed down to the most expensive health food store on the planet (because expensive equals the best, right?) and bought every ingredient for every dessert I could find. And I baked. And ate. And baked.
The next week, when everyone was eating their sandwiches at a lunch meeting, I boldly removed my bread and just ate meat and veggies. When the cookies and potato chips were passed around, I lifted my head high and passed them right on down. I did this, my friends, because I had the power of paleo cookies sitting right at my desk.
And I ate all of them. And they were amazing. Paleo chocolate chip cookies, made with almond meal, vegan chocolate chips, maple syrup, coconut oil, and a few other trivial ingredients.
Yep. I ate two batches of those amazing cookies in one weekend. Never stopping to realize that this probably wasn’t what the proponents of Paleo had in mind. Or that these calories still, indeed, counted. OR that they were actually more calorically dense than the girl scout cookies languishing in my freezer. Nope, none of that came to mind.
Until Monday morning, when my last pair of loose pants wouldn’t zip up.