Reflection

I had the misfortune of standing in front of a window, just at the right time of day where I could not see outdoors, but could see only my reflection. I watched myself don my coat. As I slightly arched my back to put my arm in the sleeve behind me, I saw it in the glass - that pesky sliver of bulbous belly flesh peeking from between a rising sweater and an exhausted waistband.

I had a flashback to about 2011, when I was putting on a coat in the lobby where Susie and I used to work. I was approaching my peak weight, and stood in her office saying goodbye for the day. Dr. Decker, a mousy, introverted PhD who had not seen me in two years, came out of the meeting room and saw me reach back for my coat sleeve. She smiled. "Ooooooh," she said as she reached toward my belly, "Is there a baby in there?"

I looked down, following the direction of her outstretched palm, and slid my arm into the coat. "No, but you can touch it if you want to," I replied with sincerity. She declined.

Hello again, Belly. It's been a while.

In 2014 I counted calories diligently and ran 3 times per week for 6 months. I lost 40 pounds. I dropped 3 pant sizes. I kept if off for 8 months. All of it. I felt fabulous and looked awesome, of course. Then I spent a month watching my dad die and lived on Emotional Eating. Mom and I cycled between anxious nausea killing our appetites at the hospital during the day, and starvation each evening as a result. Nightly, we returned from the hospital to eat ice cream while watching Downton Abbey. The daily routine was comfort - hospital, cry, ice cream, Lady Mary's social dilemmas. Repeat. I gained 5 pounds and an English accent that month. But all my clothes continued to fit.

In June, we convened as a family, in Pennsylvania wilderness. It rained the entire time, making for a whole lot of wet, cramped togetherness. During confinement, I gained 5 more pounds from a cocktail of Goldfish crackers, peanut M&Ms and 1,000 hands of Skip-Bo while sitting on my ass.

Now the holidays are here. I stopped getting on the scale. I am up a pant size - a size I purged from my closet in 2014, so I wear the same stretch denim skirt to work two or three times a week. I pondered this dilemma tonight over a 500-calorie serving of Ben & Jerry's Pistachio Pistachio. (That reminds me, I've been meaning to suggest to them Eggnog Cookie flavor.) I need to get out of this feeding frenzy. Ice cream is NOT my friend. NYPD Blue re-runs are not cardio-smart. I know better than this!! Why am I allowing this to happen? Complacency stops NOW (well, after the Pistachio Pistachio and Christmas cookies are gone). Strap on the running shoes, and unstrap the feedbag! Lady Mary would never stand for this - she and I have too much moxie to fail.

Lady Mary!  Lady Mary!  No more ICE CREAM for you!!!