I ate all of the things.
Oh hello, delicious cake.
At our wedding, in the days before, and on our honeymoon afterwards. It started as a trickle – some chocolate here, a margarita there, a piece of cheese at breakfast – and became a thundering torrent, a river unleashed. Chocolate croissants and coffee with milk for breakfast every day of our honeymoon in Sausalito. Pasta for dinner one night, steak another night. Desserts with every meal. I actually shared Stephen’s ridiculous mountain of ice cream, chocolate and peanut butter sauce at the shop at Ghirardelli Square. Normally I scoff at that kind of brazen, advertising-encouraged consumption. I also don’t really eat ice cream anymore. Except that I did. And french fries too. And also some salt water taffy.
I was not having a moment of “a few nibbles here and there” or “the appreciation of a special meal” or even “a day off to enjoy what I wanted within reason.” Ho no. I just WENT for it.
It didn’t start out that way, of course. I arrived in Santa Barbara on the Thursday before my wedding, eyeball already spasming, recent cake-eating indiscretions having been committed, but still mostly intact. I ordered fish and salad for that first dinner with my family and had plain yogurt with fruit for breakfast the next day. But that afternoon, when I started to really feel the intensity of being less than 48 hours away from my wedding and still needing to meet with our florist and take care of random things that had been forgotten, I began to slide. An hour before dinner with 20 friends and family members, I was buying votive candles at CostPlus World Market, and I decided I needed some chocolate. Dark chocolate, because I was being reasonable, of course. Except that I bought three bars.
Saturday morning, I had a full-on breakdown, crying on the deck in front of my room, overwhelmed by thoughts the enormous step Stephen and I were taking, the transformation it would create, the loneliness of that passage despite being surrounded by so much love and support, the desire to see everyone and the pressure of it too, and the fact that my damn eyeball spasms were getting more insistent and frequent. I was still feeling raw and vulnerable when I got to the lunch family friends were throwing an hour later. And then I saw my cousin’s margarita. All icy and cold with salt on the rim, it seemed like possibly the best idea ever. And really? It was. Two margaritas later, my eyeball was spasming a fraction of the amount it had been before, and I felt much better.
From that point on, I pretty much did what I wanted. Ate pastries for breakfast, ate chocolate, drank. On our wedding day, I was too busy and emotionally full to really eat in any real quantity. But when Stephen and I sat down with some friends at a booth in a bar at 11:30 after the reception had ended, I happily ate half the tiramisu he ordered. And half a basket of bread. The next morning, at our day-after brunch, which had been rained out of its original outdoor location, I ate mini-croissants and bacon exclusively.
It wasn’t like my trainer always said it would be: that once I had changed my palate, I wouldn’t enjoy really sugary or rich foods. Or if that was the case, it took very little time to override that truth with consumption and return my palate to the state of MORE SUGAR MORE SALT MORE FAT MORE YUM NOW MORE it had known for so many years.
And because I was going off-plan and off the wagon, I really went. On our honeymoon, I actively looked for foods I hadn’t eaten in almost two years because “What the hell? I was eating now!” By the third day, I had eaten an entire box of chocolate-covered ginger, and Stephen was worried about me. I told him not to worry. It was special time, and when it ended, I would rein it back in.
But it’s sad when special time ends. It was hard to go back to regular life after 10 days of being surrounded by beauty, joy, and celebration. All the delicious food and special meals were the proverbial icing on the literal cake I was eating. I knew I had to get back to normal, but normal was a lot less shiny and fun.
Still, we came home, married, happy, and definitely fatter. I weighed myself the day morning I left for Santa Barbara and found I was already up two pounds from where I had been the week before. When I weighed myself the morning after we got back from our honeymoon, I found I had gained another five pounds. In all, I gained seven pounds in two weeks. Half a pound a day.
And so the lesson is as clear as any of the others, which all have been the same: I can eat whatever I want, but there will be consequences. Also, I am a dry drunk with food. I abstain, but my mentality has not changed, at least not as much as it needs to. This is a bigger issue. The more immediately digestible truth is this: My body does not handle empty calories or sugar-laden, carb-filled foods well. It’s a shame that it should be that way when all those foods taste so good, but on my best days, I know it’s a blessing too. Because I clearly struggle to be moderate with my consumption, and I need the outward indicator as a reminder to care for myself. For years, even that wasn’t enough.
But now that I know the benefits of being in good shape and good health, I know it’s worth it, that it’s better – even if sometimes just barely – than a bowl of warm pasta on a windy night in Noe Valley or a sangria at happy hour with my new husband. Because I know it would have been harder to enjoy all of those things if I didn’t already feel so good about myself and the changes I have made in my life. Plus, I know that in the end, what matters most of all is the company I share those meals with.
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