Holiday Hell

The holidays are killing me.

It is challenging enough -- the strict eating plan, the daily workouts -- but deep into the month of December, it simply becomes torture. Family and friends come into town, bearing mind-blowing dishes that are totally off limits. Additionally, I bite my nails wondering if I will be able to sneak away for my workout without appearing too rude.

The visitors snuggle up next to a fire with glasses of grog and eat savory dips and rich cheeses. I sit down next to them with a glass of soda water and try to concentrate on their words, but I find myself focusing more on the food waving in my brother's hand as he explains the frustrations of his job. In the jaws of my company, the crunch of chips loaded down with cheese dip is deafening. I salivate, smile, try not to stare. 

I suddenly understand the pain of my airedale, Elmo, who can sit on his haunches at the edge of the dinner table and track our forks from plate to mouth, bite after bite, hoping a morsel will escape and through some fortunate physics land before him on the ground. 

I lose track of the conversation in the room, and catch myself negotiating with my own conscience. One bite of pumpkin cake cannot possibly hurt. DON'T DO IT...When is the next time I will get to eat those cheesy biscuits? NO! YOU WILL START AN AVALANCHE... I shake it off, bite viciously into a carrot, and try to reconnect with the conversation about the recent election.

Just as I begin to wallow in self-pity, it strikes me that the holidays have always held discomfort. In years past, they ended in a crescendo of intestinal abuse, with me struggling to sit and breathe at the same time after eating for hours on end. In the past the holidays ended with promises that I made silently to myself in the darkness as I undressed to go to bed -- to start fresh tomorrow, to gain control over my eating, to be happier with myself, to end the despair of having to find clothes to put on each day. 

Yep, the holidays have a whole different feel this year. Amid the memories of self-yuck, I find the strength to forego the pie. Twenty-one weeks of training to go. I'm still in.