Dear Diary, Today I ate...

I rallied this week. Skepticism is still alive and active, but my courage and attitude fell back into place. Oddly enough it came from having to do what I despise doing--keeping a food diary.

As May moves quietly closer, Tina is having me add to the rigor of my program. Monday I began charting caloric intake, including the breakdown of protein, sodium, sugar, and fat in my food choices. I have been keeping a clean diet since November, when all this silliness started, but recording my eating still turned up some surprises. I discovered I eat about 400 calories a day in walnuts alone. Passing by the bag and grabbing a handful of those suckers four times a day adds up quickly. 

I am usually the type of person who, when mandated to put a microscope on my consumption, will succumb to every temptation and then some, eventually blowing the whole experiment. It doesn't make me more honest; it makes me more obsessed with what I can't have. Trying hard to be good has always had a reverse effect on me, and I end up being bad(er). This applies to food, exercise, love, spending--you name it.

So being directed to record my food came with a dread that only a seasoned self-saboteur might understand.  

Monday came, and I squinted at the label on the oatmeal canister, shocked that 1/2 cup of plain oats--the days of brown sugar or even maple syrup are long gone--could have 150 calories. And the thin, grayish nonfat milk poured over the top has 12 grams of sugar. What a stinking crock!!

I tallied my intake on a chart, taking precious morning minutes when I might have been brushing my own hair and teeth, and I barked at my needy children that I needed to concentrate for a minute, and I offered gentle urgings like: for god's sake go find your shoes so we won't miss the bus again!  My two-year old, bewildered at my fixation with the oatmeal canister,  located her shoes, put them on the wrong feet and stood like a duck at the front door.

I loaded the kids in the car, turned over the engine, and...my stomach growled. I had already consumed a quarter of my calories for the day, and the dread of failure began to envelope me. 

In short, Monday was brutal.  

However, Tuesday was easier, and by Wednesday, I'd gotten into that groove where the mind accepts what you are asking of it, and it engages the heart. That is not to say that I have begun to enjoy recording every morsel of food that passes my lips, but I have accepted the task. It is fine for now. It has gotten easier, and I have time again to get my daughter's shoes on the right feet. 

So far the food diary has had the intended effect: I pass by the pantry, open it, stare at the bag of walnuts and most of the time decide not to grab a few. When I do grab a handful and eat them, my shoulders sag like a kid who let that grounder go right through his mitt, and I open my food log and write it down. My hope is that someday I might pass by the pantry and not even open the door, and if I have any luck at all, I might even pass by the pantry without thinking about the pantry, although I'd better just stay realistic. For now, I am writing it all down.