Of peaches and fake chocolate.

Dear Doc,

I have suffered a Doughnut Downfall. And I did it for science.

No, really, I did it intentionally. I wanted to consciously eat something I desperately wanted and see if it did, in fact, live up to my craving.

I am discouraged today. The fatigue I have on a regular basis is really bad today. As in, I-slept-14-hours-and-am-still-fighting-to-keep-my-eyes-open. It's one thing if you're craving something sweet and worthless (Let's call that a Sweet Nothing) when you can get up and go for a walk or run some errands or do something to distract yourself. It's an extra challenge when you can barely get yourself out of bed without the assistance of a forklift and an obscenity-screaming drill sergeant.

To add to that, I'm particularly stressed out. A friendship I have seems to be crumbling into pieces, and my cat has something wrong with his kidneys. He had a vet appointment this afternoon.

So, as I was trying to get up, chase him around and manhandle him into the cat carrier, I spied those stupid doughnuts. Would those make me feel better?

I sat down with the bag and ate two. Then two more, then four more. And all the while, I was taking mental notes. My conclusions:

1) Do these taste good?
No.

2) What do they taste like?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. A slight hint of fake chocolate.

3) Am I still exhausted?
Yes.

4) Did I feel calmer after eating the doughnuts?
Yes.

Yes? Why did I feel calmer? I did, though. And I don't know why. Note to self: Ask Dr. L. why that could possibly be the case.

After dropping my cat off at the animal hospital, where he will remain for a day or maybe two while they run tests, I spied a summer fruit stand.

I have been stalking this fruit stand for weeks now, waiting for it to open. And there it was. And it had peaches. I have been dreaming about peaches for weeks, ever since seeing an episode of "Good Eats" that featured the beautiful fruit. But we seem to be in a peach recession. I don't know what's going on down there in Peach Country, but they have not been sending their wares to the Midwest. (Or, at least, not to the stores where I've been shopping.) My need for peaches was getting desperate.

But alas, there they were. I cackled like a lunatic, handed over all the money I had with me, and made off with my peaches. And some cucumbers. And some green beans. (I avoided the potatoes. "White isn't right," ya know.)

Even as I was snarfing my peach, I was asking myself questions:

1) Does this taste good?
Yes.

2) Is it high-sugar?
No.

3) Does it make you feel like you are making a good choice?
Yes.

4) Are you in control of what goes into your body?
YES. Yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes.

I just have to keep telling myself that. I am in control. That's a big part of it, isn't it?

Sincerely,
Your longwinded patient,
Heather

Dear Dr. Landers,

When I woke up this morning, I decided to make a protein shake for breakfast. I recently discovered that the G6 vanilla powder and a packet of Starbucks Via tastes pretty fabulous together. Plus, there's caffeine, and I have never met a cup of coffee that I didn't like.

So I'm making my drink, feeling pretty proud of myself that 1) I passed up an offer to splurge on Dairy Queen last night and 2) I am making a good choice first thing in the morning.

Yep. I'm on the right track, I think.

And then... I look over at the kitchen counter.

My husband brought home a bag of doughnuts.

Seriously, what kind of sadist does that? And who in this house needs doughnuts?

I've been staring at those doughnuts all morning. I've thought about putting them away so I can't see them, but honestly I don't trust myself to pick up the bag. I'll eat them for sure if I touch that bag, and the worst part is I won't even enjoy them. They'll taste like chocolate-flavored lard and then they'll leave that nasty film on the roof of my mouth, and then I'll hate myself for eating them.

Stupid doughnuts.

Stupid husband.

He and I are going to have A Talk about this.

- Your patient,
Heather

Dear Dr. Landers,

Well, it's been ten days. Ten days since I came into your office, stood on that Dr. Who-like scale (with its handlebars and blinky lights) and discovered exactly what my BMI was, along with other fabulous numbers including my PBF (percentage of body fat). I also learned that my right arm is 7.89 pounds overweight. My left arm is 7.94 pounds overweight.

I'm not sure how that's helpful information, but okay.

Also, I'd like to know how one arm got fatter than the other. But I digress.

After I was weighed and measured, I took the class on what to eat and what not to eat, led by the wonderful doctor who was so enthusiastic she made me believe that I could *do* this.

And then I went home and was on my own.

I've been sticking to the rules. I have been chanting, "If it's white, it's not right!" whenever anyone dares to eat a piece of bread or potato in my vicinity. I have been eyeing my palm every time I eat meat to make sure I've got the right amount of ounces.

I'm drinking more water. I'm walking more. And I'm feeling... dare I say it?... perky.

So, after being pretty darn faithful to the program, I stepped on the scale today, just to see if I'd made any progress.

According to my ordinary bathroom scale, I've lost exactly a half of a pound. In ten days.
At this rate, I'll be at my 97-pound goal weight right around the time my daughters put me in a nursing home.

This isn't fair. I want to run to the Dr. Who scale just to confirm. But then I'd probably discover I've lost that half of a pound from my wrists, or my left ear, or some other place that didn't really need to lose that much weight. This might discourage me.

But I refuse to be discouraged. It's all about the journey, isn't it? I'll just keep telling myself that.

And since it's always good to bring a buddy when you go on a journey, I've started this blog.
Maybe it'll inspire someone else. Maybe it'll inspire me. Either way is a win-win.
So... onward with the journey.

- your patient,
Heather