Feed Me, Seymore!

 

When I Was About 12 or 13, I Woke Up One Day and I Had Hips

Well, I had stretch marks on my hips—ergo, there must have been hips. Suddenly and without warning.

I hated them with a fiery passion. They made my clothes fit differently, jeans became more difficult to close, and I felt distinctly pear-shaped when I looked in the mirror.

My boobs never really came in (see previous blog post about boobs), which was a shame because, in all the knowledge I had acquired about "becoming a woman," I was looking forward to the boobs the most.

In fact, my only two understandings of "becoming a woman" were: developing boobs and getting your period. Neither of which had happened at the time my hips decided to make their grand entrance.

Folks, this was the day I first uttered the immortal words that all women know so well and are constantly muttering under their breaths like a mantra: "Omg, I am fat."

And thus began the lifelong struggle of diet and exercise.

Would you like to know what I did? Of course you do, if you’re still reading this!

I gathered information—what kinds of food are good for my body but don’t contribute to me getting fat(ter).

I found out in biology class that milk contains every single vitamin and mineral the body needs. Unfortunately, it’s also high in fat, and fat allegedly makes you fat (as suggested by the saying, You are what you eat).

Therefore, skim milk must be the answer.

I’m pretty sure the rest of my dietary knowledge came from Oprah.

Fibre = good.

Fat = Satan.

Sugar = probably not good.

Starch = definitely not great.

Anything green and disgusting = extremely good.

My meal plan soon looked like this:

Breakfast: A cup of All-Bran flakes with some skim milk

Lunch: Two dry Provitas and a diet shake (that tasted the way hamster shavings smell)

Dinner: A cup of fat-free (but sweetened) yogurt and an apple

I also had a daily, hour-long strenuous exercise routine that I did seven days a week, no exceptions.

This involved 40 minutes of high-energy cardio, 20 minutes of resistance training, followed by another 25 minutes of stretching—forcing my legs so far apart I could basically do the splits against a wall.

What in the damn hell was going on in my head at the time? What could possibly have driven me to such extreme but, let’s be honest, admirable dedication?

I will tell you.

A boy.

Of course.

Well, not really the boy, but the boy was a symbol of all the other living beings in the world I wanted to like and accept me for who I am.

This particular boy was the first of his kind, which makes him kind of special.

I met him at a party when I was about 16 and for the first time in my life, zit free (thank you Roaccutane). He was a year younger than me. We danced together—and not the awkward, straight-up, hands-on-hips kind either. I pressed myself right up against him, flung my arms around his neck, and he swung me around until my legs went flying out, all that held me up were his arms around my waist.

He asked if I wanted a sweet, and when I said yes, he leaned closer, gently pressed his lips to mine, and pushed the sugu (purple grape) he was sucking on into my mouth with his tongue.

Granted, it wasn’t my first kiss, but it was a whole lot sweeter—and less weird and terrifying. (The first was an older English boy at a party the year before, and I’d immediately thought of sucker fish when he kissed me. Couldn’t wait to get out.)

Though I hadn’t noticed this boy before—hadn’t had a crush or even a conversation with him—we clicked, and I suddenly found myself really liking him.

I was mortified that he was younger than me. In high school, a one-year age gap might as well be a decade. I’d become the high school equivalent of a cougar.

Still, I said yes when he called a few days later and asked if I wanted to "hang out" at an internet café.

We soon started spending hours talking on the phone.

And oh, how lucky I feel to have experienced the old Telkom situation—no cellphones yet, no WhatsApp. We made appointments: I’ll phone you at 19:00.

We’d chat while I baked peanut butter cookies for Veld School, doodled in my English book, or sewed buttons back onto my school uniform—all with the phone pinched between my ear and shoulder. Hence, the permanent crick in my neck.

One night, he admitted to having a longtime crush on someone else and said he’d still date her if she showed any interest.

I asked why.

He said: “Because she’s beautiful.”

Hesitantly, I asked, “Do you think I’m beautiful?”

He replied, “Not beautiful, no… but cute.”

By that time, I had been taught that the definition of cute was, in fact, “ugly but f*ckable,” which was not the look I was going for.

Did my hideous hips and stretch marks paint me in this horrible, mediocre light? Surely, yes.

Surely, if I could get rid of them, I might stand a better chance against little Miss "Beautiful". And maybe, just maybe, I could feel less awful in my own skin.

Now please understand, up until that point in my life, I hadn’t been particularly preoccupied with food—but I had always really, really enjoyed it.

I loved reading comic books as a kid and would crave whatever the characters were eating:

Obelix and his wild boar, Jughead and his cheeseburgers—even Casper the Friendly Ghost once baked fresh fish over a fire and ate it (and only now at 42 am I questioning the logic of a fish-eating ghost).

I spent lazy afternoons with my best friend, nibbling on O’Grady chips and blocks of milk chocolate, reading comic books and Sweet Valley novels, or watching Highlander until we could quote it by heart.

On holidays, my dad and I would scope out the best fish and chips place and bring home a greasy bag of slap chips to devour in front of the TV.

Food was fabulous.

But had I been wrong about it all along?

Had food been plotting against me all this time—waiting until puberty to betray me?

At 42, as someone who has had her fair share of difficulty with addictions, I can say this one seems to have taken up the most time.

And at my age, time feels like the most precious commodity of all.

One of the first things an addict does when she decides to change her life is make rules.

No sugar during the week.

Only starch on Saturdays.

Cake only at birthdays.

The second thing she does? Fail spectacularly at all of them.

Maybe not right away.

Sometimes, I’d last months.

But eventually, I’d always come crashing down—into a heap of confectionery, covered in chip crumbs.

I tried the soup diet.

Then Atkins.

Then Banting.

Then carnivore.

I once survived university on viennas and red wine. (Didn’t work so well the last time I tried it.)

I’m currently on the “Eat Whatever You Want As Long As You Loathe Yourself Afterwards” diet.

Very effective—if your goal is self-loathing. It includes regular belly-fat poking and verbal self-abuse.

The most visibly effective diet I ever tried?

Having two kids and breastfeeding all hours of the day and night for 5 consecutive years. I could eat whatever I wanted and as much of it as I wanted and I did, with gusto. I was ravenous and had an intense sweet tooth and raised many an eyebrow at braais when my kids would leave me alone for a few minutes and I would inhale a heaped plate of food and demand pudding before swallowing my last mouthful and still I was thin as a beanpole.

A very extremely challenging diet, though, might I add. Perhaps you should consider the 28 day diet, rather?

#BlessedThough #MyEverything

The second most effective diet I have ever been on was the all meat carnivore diet. What I learned very quickly on the carnivore diet is that being thin did not make me happy. Which was a huge shock because all my life I have believed that if only I could have the perfect body, everything else would just fall into place and life would be grand.

After 2 weeks of only eating meat, eggs and cheese my body was as near perfect as it has ever been and I felt miserable. All I wanted was a sandwich. And chips and chocolate and cake and soda and croissants and burgers and pizza and fettuccini alfredo with extra parmesan.

A very wise and annoying part of me realised that it wasn't so much the food I wanted but rather the hiding away in a dark room, preferably in bed, with Netflix and surrounded by highly processed carbs. I want to while away the time, numbed out by sugar, so I don't have to do anything scary, go anywhere risky or meet anyone that might hurt or reject me.

Of course, I literally can't stay in bed all day every day so I end up doing things, going places and meeting people anyway, except now I go there very aware of the fact that I had a whole bag of pink and white peanuts earlier and that I might need to, at some point in the near future, use the restroom or at the very least *ahem* pass some gas.

Why, body, why must you be so...animalistic at times?

According to Geneen Roth, author of Women, Food and God, we double our pain when we eat emotionally, because we not only don't treat the actual problem which is a kind of spiritual hunger rather than a physical hunger, but we compound our existing problems with the added problem of feeling like an out of control, gross, overweight glutton.

If I was scared of being rejected by society before, how much more afraid should I be now that I am *shudder* fat?

After the latest stint on a diet I stripped my moer, as we say in Afrikaans, and decided to follow the guidelines set forth in Women, Food and God.

The most difficult of these I find to be the eating without distractions because when my kids are home there is no such thing, I'm literally eating while sprinting between tasks. On the other hand when I am by myself during the day when they are at school and I don't have work, I desperately want to eat watching tv or reading a book. The two go together like that song in Grease (we go together like ramalamadama gedinkygedinkydonk or whatever).

I did however give it a fair shot and ended up really enjoying every meal I ate, kind of automatically leveled out on portions and seemed to forget about eating for a few hours every day, which is like magic to me. It didn't last very long but I aim to get back to there soon...as soon as I finish the chocolate cake I have in the fridge. That thing is best paired with an episode of Seinfeld, I find.

Anyway, what am I really trying to say?

I have no idea but I am busy listening to Eckhart Tolle's The Power of Now and will hopefully soon find the answers within.

Until then, peace out.