Saturday, September 13, 2008

The Weight-ing is the Hardest Part

So it would seem that someone who averages six workouts each week would be pretty fit and lean, right? Well, that's what I thought, but over the last few months, I've watched (and felt) my britches getting tighter and my blouses all the snugger.

Not long after I began spinning, I felt like I finally had found my size. But do you know what happened then? Those darn Peanut Butter-Jalepeno Sandwiches. Sometimes I'd eat three or four a day. And then I started eating lots of raw nuts. Cashews, almonds and pistachios, oh my! I was pretty sure I was immune to weight gain. I was working out all the time, right?.

I realized after none (oh yes, I mean none) of my shorts fit that I should probably step on the scales. From my pre- lifting/spinning weight, I'd packed on a whopping 17 pounds. How does that much fat sneak up on a body conscious woman? Ok, I acknowledge that some of that is muscle mass. But certainly not even half of it. So I figured I'd drop 10 lbs. -- a simple task, right? -- and be on my merry way. Well, since that was June and this is September and I'm telling you about it now, you can probably infer that it was not, in fact, a breeze.

And, just in case you haven't been taking notes, I'll remind you that I work in a kitchen. Ever heard the saying, Never trust a skinny cook? Well, I'm apparently trying to appear very honorable in my profession. One month at work = five pounds on my ass. (Mind you, I'm not wigging out over this. But I would like to pull on my jeans without doing a funky dance. And more clothes seem economically foolish compared to less food.)

So I've been watching what I've been putting in my mouth over the course of the day for the last week. And I equate how my own personal mass has increased to a trip to Costco. You put this and that and a few of those in your cart and all of the sudden, your total is $300. Same goes for all those little calories in all those little tastes I take. In the name of feeding people well, mind you.

So must I become like a wine-taster and expectorate after I have sampled the flavor?

Oh, if I could just stay away from those pesky nuts that have caused me so much trouble. And manage to keep my fingers out of my sauces. . .

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