This morning I began to clean out the remains of yesterday's road trip. As I pulled out Ethan's limp Kiddie-Meal bag, I suddenly found my self reaching into the bag and pulling out a cold, soggy french fry. I ate it. I am ashamed of this. F is for food. F is also for fat. My name is Jen, I am 33 years old and I am fat. I have been fat my entire life. Last year, with the help of a dietitian, I lost 35 pounds by simply keeping a food log and knowing that someone would read every word--admitting to someone just what and how much I was eating. These sessions seemed to me to be food therapy sessions--at $60 a pop. Since moving and leaving my food therapist, I have now found about 15 of those lost pounds. I'm hopeful that this flog is as successful as therapy without being so expensive . . .
Later this morning, Elliot shoved a bit of his granola bar into my mouth. It didn't taste good, but I swallowed it. Then, at 10am I managed to eat my real breakfast of a boiled egg and a piece of toast. I'm tempted to have another (since well, I'm allotted 2 protein servings and 2 starch at breakfast), but feeling satisfied and considering the congealed french fry and mediocre granola bit (and a bite of Elliot's second egg), I think I'll pass. Yay for me.
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