I almost succumbed to the virus torpor. I wasn’t sick. I was stagnant. I spent a couple of weeks not walking, not exercising, kidding myself that standing to work at my computer counted as exercise. I was feeling so superior — congratulating myself that I hadn’t been baking, or making massive meals of heavy ingredients.
But those handfuls of walnuts and almonds add up quickly. The salads I made were getting bigger and bigger, with more ingredients. On those unseasonably cold nights, multi-grain pasta with meatless meatballs and sausage-less sausage couldn’t be so bad, could they? And oh, peanut butter, how I love you. Too much, I fear.
Not surprisingly, the results started to show up on my scale and in my mental state. I was slow. I felt doped. And depressed.
But I’m fighting back.
A turn in the weather absolutely helped. The dog, who had nearly given up hope, has joined me for lovely long walks for a few days in a row. I’ve found online exercise routines I don’t hate. Those salads are going back to a reasonable size. And peanut butter? How I will miss you. I can’t even express it.
Each time I am more mindful of my eating, I am quickly reminded how much better I feel. I’m alert, I’m awake. Life no longer feels like a slow-motion slog through mud. I’ve rediscovered this miracle many times, to be fair. It’s amazing to me that the lesson never seems to stick.
I won’t promise it’s going to stick this time, either. But for now, I’m eating to live. I know peanut butter and I are not done, but for now, it’s just not worth it. There are enough problems in the world without eating our pain.
Read more installments of Village Voices by Susan Barnett.
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