In my history classes this week, we've been talking about the 1940's-60's in world politics - it seemed like in that time, you were either a Communist or convinced that everyone else was. Communism was a society where the government decided what was right and wrong for you. In capitalism, every right and wrong thing is presented to you, and it's up to you to have the willpower to ignore the wrong thing and choose the right one. When there are incentives to choosing the right thing, it's an easy choice - Ryan chooses to work so that he can afford to eat and live in an air conditioned house and dress up like a stormtrooper. But when there are incentives for choosing the wrong thing, or the wrong thing's incentives are more immediate, well, it takes someone of great integrity to do the right thing.
Of course, I don't care so much about politics, but about the politics of food. Zack, bless his heart, left the scale in the middle of the bathroom floor and instead of nudging it back under the pile of toilet paper where it belongs, I stepped onto it. Huge mistake. Big, fat, enormous mistake. I would tell you how many pounds worth of a mistake, but it's just not going to happen. Let's just say, in years past this number would mean I was practicing my Lamaze and packing a bag for the hospital. To make matters worse, the fat is showing up in places it never has been before. Darcey spent one Sacrament Meeting waggling my arm flab and giggling, until I made her go sit with Ryan and I put my coat on. No matter how much I weighed when I was pregnant, my arms never waggled like this. Plus, the other night I looked in the mirror and I swear I saw the beginnings of a jowl. You know the kind, where the skin hangs down and you look like one of those dogs with the floppy skin. (Ryan says it was a trick of the lighting but whatever. I know what I saw.)
What I'm getting at here is that things are getting desperate. I know I've said that before, but that was ten or fifteen pounds ago, and I didn't know what I was talking about. Something's gotta change. But I just can't do it. I can't pull the trigger and really commit to dieting. And you know who I blame? Capitalist pigs.
It's all those choices I have that are killing my weight loss dreams before they even materialize. It's knowing that I'm going to drive by the taco place that has the delicious nachos every time I pick Darcey up from dance class. Or the bakery down the street that just started selling cupcakes whose bottoms are dipped in chocolate. (It's like frosting for the bottom of the cupcake! Pure genius!) Or the countless vending machines, fast food restaurants, slow food restaurants, church functions, grocery stores, and gas station quikie marts that line my entire existence, offering me something cheap and tasty RIGHT NOW!
What I want is a food dictator to rule over my life and tell me what to eat and when. I want someone else to have full responsibility for my choices. I want to have four things to choose from, all good, and then I won't have to think of food anymore.
All kidding aside, it was kind of scary to realize that a lot of my resistance to dieting is because I am afraid that I can't say no. I'm afraid of how it will feel to not eat something I want to eat. I'm afraid of deprivation. I'm clinging to food as a way to say, in this one area of life, I have control over how I feel. I can have what I want - that must make me happy! Right? Right?
Weight loss before was always about losing baby weight. Yes, I had to diet, and yes, I did it successfully a few times. This time is different, though - this fat is all mine. The psychological component is making my head spin and I'm not sure what to do with it all. So that's why I'm looking for a commie. I want someone with an ideology to indoctrinate me to the point where I can obey blindly and not question. Free will? Who needs it! It's free will that got me into this mess, free will and a side of nachos. Someone else can take charge of my diet. Someone else can hand me a bowl of cottage cheese, and I'll eat it because they told me to. Someone else can feed my kids, plan the meals and stock the pantry.
Any volunteers, comrades?