My wisdom teeth are impacted and must come out. My teeth hurt, not horribly, but enough that I don't feel like chewing. It looks like sometime in February I'll have myself some oral surgery. Joy. It seems like we always have surgeries for our little family scheduled in February; both cats were neutered right around Valentine's Day, albeit in different years, and it looks like that's when I'll be rendered wisdom-toothless, too. One wonders what future years will bring.
The good thing, I guess, is that I have no interest in food. I have little normal interest in food that doesn't involve chewing, and now I feel like avoiding chewing, so that puts all the food on my munchy list off limits for about the next month. Lord only knows what that will do to my feelings toward food; possibly by the time I can chew again I will devour everything in sight just out of delight with eating, but then again, maybe I'll end up staying tenative about chewing on a long-term basis, just due to the memory of discomfort and pain. Hrm.
I had a lightbulb moment over the weekend, when I was getting a little too addicted to the granola (that didn't last long, since overdosing on granola led directly to getting bored with it). It wasn't so much that I was keen on the granola, although it was very tasty; the thing was that I was having a mild version of my old binge impulses. (I blame my period. I'm so weird one week a month when it comes to food.) It was one of those deals where my Hub was out of the room, and suddenly I had the freedom to wander into the kitchen and snitch whatever I wanted.
I've mentioned before that the binge impulse, when fulfilled, gives me a weird, snide, evil little satisfaction. I've never really grasped what the hell was going on there, why I feel such satisfaction in sneaking around and why I feel the need to cover my tracks, but somewhere down my train of thought while I was munching on granola, the following mental exchange popped up:Hell, I got too much, Hub will notice.Well, what if he does? He doesn't begrudge me the food and he doesn't judge me.Yeah, but he'll know. He'll know I took more food than I should have, and technically it's his treat, not mine.For pete's sake, he doesn't care what you eat. Stop freaking out.I don't know how that's possible. That's what people do, they get irritated when I eat extra food, they judge and control and chide and...
...and at that moment, it occurred to me that this is where my food-sneaking thing comes from, both the impulse to do it and the impulse to cover it up. I feel like people don't think I deserve treats or extra food or whatever, and I resent that and so I act on it, as much as possible, when the opportunity comes up. I don't resent it enough or have a high enough opinion of my own needs to stand up for myself in a more public fashion, though, so I get nervous about being found out (and, the assumption goes after that, judged and/or punished) and I make sure that I am not seen, and I try to cover my tracks afterward so I'm not caught.
It goes right back to my dad's constant judging of whatever I put in my mouth, back in the day, and this being a way to take back control and assert my worth... except that I was never certain enough of my own worth to do so openly.
The question I had been concentrating on, this past year, is do I think I'm worth a treat?
But that's not the question that drives me to do this stuff. The real question is, do I think that other people think I'm worth a treat?
As long as the answer is no, as long as I let that corner of my brain remain convinced that other people wouldn't let me do this so I have to take it NOW and cover my tracks, then I'm going to have a problem. It's not enough to think that I'm worth it, I have to get over this paranoia that other people expect perfection from me and would be disappointed in anything less.
I know, I know. Second verse, same as the first. I keep running into this same issue, again and again and again, and I hope that repetition will eventually wear it down to a managable state. I do long for the day when food isn't an emotional issue for me.
I have been retaining water like mad this time through my period (and apparently today marks the end of that, because I've been running to the restroom every hour, on the hour, all day), and that was the last straw where my favorite jeans are concerned. I wore them yesterday and oh, man, that was not comfy. If I needed a good reason to push myself into better food choices and moderating my approach to treats, those jeans ought to do it. I dislike having jeans cut into my tender bits. Boooo.
In Hub vs. Tub news, he managed to hurt himself somehow on the treadmill by not stretching. I'm being very good about not saying, "But you were the one who scolded me when I didn't stretch and hurt myself." (Doesn't mean I'm not thinking it.) My poor Hub. He nonetheless lifted weights this morning, and plans to go back to the treadmill on Wednesday, since I have it claimed for tomorrow morning.
He's still cranky with himself that he doesn't have instant results, but... dude, today is the seventh day of a full week, and he's been doing very well not overdoing it or pushing himself too hard. He's exercised five out of the last seven days. It looks like he's on track for keeping this up through this week. He's talking about maybe buying some new exercise equipment. Egad. I am still so very proud of him. He's continuing to be cranky that he hasn't instantly improved his cardiovascular fitness, and that weights make him sore, and that his tummy has not instantly disappeared, but that's just the emotional part, not the mental part; he knows better, he's just irritated at the reality.
So, onward and upward. Here we go.
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