I hate food. I do. Really.
Don’t get me wrong. I love how it tastes. A little too much. It makes me forget what comes later…eaters remorse.
“Why did I eat that?”
“No wonder I can’t lose weight.”
“Why do I do this to myself all the time?”
“Why did I inhale those useless calories and then eat something right after it so the taste is just a memory?”
Why, why, why?
I’ve been trying to lose some weight. I’m not happy with my size or my flab. I love my legs, but I hate the rest of my body. I hate mirrors, they remind me of the weight I carry.
I exercise, faithfully. Biking, walking, running, PiYoing almost daily. I’ve got that part of healthy sorted out. It’s the darn food that kills me. I don’t know how to get a handle on it. I keep saying today, I will be better…and I turn out worse. I look at the yummy, and think, I don’t need that, or really want it, but it’s there and YUM.
Too bad I am not even done eating it before the eaters remorse hits. And then every bite feels like lead in my belly. Sitting there. Mocking me. Taunting me. Hating me.
I say I run, but really I’m a big blimp with little legs. I’m guessing most people think, aw, isn’t that cute–she’s trying to run. I do walk. Up to 12 miles a day, but for some reason no matter how much I do, it is never enough to make a difference.
I am frustrated and whiny about this right now. I have a Dairy Queen blizzard hating me. Sitting there. Mocking me. Taunting me.
Like I said–
I hate food.