Missing myself

Who is that old woman prowling around my house? She keeps opening the refrigerator, looking through the pantry, hoping to find a long-forgotten stale Frito or a moldy chocolate chip. She finds nothing so she goes down to the basement to take clothes out of the dryer. Then she walks upstairs (forgetting to bring the laundry with her) and looks through the bookshelves, trying to find the copy of Olive Kitteridge that has gone missing. Unable to find the book, she goes back to the kitchen and starts prowling for food again. Earlier she made herself a filling, healthy salad with grilled chicken for lunch. Then she had some Greek yogurt with blueberries. Still, she prowls. She eats the last two tiny sweet gherkin pickles and puts the pickle jar in the recycling bin. Then she decides it’s time to finish off that last tablespoon of coconut.

Oh, wait—I think I recognize her from another life. Yep, that is me. The old me would have had barbeque potato chips in the pantry and some frozen, home-made (it makes me weep just to think about them) oatmeal pecan date cookies in the freezer. In the refrigerator she probably would have had half a Lost Dog Cafe “pointer pizza” with whole wheat crust, feta, pine nuts, and spinach. I miss her. I miss the pizza.

I have been working hard to change my wicked ways. I got through Thanksgiving, Christmas, Ground Hog’s Day, Valentine’s Day, a trip to Austin, and Fat Tuesday. I haven’t had a single croissant. I had pizza once. I’ve almost completely given up alcohol and carbohydrates. I even got through yesterday—St. Patrick’s Day—without having a beer. And now, today, March 18^th, a day of no significance whatsoever, I’m losing my will.

Since the beginning of November I have lost 30 pounds. I’m nearly there, though I’m not exactly sure where “there” is. A former vegetarian, I am now eating mostly protein (i.e. meat—ugh) and vegetables. It feels like an alien creature has taken over my body. And where are my clothes, especially my 50 pairs of jeans, the staple of my wardrobe? Hmmm . . . donated to the thrift store because nothing fits me now. I had to get them out of my house lest I consider growing back into them. Nothing to eat, nothing to wear.

At this moment, the thing I miss most about her, the woman I used to be, is that she would be thinking about dinner right now. She would have a big bowl of capellini with olive oil (maybe butter and olive oil) with a ton of freshly grated Parmesan cheese. Undoubtedly she would have a glass or two of good red wine or maybe a beer. She might even have splurged on some Talenti Belgian chocolate gelato. (Insert the sound of weak, pitiful whining . . . )

I’m going to go prowl through the kitchen now, maybe steam some broccoli and cry. I miss her.