Lesson 5: Let Him Love You for Who You Are

I'm not shy about my obsession with food. I love food. All kinds. Especially meat, cheese, and bread. In fact, just about the only things I don't like are seafood and raw tomatoes. I eat throughout the day. I start with hazelnut coffee (strong) with one cube of sugar and hazelnut creamer. Just enough to cover the cube in the cup. This is typically paired with a glass of juice (real juice, none of that high fructose corn syrup crap), two slices of high fiber wheat toast, three egg whites, and a multivitamin. On mornings that I am a bit lazy, just a whole wheat bagel with light veggie cream cheese. Lunch is never lunch. I bring four snacks in my pink thermal lunch box to my job and internship. It usually consists of one veggie, one fruit, one dairy, and something more substantial...you know, like a granola bar or peanut butter and jelly sambo. I've recently started bringing nuts for more protein.

I watch what I eat. I work out four or five days a week for about an hour in the morning. First thing I do. Get it out of the way. I don't necessarily pay as much attention to what we eat for dinner. I do make a conscious effort to include protein, carbs, and a veggie. And by the way, yes, I said I make a conscious effort to include carbs. All in all, I bet it sounds like a pretty balanced diet and healthy lifestyle.

You don't even know.

My average weight is 150. I'm a size eight. After a bad week, my eights are tight. I was a ten all through high school (minus the short period of a few months when I ballooned to 170...never again). Thinned out a bit in college. Madison is a HUGE campus. I think that having to walk everywhere was my savior. I've been battling to stay the same ever since.

How can I explain it...I am addicted to food. It is my drug of choice. I have good days and bad days. Good weeks and bad weeks. The above described food choices are from a good day. Let me tell you about a bad day. The following story you are about to hear is based on true facts. Names have not been changed to protect anyone's identity.

Bad days don't usually start as bad days. I have my morning workout, during which I typically think about how THIS is THE day that I will defeat The Food. My heart pounding, blood rushing, sweat dripping. Good breakfast. Good lunch. The Food feels dominated; I am beating The Food, making good choices, and am convinced that I will have Jessica Simpson's body in three months time if I could just stick to it. And I will. The day turns out to be a real ringer. I stay late at my internship to run a few errands with clients. Then I have to go to the post office and the grocery store and then finally home. At 7:00 pm. I am just pooped. This kind of bad day usually occurs mid to mid-end of the week (i.e. Wednesday or Thursday) when I have already cooked two or three absolutely scrumptious, well-balanced meals, which takes a lot of energy, time, and effort for those of you who do not know/cook. So, Nathan gets home from a long day, too, and we start discussing our long days and come to the conclusion that we should just order a large Papa John's sausage pizza. Fast. Easy. Greasy and good. I go into the kitchen, look for a coupon and come across one that says we can get a large one-topping pizza AND and order of cheese sticks for the reasonable price of $12.99. Temptation. Justification. Telephonation.

The Pizza Knight arrives in his white pinto. Nathan and I split the pizza. Four big, juicy pieces each. And we polish off about two-thirds of the cheese sticks. The Food cackles in my face. I have failed. And let me tell you, when I fail, I fail GOOD. Once I fail, I find it ludicrous to just stop there. Might as well make it worth it, right? But if I really ate how I wanted to eat all the time, I am sure Nathan, or anyone else, would be surprised, disgusted, and in some odd cases, impressed. Thus, I resort to sneaking.

Our kitchen, in our very first apartment in Bettendorf, Iowa, which I affectionately refer to as the mini-kitchen, is just that. I'm not good with dimensions, but it's about eight feet long and six feet wide. One of those galley kitchens. Old ugly cabinets. Dishwasher barely works. Limited counter space. Just about the only good thing about it is that Nathan, or anyone, can't see what I am doing in there from the living room. This is when I do my secret snacking. It's an art, really. I have a few favorite snacks, such as:

1.) Doritos.

2.) Chocolate dipped granola bars.

3.) Fig newtons.

4.) Chocolate chips.

5.) Ice cream.

Keep in mind that this is after the Papa John's feast. Like I said, when I fail, I FAIL.

Some tricks to remember when trying to eat in secret. Doritos are a challenge. The bag is noisy. However, there is a way to muffle the sound. Pretend you are doing dishes. Put the water on full blast. You can even sing a little tune to subdue the crinkling. Then munch away to you heart's content. The chocolate dipped granola bars are less of an issue. The wrappers are pretty quiet; you just need to take big bites to ensure fast finishing. Fig newtons...they kind of melt in your mouth, don't they? Words of advice. First, dip them into milk. It gets them nice and mushy. This way, if you get busted by a quiet and unexpected kitchen visitor, such as Nathan, you can swallow it real quick and it looks like you are just enjoying a healthy glass of milk. Chocolate chips are one of my favorite secret snacks. The trick is to open them right away when you get home from the grocery store. I keep mine in the baking cabinet. The best way to do it is to say you need a refill on your glass of water and while you're filling up, just grab a quick handful or chips. I tend to get very thirsty when I fail. Last, but not least, ice cream. You must be brave to try it. Nathan has to be real into a video game for me to go for this one. This trick is to ditch the bowl and just spoon it. The only down fall with that is you can't have too much simply for lack of time. You've gotta be in and out with secret snacking.

There is a point to all this babbling about The Food. When Nathan and I met, I was a hot little number. I was on Weight Watchers, working out hard, eating right. I had power over The Food. The Food wasn't even an issue. I weighed 143. I looked fab. Nathan loved it. Loved my boobs, my butt, the whole shebang. I suppose it was easy to keep up with the routine. It was summer and I had plenty of time to exercise and cook. Then, school started again. Back to the books and back to booze and back to 150+. By October, I left like crud. And not a peep from Nathan. The only thing I remember him directly mentioning was one night in his room in the frat house. We were hanging out one night, and by hanging out I mean doing it, and I had asked to turn the lights off and right after we were done, I put one of his T-shirts on. Usually, we would just hang out in the buff. Anyhoo, he says, "What's the deal with you lately? First you want the lights off and then you're putting on a shirt...what's up?" Not. "Hey, you don't look fat" or "I know you feel fat," just a "hey, what happened to my wild lover lady?"

I don't think I really responded. Maybe something clever like, "I don't know." I remember being so impressed that he never, not once, mentioned my weight. He just commented on my actions. My self-confidence. My hesitation.

I the years we've been together, like every other normal woman in America, my weight has fluctuated. When I lose three pounds and am convinced I look super slim, he tells me I look great but that I don't look any different. When I gain six pounds after the holidays, he ignores it. He grabs my waist, which I HATE because it is chock full of rolls, and when I resist, he tell me I'm his wife and he loves all of me. He calls my pouch my "pouch of beauty." He tells me he likes me soft. He loves my big old booty. And I mean LOVES it.

I have this uncanny ability to make friends with skinny girls. Girls that eat just as much as I in secret, but not in secret (okay, maybe not THAT much) and wear size fours. When I get paranoid about being around them, being bigger, being less sexy or what have you, he gives me this funny crooked little look and barks, "What do men like? Boobs and butts. What do you have? Great boobs and a great butt." It's almost as if the rest of me is invisible to him. I told you he twinkles.

Along with my rather substantial boobs and butt, I have enough cheeks for a family of four. It's doesn't matter if I'm 143 or 170, they stay about the same. And he adores them. Kisses them every day. Tells me I'm beautiful every day. He just loves me. Loves me when I'm chubby. Loves me when I'm thinner. (Note, I say thinner...I'm not quite sure I've ever been officially thin in my life). Am I still paranoid about my pouch of beauty when he rubs my belly? Absolutely. Do I ever catch a glimpse of my bottom in a mirror and gasp? Sure. Do I still feel like a beast around petite women? Obviously. But ask me if I ever feel anything less than gorgeous around my husband; to answer yes would be a flat out lie. I am so lucky to have a man that loves me for who I am, big boobs, big butt, big cheeks and all. He loves every big bit of me. And I let him love all of me.