Pampering Ourselves

Did you ever notice how when we talk about pampering ourselves, if is often code for a high calorie food indulgence? Our food culture has been infused by the idea that doing something nice for yourself means eating chocolate or ice cream or a big bowl of pasta in a (pick one) cream/cheese/butter sauce. I know that this was certainly how I related to food for most of my life. As in: tough day? Well why don’t you curl up on the couch with a big scoop (or three) of Cherry Garcia? Go ahead, you deserve it!

I was thinking about this very subject today. I had the day off from work and it occurred to me that it was time I had a real day off. Not just a day away from the office, but a DAY OFF. After all, I work hard. I deserve some downtime. As I contemplated what a DAY OFF looked like, I imagined myself sleeping late, skipping my usual exercise routine and eating whatever gooey thing I damn well pleased. But then it hit me – that’s not being nice to myself. That’s slipping back into old familiar habits, habits that resulted in my weight topping out at a whopping 250 pounds. And 250 pounds is not a good place for me to be. If I really wanted to take care of me, I should embrace the luxury of having the time for a long, leisurely run, and later to be able to linger over a salad at lunch. Which is what I finally decided to do.

Yet, I continue to struggle with the concept. And the culture around me doesn’t help much. I ran across an article recently that pretty much sums it up. We are constantly surrounded by media images that distort our perceptions of eating. Why wouldn’t you feel deprived eating a small piece of grilled chicken and a salad for dinner when you have been hypnotized by up close and intimate shots of creamy Olive Garden Chicken Alfredo (a mere 1440 calories and 82 grams of fat)? We have been sold on the belief that this is not excess, or something to eat only for a special (and rare) occasion, but that it’s normal. What we should expect. What we deserve. Every day.

It’s been hard to clear all this crap out of my head. I’ve been working on it, really working on it, for five years now and still this nonsense won’t give up the ghost. I have to keep reminding myself of the good stuff. How my back doesn’t hurt as much anymore now that I’m lighter. How nice it is to walk up several flights of stairs without getting winded. How much I enjoy the adrenaline rush at the end of a long run. On a bad day, I see the effort required to achieve these pleasures as a chore, an affliction visited upon me by the Evil Gods of Fat. But when I am thinking clearly, I realize that every bite of broccoli is actually a small gift of health that I give to myself.

And I deserve it.