Live From The Grayish Carpet

Life on the Other Side of Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll, Redacted

Good News, Sober, Bad News, Fat

Hint: It's not 115

Hint: It’s not 118

     I’ll talk about almost anything except exactly how much I weigh.  All I’ll say is that I’ve gained 23 pounds since the last time I worked up the courage to step on a scale, and that was a mere four months ago.

     It’s happened before.  In fact, it’s happened almost every time I’ve come out the other side of a detox.   It was most spectacular in 2002, after Rehab #3, when I gained 40 pounds in 14 weeks. I get clean and I eat. And eat. And eat.

     Eventually, there’s a moment of reckoning — a day when I can no longer convince myself that my jeans shrunk in the wash —  and I get it together.  This time reality hit courtesy of my friend Angelica, who came to see me in San Francisco after a video shoot up north.   I hadn’t seen her since I left Los Angeles 18 months ago. “You look so healthy,”  she said, a little too cheerfully, when I opened the door. (Clearly,  Angelica’s never had a weight problem.  If she did, she’d know that telling me I looked healthy was more or less the same thing as greeting me with a bellowing moo.)

      I’ve gained weight at least partially because I don’t live in LA anymore.  I’m no longer going to dinners with my fabulous friends at expense-account establishments;  me and my no-less-fabulous friends frequent burrito joints and noodle houses.   At Spago Beverly Hills, the 300-calorie Austrian Chicken Bouillon is fantastic.  At Cancun in the Mission, fantastic comes in the form of 2500-calorie tacos with jack cheese and sour cream.   In Los Angeles, I stayed thin enough to fit into the size 4 get-ups I wore to work; these days I have no real reason to get out of my sweats, which I’m certainly not wearing to the gym.

     The  most vigorous exercise I can manage involves walking from my downstairs bedroom up to the first-floor kitchen.  Whereas I used to do yoga four or five times a week, it’s been months since I’ve made it to class.  Forward folds have taken on a humiliating new meaning, and any possibility of finding the serenity I once experienced through yoga disappeared  when I realized that I was in danger of suffocating myself when I moved into shoulder stand.

      I’m 23 pounds heavier than I was pre-rehab for a lot of reasons.  The most obvious is that I’m no longer getting high, and without dope to blunt my feelings, I eat over them.  But I also eat because I’m bored, and because the only reason to get out of bed in the morning is frequently breakfast.  I eat because I love food, and love is hard to come by.  But still:  it’s time to knock it off.

     Losing weight this time through means sitting with my feelings, and that’s a lot more challenging than making sensible nutritional choices and getting my heart rate up.   It’s uncomfortable, but it’s not insurmountable.   I’ll lose the 23 pounds, but, until I do, seriously:  I’d appreciate it if you’d resist the kind urge to tell me how healthy I look.

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This entry was posted on February 16, 2015 by in Life and tagged , , .
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