Thursday, January 20, 2011
Sounded Like A Good Idea at the Time
It is not a secret that my diet and exercise routine revolve around one simple mantra: Is Jillian Watching? I have a sickening fear that anything I consume, anything I think about consuming, or even anything that I see available for consumption on television will prompt Jillian Michaels to find me, scold me and then beat me with my own appendages.
When I went to visit my family in Vermont over Christmas I walked into a kitchen filled with cookies, cakes, pies, candy and other Divine sugary delectables that, while typing this, cause a pool of drool. But I knew that the birth of baby Jesus was no reason to deviate from my strict "Is Jillian Watching?" rule. **(Please note though, that the 100th birthday of Ronald Reagan will be a perfect reason for consuming copious amounts of cake and cookies until I enter a self-induced diabetic coma). ** So, keeping this in mind, I promptly took a black Sharpe marker (I have been known to deliberately smear washable ones) and wrote messages on containers of frosting, pans of cookies, lids to cakes and bags of candy. Some notable ones were:
--"If you eat this Jillian will find you and then kill you."
--"Don't eat this Kristen. Stop it. Put it down. Seaworld called, they heard you got out."
--"Your legs will be ripped off and you'll be beaten with them by JM if you think of eating this."
--"You don't even like walnuts, stop drooling Tubbs."
After my Mother came home to find her Christmas kitchen had been vandalized with vicious, violent and graphic dieter graffiti, she made it known (very clearly) that if I was that dead set on not eating the sweets, she wouldn't let me. Now, if you don't know my Mother you are in for a treat. When she says she wouldn't let me eat it, she means it. I can just imagine her gnawing off my own arm as I reached into the Reindeer cookie jar to just eat one Andes-Mint chocolate cookie. She would say it was for my own good and because I told her to do it. (I would reason that it most likely was revenge for the hell I put her through my senior year of high school).
Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and even the days following came and went with intense temptations, inner monologues on refusing to be the Pillsbury Dough Boy's bitch, and reasoning/bargaining with the bad angel on my left shoulder. Needless to say, every time I would venture towards a container, a box, a tin or even a jar, I would hear "Jillian is watching you!" in a think Bronx accent. Well, that's a deal breaker every time. Damn it.
When I returned back to Nashville after the holidays I was weak and defeated from the lack of sugar, the neglect of my sweet tooth, and the severe frosting deficiency I was experiencing. But I was proud that I had made it through the holidays without going completely overboard. It wasn't like I ate an entire pie with a couple containers of cool whip to top it off! (The Christmas of 2007 is still, to this day, not to be mentioned. I was eating my emotions. And Santa's. And every freaking elf in the North Pole's.)
But writing on my pantry products and cabinet contents was not going to be enough. I had no one to stop me from actually putting food in my mouth that didn't belong there. I try to not to buy food that shouldn't be in my apartment. I don't know how the funfetti frosting gets in the cart. I don't know how a bag of skittles can somehow magically appear like a happy rainbow in silverware drawer. Perhaps it's the luck of the Irish. Or perhaps its untreated kleptomania. Either way, for my own good I have to combat the temptation. And I devised a plan.
Some people will put pictures of themselves in thinner days on their fridge and use that as an encouraging reminder to be careful when opening the fridge door. The only thin pictures I have of me are those taking right after birth. And even then I was plagued with fat legs. So that is not an option for me. I could put a picture of me at 300 pounds in high school with a dutchboy's haircut, but I have tried that, and I just cover my eyes and reach into the fridge. Who really wants to see that anyway?? So the plan was simple: Buy every magazine at Kroger for January that had pictures of Jillian in it. Since January is the month for New Year's Resolutions, there was ample Jillian face time.
I meticulously cut out Jillian's pictures from Fitness, Cosmo, Ladies Home Journal and even Runner's magazine (who the hell reads that? and for the record, the check out girl looked at me and judged me as if I was buying Playboy. Ok, so I'm not a runner. But I like the articles!). Then I strategically placed the cut out pictures inside the pantry taped to cans and boxes. I put her picture on the fridge door but realized, just like every other attempt to stop my opening of the fridge, it just wouldn't work. So Jillian was transplanted: inside the fridge. I taped her up so that every time I open the fridge there she is with her ripped biceps looking at me. Staring at me. Scolding me. Getting ready to pounce me.
It worked like a charm. But I will admit it had some downfalls. No, I am not stating that I am malnourished because I have been too afraid to open the fridge. That would be ridiculous. But, I did suffer a mild coronary when at 3am, slit-eyed and shuffling, I walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge door. The only light that shown was from inside it and it lit up Jillian brightly. I screamed. Dropped the cup. Slammed the door. And in a slur of strung together profanity was able to make out "The bitch is really watching me!". I went back to bed thirsty that night... and every night since. She's in there. And I am afraid she may get out if I open the door again.