The More Things Change, The More They Stay The Same

When we moved back to New York from Massachusetts in 2006, we had a lot going on.  Wil and I were each starting new jobs, we were trying to sell our condo in Massachusetts, and we’d just been victims of a “bait and switch” situation on renting an apartment in Manhattan.  Olivia was 13 months old, and I was learning the hard way that living expenses in NY were triple that of Massachusetts, though neither Wil’s nor my new salaries had even doubled.  To put it mildly, things were a tad stressful.

One of the many advantages I found to life in Manhattan was the abundance of take out: Ethiopian, barbeque, diners on every corner.  We even had a store near us that sold Chinese AND Mexican together.  At the time I was already overweight, and I quickly learned that I ate a lot when I was stressed.  We had moved from a 3 bedroom 1400-square foot duplex condo to a 550 square foot studio that had creatively been altered into a 2 bedroom (don’t ask).  The kitchen was smaller than most closets; I was thrilled to be able to create dinner using only a telephone and a $20 bill.  I didn’t care if the food was healthy.  I was still cooking for Olivia so she ate well; Wil and I ordered pretty much anything we felt like, and I managed to go plate for plate with my 6’4” husband.

About a month after we moved to New York, Wil complained one day that his side was hurting.  Within 24 hours, his burst appendix launched a two week stint in the hospital, leaving me to be a single parent in a city where I had no friends, with a very ill husband to add to my list of concerns.  Every night, my mom came over to my apartment right around Olivia’s bedtime, so I could visit Wil in the hospital for a bit.  I’d walk home and pick up dinner on the way home.  To keep things interesting, I’d get dinner from a different take out place each night: burgers and shakes, several slices of pizza, egg rolls and nachos from the “Chex Mex” place as we liked to call it. 

Wil eventually healed and came home, and I continued to eat like the world was going to run out of food and I needed to first consume my fair share.  I eventually got to my low point, my “fat point”, where I decided enough was enough, and joined Weight Watchers.

Let’s fast forward four years.  I’ve lost 70 pounds and become a triathlete.  I work out daily, eat well, and have taught my kids what’s healthy and what isn’t.  A lot has changed.  And at the same time, a lot hasn’t. 

Over the last 6 years, Wil and I traded in our 550 square foot apartment in Manhattan for a lovely house in Westchester.  We grew a second kid, and Weight Watchers refers to success stories like me as a “Lifetime Member at Goal”.  And – I still eat when I’m stressed.

Recently, Wil and I started renovations on the kitchen in our lovely house in Westchester.  The entire kitchen has been completely gutted: my refrigerator is currently plugged in in the living room, and my old decrepit stove has been relegated to the front porch where it awaits its predecessor.  This makes cooking difficult, and has temporarily turned my life completely upside down.  Wil and I really didn’t think through what renovations would entail, so we weren’t quite prepared to not even be able to get water for the cat bowls in the kitchen.  So, for days now we’ve had to either order in dinner every night, or go out.  In doing so, I’ve learned a few things: 1) portions in restaurants are obscenely large, and 2) my town has a limited vocabulary when it comes to words like “whole grains”, and “salad”. 

Given that healthy choices are sparse and portions are abundant, I have to admit that I’ve given in to my old habits of eating to relieve stress.  In the past week, I’ve enjoyed pizza, Pad Thai, even ice cream for dinner one night.  The night we went out for Mexican and I sighed when I didn’t see fried Chinese dumplings on the menu to go with my nachos, I knew I was out of control.  I also realized that I had the option of restoring control or letting things continue down the slippery slope lined with ice cream and pudding that would eventually deposit me into a pool of my own fat.

For now, I’m fixing the little things.  Dinner tonight will consist of butternut squash soup that I can heat up in the microwave that’s sitting in my living room.  Tomorrow at work I’ll be sure to have a salad for lunch and stock up on fruit from the corner vendors.  By Wednesday, my contractor will have my kitchen functioning if not finished, and I’ll either be able to cook a healthy meal for myself, or I’ll at least burn enough calories chasing him down by foot and then finally killing him with my bare hands that it will be fine if I splurge a little bit and have a slice of pizza for dinner. 

My kitchen renovations have taught me a lot: 1) any big job takes twice as long and costs twice as much as you expect, and 2) getting control of weight and exercise doesn’t necessarily mean that a person has gained control of old habits.  But, I know how to eat well, and run a marathon.  Now I just need to work on using those tools to deal with my stress, rather than giving in to the Chex-Mex restaurant.