The Joy and Horror of Being an Anti-Picky Eater

I work with a bunch of lovely women who really like to eat. One is vegan, another vegetarian, I’m holding down the meat-eater’s corner, but we all love to talk about food—what’s in your lunch, a new good recipe, plotting our next eating field trip. During one lunchtime chat about foods that we hate, I could think of, well, no foods worthy of my hatred. And I’m starting to realize this is a mixed blessing.

Sure, when I was a kid certain things were gross. Bratwurst. Beef vegetable soup. Asparagus. But now I love all those things. And it probably has something to do with my mother’s insistence that as kids, we ate grownup food. No one ever trimmed an icky crust off a sandwich for me, or made me buttery bland noodles. We ate Chinese, German, Italian, even a little French food (ok if you count French onion soup), and my mother is an excellent cook. Every night between 6:30 and 6:45 my dad would come home from work, and mom would put dinner on the table. Always a veggie, a salad, a protein and a starch, and it was 99% of the time some of the best food you’ve ever had.

Now it turns out I like all of the weird foods that make little kids want to cry. Beets, braunschwieger, lima beans, Brussels sprouts, broccoli (why do all of these foods have b’s in them?). I like anchovies and all types of seafood. Spicy food. Really, the only thing I could think of that sounded kind of nasty to me was cottage cheese. I reveled in that discovery and announced it. Then, two weeks later in a hospital cafeteria I threw some cc on my salad and thought it was pretty damn good.

Does this make me a garbage disposal? It certainly means I turn down less food than your average person. That sandwich has mustard on it? Bring it on. There are nuts in this muffin? Score. But it also COULD mean that I’m open to eating new healthy things all the time. Kale and quinoa and other such things I learned about at the Whole Foods salad bar. But that stuff takes effort. Whatever’s within reach in the vending machine and says either “chili” or “cheese” on it takes no effort and is ripe for the scarfing. So I guess what I’m getting at is that part of this little project is going to have to be stocking my fridge with more of those weird, yummy, healthy things I like. And then actually cooking them before they go bad. Sigh. But that is a tale for another day.

Kicking my own ass.

Oh dear. I’ve decided on that expletive instead of my effing favorite one, as I decide today that I need to do something active to get rid of the approximately 20#s that I’ve gained in the past two years at my desk job. Yes, TWENTY POUNDS. That’s a toddler. Or a really fat dachshund. While I was eating dinner tonight, I read some woman’s ONE YEAR journal in Self magazine about losing 28 pounds. Holy crap. If I’m only losing about 2-3 lbs a month, I’m totally going to give up! This lady in the magazine did Weight Watchers, which sounds great, but then I realize that I’m not even using the gym membership I have. So, people, you are my Weight Watchers. So don’t let me eat butter, ok?

Really though, I figure this is a good way to write and hold myself ACCOUNTABLE. I’m not sure if I’m up for this sort of commitment, but it kind of doesn’t matter. I come from a family where fat happens unless you combat it, and the product isn’t pretty. Heart attacks. Type II diabetes. I’m 5’5” and hovering around 150 right now (ok give or take 5 more, but I’m going with the 150 reported on my wobbly scale in the greeny bathroom that I step on every morning). Two years ago I weighed about 135 pounds on a bad day. That’s only 15 pounds, you say? Well, I was also 135 pounds five years ago when I was being really sedentary and survived on coffee, blueberry muffins and beer. I think I can do better.

So where the hell did 20#s come from? Well, I sit on my ass all day at a computer, in meetings, in the lunch room, in front of the internet at home, watching tv. I don’t work out (well, once in a blue moon I go to yoga, and I was riding my bike to work at a LESIURELY pace during the summertime, but I don’t have any sort of routine.) Also contributing to this is my lovely, sexy boyfriend who really likes me the way I am and takes me out to deliciously great restaurants and also loves food. I think it boils down to this: I’m really comfortably HAPPY in my life right now, which is ironic because my pants are getting tighter by the day, and that makes me SAD.

So follow along as I try to kick my own ass.