Once, I was a person who ate without worry. A small blip in college changed me for a bit, but soon I decided that the idea of conforming to a number wouldn't work for me. I played soccer, football, basketball, danced, and exercised nearly daily. That number on the scale that a dance team said I couldn't be and be a part of their group? I gave it a big nasty gesture. I am not a number.
Of course, age catches up with everyone, and my moment came when I failed the glucose tolerance test during my first pregnancy. In an instant, food scared me. I questioned every morsel I put in my mouth. That attitude didn't change afterwards as I dealt with a morphed body. Through the next two pregnancies, food lost its role as master. I'd beaten whatever caused the gestational diabetes. Maybe I relaxed just a smidge.
Tension about food struck again after my father died of a heart attack. I inherited some cooking equipment from my mother. Just call me food cop. That continued until we moved to New Orleans. If there is one thing that NOLA can do to you is knock you off your carefully constructed diet with its food. Even with the Siren's call of a shrimp po-boy just blocks away, my husband met a physician who is a chef. We've used his website (royal we, I do all the cooking) to restructure how we cook and eat at home. Great, right?
Holy mother of sausage, no!
The husband ran into some trouble with a particular coronary artery this week. It's repaired (in an astonishing time frame, too). He's headed home. Thoughts of food swarm my brain. I'm now steward of his heart, too. I'm polishing my cooking equipment.
And, getting out the whip to keep him exercising, too.