Boom, That’s Spaghetti

The thing about not spending money on alcohol or going out to places where other people spend money on alcohol is that eventually, you forget what it’s like, meaning you forget what it’s like to be surrounded by drunks who can’t walk without stumbling, can’t speak without slurring, and have suddenly decided to invade your space because you’re either invisible or are their new best friend.

I always forget that I am wildly attractive to drunks. Something about my stoic demeanor and the shitty look on my face says “FRIEND” to them, so I end up being touched and spoken to by several slurry morons who started drinking way too early to read the cues that I am not a social person and I do not want to feel their breath in my face. Especially when that breath sounds infected, and so help me god, if that mess of a woman at Neumos last night who asked me if it was okay for her to wipe her snot with the Confederate flag handkerchief in her purse gets me sick I will find her and slap that trashy eyeshadow right off her face.

And while we’re at it, Seattle, you should know that there’s a difference looking punk rock and looking like Bret Michaels kicked you off his tour bus. Dress accordingly.

The main reason I don’t really drink much anymore is because it costs money. Not just the money for the alcohol itself, but the money to get into some shows where alcohol is served, as well as the money for a car to transport me home at the end of the night (because when it’s between calling an Uber and walking eight blocks to wait for a bus, Drunk Me calls an Uber every. Single. Time.).

I also started logging food onto my Fitbit dashboard, and for the first time in my life, I’m conscious of the calories I consume. When it comes to feeling satisfied, food does more for me than alcohol, so when I’m looking at my calories in vs. calories out numbers, I’d usually rather have a piece of chocolate than a glass of wine.

I know, okay? I know. I’m disappointed in me, too.

But I’m also the kind of person who competes with themselves, and looking at my Fitbit dashboard every night is another opportunity to best my own calorie deficit. Basically, I log all of my foods, check my calories in vs. calories out for the day, and then compare it to my previous days and yell at myself for a little bit.

“YEAH! FOUR HUNDRED CALORIES UNDER TODAY! SUCK IT, YESTERDAY ME!”

“OH, REALLY, PRESENT ME? YOU THINK YOU’RE BETTER THAN ME? WAIT UNTIL TOMORROW ME KICKS YOUR ASS, YOU MOUTHY BITCH.”

And so on, and it will continue like this until I see some noticeable improvement.

Based on my height, weight, gender and activity level, decreasing my daily recommended intake by 500 calories can result in 1 pound lost per week, and while I don’t think this is 100% sustainable forever and ever, I have managed to achieve that deficit almost every day this week, even doubled it once, and it is totally boring and lame, but it also feels like I’m finally doing something about those times when I sit on the couch and just hate on myself for not being the size I was when I was 19. Or even 23.

(Says the 31-year-old woman who knows that she will never be that size again but thinks wistfully about the impossibility, anyway.)

And that means being super honest about what I’m putting into myself and the way I’m getting rid of it (besides ripping a huge dump, hey!). So I’m logging everything, down to cooking oils, condiments, and flavor enhancers like a clove of garlic or a tablespoon of diced onion. It’s both really dull and really illuminating to see how I’m fueling myself, and more than once during this whole process, I have absolutely been Andy Dwyer.

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About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.
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