I’ve made some bad choices this year.
The first error happened last February, while we were getting ready to travel to Argentina for four months. We were packing our suitcases. It was decision time. What to bring? What to leave home?
When I was much younger I would have packed shoes. Lots of them. Super-high heels, sling-back sandals and sexy boots that were so tight they’d cut off my circulation.
Then, shortly after we arrived in La Paz, my feet began to hurt. I noticed that Gringos rarely wore fancy shoes. My heels, sling-backs and boots sat at the back of my closet and became dusty. One by one, I gave them away to younger Mexican women. I had joined the “Birkenstocks Generation”.
A few years ago, we took an extended trip to mainland Mexico. The space in my suitcases formerly occupied by my shoes was now assigned to our pillows. I do love my goose-down pillow; it squishes up just right. And it smells like shampoo and my favorite perfumes. Traveling with my pillow worked fine until last February.
Now I know that instead of the pillows, what I should have packed was – my scale. Four months is a long time. And Buenos Aires is a dangerous town for food lovers. Argentineans traditionally begin their day with coffee and three media lunas (a buttery, sugary roll). My breakfast is normally oatmeal topped with skim milk and sweetened with Splenda. Which did I choose? Oatmeal or pastry? Tough decision. I thought, “What the hell—I’m on vacation.”
Argentineans claim they’re Italians who just happen to speak Spanish. And their foods of choice prove it. Fresh pasta. Crusty breads. Amazing cheeses. And pizza. I was strong. For a while. I went from being satisfied with a large salad and one bite of Alex’s pizza to a small salad and one slice of pizza. And then two slices. After three months, I didn’t order salad and we were splitting a pizza.
But we walked every day, for hours and hours. Unfortunately, we’d find ourselves taking a break at a sidewalk café that somehow always involved dessert.
Media Lunas
My jeans became tight. I blamed the clothes dryer. My cute little gray jacket developed a tear on the back seam. I blamed cheap Chinese thread. But, just in case it wasn’t the dryer or the thread, I walked faster and farther.
We returned to La Paz at the end of May. I circled the scale a few times but just wasn’t brave enough. For two days I ate salads. Naked, and before I swallowed even a sip of water, I stepped on the scale. Lightly. I opened one eye and looked down. Up three pounds. Three pounds in four months. Not so bad.
That’s when I made my next bad decision. I took a dance class. I did a unique version of salsa, hula, and belly dancing. The next morning my right knee was swollen to twice its normal size. I tried to go for a walk but my knees rebelled. For the first time in twenty-six years I couldn’t exercise. But, unfortunately, that didn’t affect my appetite.
The holiday season began. And what can be holier than the heavenly desserts my friends bake? I still eat oatmeal and salads but I’ve discovered that a few chocolate chip cookies smashed on top of the oatmeal are really delicious. I’ve tried to hide the scones in the back of the freezer along with our leftover King’s Day bread. But I always find them. And did you know that King’s Day rosca makes great French toast?
Those three pounds have turned into seven. My jeans are so tight that I can’t sit down after 6 p.m. I’m afraid to wash them. Slowly, my knees healed, so I’m exercising again. But I’m still snacking. A lot. Especially in the evening.
Next week’s Tamale Party will be the formal end of the food fest. Then it will be the Cabbage Soup Diet for this kid. Or the Grapefruit Diet. I know I can do it – as long as no one invites us to dinner. Or breakfast. Or coffee. Seven pounds is a long time to be friendless.
But we can e-mail. And talk on the phone. Call me Thursday morning, February third. The day after the tamale party. Right after I weigh myself. And eat a grapefruit. If I don’t answer the phone, it’s probably because I’ve locked myself in the freezer with the leftover tamales.
