status viatoris – being ‘on the way’/being in a state of pilgrimage
Or should that be a “cereal comfort eater”?
I suppose, given my lifelong love affair with Kellogg’s, that the second term is equally valid, if a smidgen less encompassing of the whole truth.
Having written here and here about successful attempts to gain control over the blubber that has been souring my existence since my late teens, it seems right and balanced that I also share with you the low points.
Of which “right now” would qualify pretty nicely.
Because at some point over the last two months, I appear to have fallen off the healthy lifestyle wagon and the damage is starting to show: digging-in waistbands over rolling hillocks of tummy, bras that pinch, the disappearance of any semblance of a 90° angle where neck meets jawline.
But by far the worst symptom of all, has been the gradual erosion of my self-esteem: that most welcome of weight-loss side-effects.
And as I find myself in Italy, there is absolutely no hiding away from the reality of the situation:
“Goodness, you have put on weight. I can really see it in your face.”
“Goodness, you have put on weight. I can really see it round your middle.”
and my favourite old chestnut:
“How exciting! I didn’t know you were pregnant!”
Mortifying, depressing; but may possibly serve to heave my bulk back onto the healthy lifestyle wagon sooner than if I were surrounded by more polite souls.
Tracking back, it seems likely that things began to take a downhill path when the autumnal chills brought with them my first dose of flu; the negative connotations of such an occurrence being two-fold:
- I was not well enough to take Pooch for his customary walks.
- I had to rely on “easy” food stuffs because I was unable to take care of shopping or cooking.
But when flu turns into gastric flu, which morphs into a sinus infection, and then descends to a chest infection – all of which drag on in a seemingly interminable fashion, and are interspersed with persistent migraines; the risk is that a perennial comfort eater will eventually turn to that which their brain has decreed will bring temporary alleviation of all misery: calorific foodstuffs.
And when fevers, coughs and sniffles also conspire to prevent said comfort eater from keeping up their calm, but regular, exercise regime, then the result soon becomes visible to all and sundry.
So this is the point at which I find myself, yet again: gazing with horrified fascination into the mirror, torn between wanting to hide in a corner and sob self-loathing into a packet of biscuits, and the knowledge that with the right psychological impetus, I WILL be able to turn this around.
For although it may well be so that the consumption of high-fat, high-sugar foods fosters addiction for high-fat, high-sugar foods; as long as the resulting satisfaction is fleeting and the price that satisfaction demands too high, I decree that my physical and mental health, and my sense of self-worth deserve to be fought for.
PLEASE DON’T GO ANYWHERE, HEALTHY LIFESTYLE, I’M BATTLING TO MAKE MY WAY BACK TO YOU!
This is Status Viatoris, the battle of the blubber is never over, a comfort eater is never cured; trying one’s best is the best one can do, in Italy.