For years, I felt virtuous for eating almost no meat...[/QUOTE]
I'm sure there's a joke there... ;)
Congrats on the progress made so far! As for cooking steak, buy a grill and you're set. About as easy to cook with as a microwave.
Do you really have a disco ball in your bathroom? I need a disco ball in my bathroom....
Sometimes in my dreams, I am stuffing my face with bread. I wake up hysterical that I have actually done this, and in the seconds before rationality returns, I am convinced that I will step on the scale and be back at 231 pounds. It was such a sexy sensation to have the roll about the waist resting its weary load against the even bigger roll about the hips. But alas, all good things must end, and your chance to make your fingers ski from bulge to bulge when I lie on my side is passing. For those of you feeling a twinge of disappointment, I am sorry. What used to be Everest peaks is sinking to bunny slopes.
Am I 100% Primal? No. 90-95%, but once my Fairy Godmother touches the sparkling star on her magic wand to Cadbury Eggs and transforms them into a wholesome primal snack, I will be. Two days before I went primal in April, my darling Lady Friend bought me a pack of fifty as a surprise. I cannot bear to throw them out, and ration eggs to myself with great control.
In all honesty, Gay Panda does not need great control. Gay Panda is not tormented by sugar cravings. Candy bars do not sing siren songs in stores, nor does the lack of other goodies make Gay Panda circle sad faces on feelings charts. But lest you molder in jealousy, be consoled that Gay Panda has other problems. Gay Panda is vain and neurotic, and would rather stand in fiery coals than skip down the road in snazzy purple clogs through the Gauntlet of Crazy Neighbors to the mailbox.
While many people report primal igniting their energy and passion, lighting a candle to guttered hormones and setting them aflame, this has not happened for me. I am every bit the peaceable (cowardly) definitely-not-an-Alpha panda that I was before. The Netflix has sat on the counter for days as I avoid my neighbors. I haven’t found the strength of soul or the right cut of beef to deal with the worst of them, who we shall call Poo Hurler. Yes, she hurls it. Yes, it’s poo.
Poo Hurler is a woman in her fifties who throws cat droppings into the road and hangs more in plastic bags from her tree, because she is insane. She is chatty and crude, and when her adult children visit, they all end up screaming at each other in the yard. I avoid her at all costs. Perhaps I need to eat my sirloin raw and chest thump to get a primal buzz, but in all likelihood, I will just ask Lady Friend when next she is here. Lady Friend is not frightened of Poo Hurler. She went primal not long after I did, and is still every bit the aggressive definitely-an-Alpha as she was before.
But maybe today I will feel brave and fabulous, and a brave and fabulous panda does not leave the Netflix on the counter for three days plotting to give a big hug to Lady Friend with an offer to make her a steak dinner in exchange for her going to the mailbox. A brave and fabulous panda girds loins, puts on the snazzy purple clogs in the closet, and runs ululating like Xena: Warrior Princess down the road with Netflix hoisted past the firing line of Poo Hurler. Send your strength and a stylish Tyvek suit, dear primal community. And thank you for welcoming me.
UPDATE: Lady Friend is getting a steak tonight.
Welcome, Gay Panda! You are a fabulous writer (and I'm an English teacher, I should know) and terribly funny. Boohiss to Poo Hurler!
Welcome! And thanks for the giggles ;)
Gay Panda read an interesting question in another thread asking if you could accept your body overweight. That question has been fermenting in the bamboo-knuckled lobes of this panda’s brain. The answer is no, but being of INTJ persuasion, why is the follow-up question.
I was not a fat young cub, nor was I a thin one. In a salute to the average, as I scored in most arenas to Mother Panda’s disappointment, I sat my tender rear square in the middle of the weight charts. Reaching a height of 5’9”, my weight traveled about between 137-145 through high school and early college. This self-image of how my body is supposed to be is branded into my mind. I was muscular and swam butterfly, and coaches learned not to let me pinch-hit backstroke in swim meet emergencies as severe myopia, sparkle distraction, and a lack of direction invariably ended with me crashing into A: the lane line, B: the wall, or C: another swimmer.
And then, midway through college, I went on antidepressants. The day I swallowed my first pill, I was 137 pounds. Six months later, I was 207, and continued to balloon ever upwards. Doctors denied that the pills could possibly be related to this sudden, shocking weight gain, and I believed them. Finally, I stopped believing, and stopped cold turkey without telling them, as you are never supposed to do.
Gay Panda would rather be depressed than obese, and since being obese leads to Gay Panda being depressed, taking these pills creates a vicious circle in which to fruitlessly spin. Gay Panda would rather have OCD than collect sweat in folds, and deal with obsessive Germ Thoughts and compulsive stove checking when it hasn’t been used all day. Gay Panda would rather have social anxiety, or whatever the psychiatric term is for very shy, than return to the store every few months to buy bigger jeans. The depression is manageable, the OCD is a mildly annoying childhood friend one wants to shake but can’t, and the social anxiety is high. But it beats the alternative.
I resist accepting this weight because I am not supposed to be like this. I was a healthy young panda in college with personality quirks and family stresses, and drugs were not the answer. But they were pushed on me relentlessly as the solution to all my woes, and I caved. The drugs turned me into a fat zombie panda, and there is nothing fabulous about that. I doubt that my body will ever return to 137, and it seems an unreasonable goal considering all the years that have passed. So I will not torment myself trying to achieve what was lost long ago. I would like to be in the mid-160s, the upper range for my height, and the rest is a lesson learned.
I would hurl the poo back. But that's just me. I'm a sweetheart... to nice people. ;^)
Still loving your writing, BTW.
Gay Panda was raised to Always Be Nice, no matter WHAT someone else is doing. But when someone is [I]hurling poo[/I], I think we have found an exception to the rule. Thank Valhalla for Lady Friend, who has a sharp tongue and no patience for this sort of behavior, and is the reason I will have movies this weekend.
If it makes Gay Panda feel any better, I was in the exact same boat with antidepressants and weight gain a few years ago and came to the same conclusion. I went off them and sort of muddled along on the grumpy side of life until I kicked the grain and sugar habit for good last March. Everyone close to me has spontaneously commented on how upbeat I am now. It's true! My overall mood is significantly better now. I suspect in my case it was the sugar that was messing with my brain but I'm not looking this particular gift horse in the mouth too closely.
I sincerely hope you have the same results from your change in diet.