To Eat or Not to Eat

I like to eat.  

I love to eat.

I take pride in my palate for eclectic and exotic eats.  Stick a plate full of my mom's Chicken Adobo in front of me (accompanied by rice, of course), and I just can't resist.  Invite me to that Michelin-star restaurant that everyone raves about, and I'll be the first one there.  Or on an evening when the hubby cooks one of his specialty dinners at home for the two of us, I might help myself to a second serving. 

A hearty appetite, if you will.  But is that a crime?  Well, if you go by the dictionary definition of the word "crime," then of course not.  But honestly, it sure does feel like that some of the time.  

 Ever since my diaper-bearing days, I never had a problem with eating.  I wasn't what you would define as a "normal" baby, according to my parents.  Unlike most babies who delighted in those jarred Gerber concoctions of chicken and rice or carrots and peas (which is probably the worst flavor nonetheless), I was eating my Mommom's Lugaw, a Filipino take on the traditional Asian congee rice porridge.  If it wasn't that, then it was Chicken Nilaga or some other yummy dish with a side of rice.  Whatever it was, I always had to have rice.  That jarred stuff just didn't cut it with me.

And you know how most kids flip out on a trip to the golden arches?  Nope, not this little seven year old.  When my sister and brother wanted a chicken nuggets and fries with a happy meal toy, I wanted a real meal.  Don't get me wrong.  I liked McDonalds growing up.  I think all kids do.  It just wasn't my first choice for food, which was why my parents never had a problem with taking me out to restaurants, knowing I would clean my plate and not waste their money.  And if I had to have it because everyone else was having it, then I opted for the mother of all burgers- the Big Mac.  Do you really think a dinky toy which would eventually end up somewhere beneath my bed was going to entice me and then only get four chicken nuggets and a small fries?  Please.

From what I've told you so far, you're probably thinking that I was some kind of overweight kid with dimples on her cheeks (both sets).  Not the case at all, as you can see.  A little thing called metabolism works wonders on kids.

Twenty and some odd years later, my hearty appetite has followed me into adulthood, and Mr. Metabolism has aged and can't work as fast anymore. This is when the other little thing called exercise comes into play.

Exercise.  Sigh.  Health.  Sigh.  I don't think I have ever thought about those two words more in my life than when I moved to Los Angeles.

Anyone who isn't living under a rock knows that Los Angeles is the entertainment capital of the world.  Aspiring actors, actresses, musicians, and dancers flock to Hollywood in hopes of making it big.  I don't think I had ever seen so many beautiful people in one city before I moved here.  Everyone always looks their best, dressed to impress, just in case that one Hollywood exec happens to cross their path as they dine at one of the sidewalk cafes on Melrose.  Even at the gym, while I'm panting and sweating by the end of kickboxing class feeling completely gross and disgusting, the long leggy girl near the front of the room wearing the pink booty shorts with her double d's snuggled beneath her tight teal tank top never broke a sweat.  

I'm not fat, but I'm not skinny.  According to my "I wear a size 0" fashionista sister, my body type would be categorized as a mesomorph, or having a medium and athletic build.  Considering the fact that I played sports when I was younger, I can see why my body type would be placed in this category. But growing up with a naturally skinny sister and always being "bigger" and taller than all of my friends often left me feeling more like Shrek than anything else.

I wouldn't say that I lack self-esteem, nor do I feel uncomfortable in my own skin.  Sure, insecurities tend to follow me every now and then.  I am a woman.  However, I don't want exercise to be the very first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning, or how many minutes of cardio I'll have to do at the gym if I eat this or that during my lunch break, or if I skip the gym tonight, what day this week can I fit in an extra workout?  It's a disease that's constantly plagues my thoughts.  I often find myself frustrated that I need to work so hard to maintain a healthy weight while others have a gift for stuffing their faces with Krispy Kreme donuts without gaining one petty pound.

Do I feel pressured into exercising and maintaining a healthy weight?  Of course.  We live in a media-dominated world where the likes of Megan Fox and Angelina Jolie grace the covers of magazines, and with my shopping cart in tow at the grocery store, rolling through the magazine aisle means giving up the box of Cap'n Crunch I was craving for all week. 

And I know that many women let themselves go when they tie the knot and settle down.  They've already found their Joe Stud and don't need to do much to impress him, right?  Wrong.  Why do you think many marriages don't last.  No matter what imperfections or flaws a man or a woman discover about each other upon marriage, whether it's discovering that your husband likes to go to the bathroom with the door open, or hearing your wife release gas for the first time, both parties want to remain attracted to each other, for life.  I want to be and feel beautiful for my husband.  And if that means going to the gym at least four times a week, gulping down protein shakes, and always checking food products for high-fructose corn syrup at the grocery store, then I'm going to do it.  The pressure is always on.

About a month ago, I made my yearly visit to the doctor's office, and a trip to the doctor's office means only one thing- getting on a scale.  Now, most of the time, I don't even weigh myself.  I don't feel the need to as long as I my body feels "good" after going to the gym and eating a healthy meal.  I don't think a three-digit number should define how I feel about myself.  Of course, evil never ceases to ensue on your life, for you just can't avoid the dreaded scale at the doctor's office.  I don't know what's worse.  Seeing the scale tip about fifteen pounds higher than you originally thought, or hearing the nurse tell you that your weight is probably a combination of the clothes you're wearing as well as it being later on in the day as opposed to the morning.  I should probably stop wearing those metal chains. 

I have accepted the fact that I will never be skinny.  It isn't in my nature.  Still, I would like to indulge myself with hearty meals or potato chips and sweets once in a while without any sirens going off.  More or less, I just want to live a long and healthy life.  Having the freedom to eat healthy and exercise while indulging myself every now and then is a far more pleasing lifestyle than being sentenced to clogged arteries and a lifetime of visits to the ER.