weighing on my mind

i was in line at CVS last night, three very not Kashi-like boxes of cereal in my arms (the sugary stuff is always what's on sale—they tell us to eat better and then push the crap!) and my listless, end-of-day gaze landed on the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, prominently displayed next to the cash register.

a few thoughts went through my head:

• Brooklyn Decker probably never eats Apple Jacks.
• Would a yellow bikini look nice on me?
• Do not skip the gym tomorrow.
• But god, what's the point—I'll never look like that.

i started to wonder what the point of the swimsuit issue really is. i mean, i don't think any woman would say she actually enjoys looking at it—even glimpsing it on the magazine rack. it comes out at the worst time of year, when we're all pale and bundled up in sweaters and puffer coats, which conveniently conceal the physical evidence of the carb-loading we've been doing just to get through the dreary winter days.

and sure, i know that no guy would ever pass up an opportunity to look at a bronzed model frolicking in a bikini (or less) in the sand, but isn't it—unless you're Andy Roddick—somewhat torturous? similar to standing outside a candy shop with nary a dime in your pocket? everything looks so good but ain't no way you're getting a piece.

then again—those models don't look that good in real life. they're just the blank canvases upon which airbrushing, fake tanner and lots of trick photography are applied.

so really, there's no point.

OK, yeah. i admit i'm extra sensitive this year because, for the first time in 10 years, i'm having to engage in a little battle of the bulge. and it's freaking me out.

here's what happened: as i mentioned, i decided to go off the pill last month. i don't regret the decision at all, but i did not anticipate the eight pounds that glommed onto me almost instantaneously and refused to let go. for a few weeks i was in the dark and berated myself alternately for the torrid three-day affair i had with baked brie over the holidays; for believing that margaritas, a bucket of beer and nachos was a proper daily lunch in Aruba; and for not working out harder at the gym.

of course, the berating only made me feel worse, which made me want to eat something sweet, which did nothing to lower the number on the scale. (and yes, i know that the scale is a basically worthless, if not torturous, bathroom accessory, but old habits die hard and i haven't been able to give it up yet.)

after many days of feeling bad about myself, it finally dawned on me that the seemingly overnight weight gain coincided with me quitting good ol' Yaz. i got my Google on and finally, finally came across a little nugget of information that cheered me immensely: Yaz contains a mild diuretic, and while most women going off the pill tend to lose weight, Yaz users are more likely to gain—water weight.

again with the Google, i discovered that dandelion root is an excellent natural diuretic. (i didn't want to mess with the regular diuretic pills at the drug store, which contain a load of caffeine—bad news.) i ran across the street to a gourmet market by my office and found a Yogi Peach Detox tea, which contains dandelion root, among other things, and downed two cups before the end of the day.

within three days i'd lost four pounds and felt like a new woman—or rather, like my old self again. but: depending on the day, i'm still four or five pounds more than i was at my wedding and this, i am sad to say, bothers the hell out of me. my clothes still fit, i'm working out like a fiend and—with the exception of a sugar fix now and then (yeah, not doing so good at eradicating sugar from my diet. oh well!)—eating the way i've always eaten.

truthfully, i don't see the five pounds anywhere on my body—but you can be damn sure they're lodged in my brain. i thought somehow i'd be over this by now—that at age thirty-three i'd be finally and utterly over caring about the number on the scale. isn't it enough that i'm healthy and hearty and spry?

apparently not. damn you Sports Illustrated.

mbm