So I went for another doctor appointment yesterday.
I tipped the scales at 160 lbs.
It's the most I've ever weighed; I wasn't sure how to feel about that.
I wasn't surprised. Especially considering what I had eaten that day:
Two pieces of whole wheat toast slathered thickly with peanut butter (chunky organic)(6 am)
Coffee with skim milk
banana (8 am)
Babybel cheese; 5 cherry tomatoes (from the garden) and 10 Triscuits (8:10 am)
Blueberry acai yogurt (weird, but good)(11 am)
Grilled chicken sandwich on wheat bread with avacado and lettuce (11:30)
Small bowl of strawberry, pineapple, and melon chunks (11:30)
Granola bar (12 pm)
That was all I brought for lunch that day and by 2 pm I was hungry again, excuse me, the BABY was hungry again. And kicking me. And bopping me. "More Food! More!!!!" It is a demanding little bugger.
So I went up to the little deli market in Blegen Hall and bought a large skim milk, an egg salad sandwich (weird, but for some reason it looked good to me) and a chocolate raspberry pastry bar of some kind.
I ate it all and felt like a blimp.
Then I left at 3pm and was walking across Washington Avenue bridge when, low and behold, a Jimmy John's worker was hawking free Jimmy Johns sandwiches! FREE! SANDWICHES!
"Would you like a sandwich?" the girl asked. "We have turkey and ham & cheese."
Would I like a sandwich? Does the pope wear a weird hat? Are beans green? Um, yes I would like a sandwich. "I'll have a turkey." I say.
She eyes my bulging belly. "Would you like another? You can have two."
"Oh, that's okay. One's fine," I say, too quickly, deciding that eating TWO sandwiches would be very piggy.
I eat my sandwich as I waddle off to my appointment. Then I slug down my water bottle as I sit in the waiting room.
And then I get weighed. When I see the number I am both impressed and appalled. "Whatever," I mutter to myself.
The appointment is fine. I'm practically a textbook case, utterly average in every respect.
While I'm waiting I text Matt and tell him how much I weigh.
Then I want to know how much he weighs.
He doesn't know but guesses around 175-180.
I tell him that I'm gaining on him, but then he asks why would I want to do that?
I have to think about it. I don't really know, some sick thing in me wants to be able to say I outweigh my husband and could crush him like a bug with my big giant roly-poly body. I would be like Jabba the Hut. He would FEAR me.
Then I realize there is something desparately wrong with that line of thinking.
When I leave I grab a packet of graham crackers.