Confessions of an Emotional Eater

Last night, I wasn't hungry. We'd had a rather trying day getting from grandma's house, across the ferry and over to Seattle in post-holiday traffic with a whiny 6 year old, moody 13 year old and a screaming 2 year old who knows how to exit his car seat despite numerous strappings and belts. (That's the strappings and belts on his car seat, not of the corporal punishment variety, although it was tempting after the 10th stop over along the freeway to put him back in his so called safety seat.) It took us over 4 hours to do a 2 hour trip, most of which was spent at a standstill, which infuriates my 2 year old to the point where I expect him to start cursing and shaking his fist at the drivers in front of us who have stopped.

After we finally got to our temporary destination, ate dinner and had a last visit with fam, we were back on the road to our next destination, the dreaded hotel. Upon arrival, my dear h had an assignment of his for me to complete because (in his words) I'm faster, better, stronger and he was nearly as frustrated as the 2 year old. Thus, he foisted his project onto me with pleadings, charm, promises, gratitude and the threat of a full-on temper if he had to spend another minute on it. I understood his frustration so I took it on, but I wasn't happy about it and he owes me BIG TIME.

Anyway, so he offered to go get me drink and food while I toiled over his project from about 7:30 pm to 1:30 am. In his guilt, he bought me lots of goodies, including (but not limited to) McD's fries, cokes, sweet teas, a candy bar, Mike N Ike's and kettle chips. I ate it ALL. I wasn't hungry, but I ate and ate and ate my way through the 6 hours of the project. I drank the teas, Pepsi and wine as he brought them to me.

I wasn't hungry and I felt kinda sick. But, I continued to eat.

Worse, I KNEW I was eating for emotional reasons, not because I needed to fuel my system. I was having my own hissy fit about the project, in the form of stuffing my face with h as the co-contributor.

At about 9pm, I had the thought that I should dump the last of the food, take a break from the project and work out for an hour or so in the hotel gym.

I discarded the idea. I didn't want to... I was feeling too sorry for myself. I knew I would feel better if I exercised and I chose to feel worse by eating instead. I remember making that conscious decision. Like when you decide to drive your car even though you've had a couple drinks and you know, you know and accept, that it could have really bad consequences. That sort of bad, but knowing, decision. Almost like you want to punish yourselt and half hope something bad WILL happen to you because of your decision. That's the choice I made last night.

Today, I'm trying to let go of yesterday. It happened, I made a bad choice and I will pay for it on the scale. But, it doesn't mean anything more than that, except to hope that I make the gym choice next time instead. If I don't, that's okay because there will always be a next time, a next opportunity to make the better choice. And life isn't all good or all bad choices. We have to accept that we will make bad choices, even when knowing we're making bad choices, and that we can't be perfect, will never be perfect, and shouldn't expect perfectionism from ourselves.