When you are training for a bikini competition your diet is extremely regimented and strict and as you progress towards the show date your calories steadily get cut, as do your carbs, while your cardio doubles. This means that two weeks before your competition you are tired, forgetful and an absolute raving bitch.
My daughter Rylee turned five two weeks before my bikini competition. This meant I had to go to the grocery store and buy her a birthday cake, that I couldn’t eat. These are my thoughts as I drove to get that cake.
June 9, 2012, 10 pmOK, I just have to make it to HEB and back. It feels like driving to Hell and back. Why does f**ing McDonald’s have to be on the way to HEB? Why do I have to be stuck at the traffic light next to McDonald’s???? I want McDonald’s. I want Chicken McNuggets and not the little 6 piece deal. I want the 10 piece meal with French Fries and Diet Coke and I want to supersize it. And get chocolate chip cookies too. The smell of greasy French Fries permeates my car and I inhale deeply. I want to chew off my arm, but since bikini competitions value symmetry it probably would not be a good idea to have one stumpy arm with teeth marks on it. Nine years late the light turns green and I finally get to HEB. The lights in the store are blazing brightly and it feels like entering a fun house where everything is distorted. I pass through the cereal aisle. I want Cocoa Puffs. I see chocolate chip granola bars. I want those. Why am I in the cereal aisle anyway? Why am I here? Oh, yeah, cake. Find the cake. Then get out of here. I go to the bakery (!!!) section. I want brownies. They are pure chocolate joy with chocolate frosting. I see mini cupcakes with pink, blue and yellow frosting and rainbow sprinkles. I put them in the cart for Rylee’s Sunday school class. How many calories is one mini-cupcake? I read the box. 120 calories. If I just eat one mini-cupcake and skip the 99/1 lean turkey and green beans would my trainer ever really find out? What the f**k am I thinking? OF COURSE he would know, he’s Daniel, and he’d kill me. And I’m stepping on stage in a bikini in two weeks. I find the ice cream cake and put it in my cart. Mission Accomplished. I can go home. The phone rings. It is my husband. “Babe, can you get me potato chips while you’re there? I want the one with ridges, not the wavy ones.” ARE YOU KIDDING ME? HE WANTS ME TO GO DOWN THE CHIP AISLE???? IS HE A SADIST? I slowly approach the chip aisle with dread, fear and longing. Popcorn. I want popcorn. Tortilla chips. I want those with salsa. I want hamburgers and hot dogs with hot dog buns. I want a Marie Calendar chicken pot pie. I want fried chicken. Oh God, where are the stupid chips with the ridges??? I only see wavy. F him he’s getting wavy and he’ll have to deal. I throw two bags of chips in the cart and go to the check out line. I am surrounded by high calorie, highly processed foods that say ridiculous things like “low cal,” “low fat,” “reduced fat.” What a load of bullshit! Everything in this store clogs your arteries. Why do I crave all this junk food so badly? I want cheese. I really, really want cheese. The person in front of me is taking forever. The magazines say things like, “Lose 10 lbs FAST!” next to a picture of chocolate cake with strawberries. The tabloids are tearing Jessica Simpson to shreds for, God forbid, being pregnant and not having toned arms. What kind of messed up society is this? I pay for the crap food and get in the car. I want to eat EVERYTHING. Gripping the wheel I inhale deeply to calm myself down. I’m hungry by choice. I’m doing this for a limited period of time as part of a sports competition. But there are lots of people out there who are hungry and it’s not by choice. So I’m choosing to pack up some food when I get home to drop off at Goodwill. I don’t need junk food. I don’t need cake. In two weeks I’ll be back to eating fully healthy again. Sheslosingit.net (c) 2012 Lisa Traugott. All rights reserved. No portion of this blog, including any text, photographs, and artwork, may be reproduced or copied without written permission.