This morning, while I was going over my Thanksgiving to-do list (“1. Make pies. 2. Eat pies.“), I realized that for the first time in years and years, I hadn’t expended any energy in worrying about what the holiday eating would do to my weight. Even last year, when I was a sleep-deprived, hormone-addled new mom, I was anxious about what all that food would do to my quest to get back in non-stretchy pants.
This year, I find myself at a rather comfortable place with food. I’m not counting calories. I’m not weighing or measuring portions. I’m not picking the most diet-y choice. I eat at home or at restaurants and don’t feel nervous about either. It’s pretty awesome.
Now is when would normally talk about what areas of my food relationship still need work – I would point out the times when I don’t always eat because I’m hungry or how I scarf my meals when The Butterstick is napping, even if I don’t have an appetite right then.
But I’m not going to do that. Instead I’m just going to think about how far I’ve come, how the terror I used to feel about food has been replaced with calm. I’m just going to be thankful.
Happy Thanksgiving to me.
