Day 48: I Heard The Owl Call My Name

The owl is disguised as a sausage pizza. And it isn’t foretelling my death, unless we extrapolate and equate overweight with an untimely end.

Several pizzas sit there attempting to tempt me. Warm and free (like the best of partners), they display themselves in attractive positions on the kitchen counter at work, hoping to catch my eye. For two days running, leftover pies are donated to us at lunchtime. And it’s not like they sat open for hours while dozens of people coughed over them. They are untouched, intact in virginal delivery cartons.

Sweet buttermilk Jesus, I want to eat about eight big pieces. Even though I’m not hungry. Even though I pay the Weight Watchers organization to scold and publicly humiliate me every week. Even though I’m desperate to escape the Old Broad body I somehow find myself inhabiting.

So I use my behavior modification tools. I stop and think about what I really want (pizza). I consider what I’m emotionally hungry for (pizza). I call to mind my reasons for pursuing health and wellness (to be able to eat more pizza). I calculate the cost of eating a single slice of pizza (it will bankrupt me, in watchful Weight Watcher eyes). I declare aloud to all and sundry that I will not eat any pizza.

My options are limited after opening my mouth. I stare at the pizza, entranced. I debate sneaking a piece into the bathroom around the corner, to hork down in relative privacy. I consider grabbing a slice and running down the hall. I imagine shrugging, admitting defeat, and taking a pile of pizza back to my desk.

But I resist! I don’t succumb!

I am so proud of myself that I go home and drink the equivalent number of calories in wine, to celebrate.