Always Get the Margarita. Always Eat the Chips.

A life-defining moment with my body and diet that I haven't shared yet.

We did it — we made it to Friday. Can you believe?

First thing’s first — I spent the majority of my day yesterday going through all my recent closet discards and getting them listed to Poshmark. This is quite an undertaking because Poshmark UX sucks. But, I did it. With Cece and cheese crackers and The Office and a lunch break, I ultimately got it all listed. 34 items total, the last of which you’ll probably be confused about because they’re my SIL’s! She had a handful of things she wanted to sell off and I offered to help, so she sent me a box and I included them in my listings.

All of that is live HERE, so if you are curvy, fluctuate between a 6-10 and a S/M/L/ (lol), CHECK IT OUT!

Second thing’s second — so, like, I didn’t really do much the past week? I didn’t start reading anything new, I didn’t start a new TV show or see a new movie, I didn’t cook much because we had company and then Zac went out of town. What I’m trying to say is, I don’t have content for my typical Weekly List today. So in lieu of the list, I’ve decided to call on my old ways of writing and serve you a wordy blog-like post instead. ENJOY!

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This is a story about the struggles of being a woman.

I’ve written extensively about my relationship with exercise, nutrition, my changing body, etc. But there’s one story I’ve yet to share that ultimately became a defining moment in my efforts to “better” myself physically and one I feel is worth sharing in case anyone else finds themselves in a similar spot and needs to snap out of it.

I think it was 2022, the year of our wedding (and of our lord). I was trying to keep my head on while planning our nuptials and also watch what I put in my mouth so I not only fit into but felt amazing in my wedding dress. It was a Sunday afternoon that Zac and I had spent strolling around our neighborhood, weaving in and out of shops, soaking up the spring weather and enjoying the sunshine.

At one point, we decided we were hungry and could go for a snack. Within our walking path was a small Tex-Mex restaurant with a fabulous patio, perfect for days like that day. But as soon as we sat down, I pulled out my phone and pulled up the MyFitnessPal app to see how many calories I had left to use that day.

I want to clarify something: I have never had an ED or been diagnosed with disordered eating, but it’s my general belief that all women have a fucked up relationship with food. It’s a spectrum so where you land is extremely varied, but counting calories down to the gram is absolutely on that spectrum and I absolutely have been known to do that. I hate admitting it. It’s sad. But I’m being brutally honest with you, reader.

MyFitnessPal used to be my end all be all. I logged everything and would mentally beat myself up whenever I put a toe out of line (which was daily because I’m a fucking human being who loves to eat and drink). On this particular day, according to my calculations, if I had chips and queso and a margarita, that would leave me with next to nothing for dinner. If memory serves me right, I’m pretty positive we had fun dinner plans and I suddenly felt like I was facing a Sophie’s choice: enjoy my life now or later.

I decided to forgo the chips and salsa and delicious white queso and spicy margarita and sit there, miserable, while my fiance did the normal thing and ate the things and drank the drink. I started to cry. I couldn’t help myself. I was so frustrated, so unhappy, so thirsty for tequila. It was broad daylight on a stunning day, and I was actively punishing myself in public. I was denying myself the smallest indulgences in life that create the biggest pleasures in hopes of maybe losing 1 pound over the following week.

It was fucked up.

“It isn’t fair,” I blubbered behind my massive sunglasses. “If I have a drink and chips, I’ll be over my deficit and have to tell my trainer Monday and I’m a failure and I’m never gonna lose any weight and why can’t I have my margarita and drink it, too?”

It was a pathetic scene. Truly, just writing that out makes me cringe.

It goes without saying but I’m gonna say it anyway that Zac straight up did not have a good time. I took him down with me in my own misery, essentially pouring a figurative gallon of water over his chips and margarita to ensure he wouldn’t enjoy it nearly as much as he would’ve if I were indulging with him or, GASP, acting like a grown up and owning her decision to not indulge instead of throwing a temper tantrum about it all.

We left in terrible moods: Zac because he witnessed just how much I beat myself up about weight and diet and was frustrated beyond belief that I seemed to hate myself so much that it ruined our happy day. Me because same.

I don’t remember how the rest of the day or night went. I probably blacked it out. All I know is that day was a turning point for me in terms of my relationship with diet and my body. Sitting on a gorgeous patio with my soon-to-be husband in the prime of my life and sobbing about not “being able” to have a margarita and chips was my breaking point — it was the reusable, stainless steel straw that broke my back. After reflecting on that day and moment, I vowed to never deny myself of life’s simplest (and most delicious) pleasures ever again, especially not in another situation like that one.

There are times you can easily say no. Sometimes, saying no makes sense! Like, if you simply aren’t in the mood for a marg and chips (are you okay, though?) or you’re pregnant and can’t drink or you don’t feel good in general and so on and so forth. But if you’re denying yourself simply because you don’t want to use the calories even though you want nothing more than the drink and the snack in front of you, that’s fucked. Don’t fuck yourself. It’s not worth it.

Always get the margarita. Always eat the chips.

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Have a great weekend!

— EGM