Even at my current 203 pounds, I could never go to a Rose Festival reunion. But next year I’m going. And I’m going to hire a drummer and trumpeter to give me a drum roll and a da-da-da-daaaa-da-daaaa as I enter. I’ll hire a footman to roll out a long, red carpet. I’m going to wear a gown that would put the ballroom scene from Gone With the Wind to shame.
But getting back to reality, to the 203 pounds of now. My darling, bubbly Jennifer was chosen a Junior Rose Festival princess on April 10. One hundred and twenty-one girls tried out from about fifteen different elementary schools. Oh, how proud I was. I was much more delighted for her as a princess than I’d been for myself. I was also much more nervous. I’d been sick to my stomach all day. Then suddenly, the curtains opened, and there she was, seated on a white throne, with an armful of gorgeous red roses. My beautiful little nine-year-old.
I went crazy. I was called up to the front of the auditorium to fill out information forms. With each step I took, each inch closer I came to the front, I was thankful for every one of the forty-six pounds I’d lost. I was still obese, but what a difference! I don’t know what I would have done rolling down the aisle at 260-plus pounds. I don’t think I could have endured it. Especially since Jennifer’s talk mentioned that I’d been a princess in 1970.
Many people asked me about being a senior princess and thought it was neat that we had both been chosen. (Yes, thankful for each hideous little pound of greasy lard that was gone!) Then we had to hurry to The Oregonian, where Jennifer had her picture taken. She was darling! What a smile. I was questioned about my own experience as a Rose Festival princess, and then—horror of horrors—they asked to take a picture of us together! (We’re talking thankful beyond belief here!) I was still mortified, sitting there with my fat bulging around me. But if I hadn’t lost those forty-six pounds, I probably would have stopped breathing. Let’s be honest; I would have refused to have my picture taken!
And later? When the parents were invited to the first official gathering of the eight junior princesses? I was intensely relieved when I saw I wasn’t the fattest mother there. I didn’t have to crawl into a corner, wanting to die. I didn’t have to sit in a chair the whole time and hold my purse in precisely the right position to hide as much fat as possible. I didn’t have to frantically demand that Allen stand next to me, to be my link with normalcy. I could actually enjoy myself! I felt like a real person, not a walking, talking tub of butter.
But right now, this minute, I’m mad! I’m furious with this nincompoop that inhabits my body. My 40/60 plan! Ha! It started exactly thirty-two days ago, and I’ve lost a grand total of five pounds. This morning, I stared at myself naked in front of a full-length mirror. Yikes! It was a good punishment for my overindulgences of the past. It was distressingly evident that I still need to drop some major rolls!
Today is the day! This is it! My pen can’t write fast enough. No more rationalizing with “I can have vegetables, so, why not deep-fried onion rings?” Because they’re breaded and full of grease, you turkey! And you know it. Quit trying to kid yourself!
Another example of how I try to fool myself is when I’m fixing popcorn. I allow myself two tablespoons of margarine. But I purposely cut the stick at an angle, to get a little more of the buttery flavor. I know it’s stupid, I know I’m getting a few more fat-filled calories that way, but I still do it! I say to myself, “This is only two hundred calories.” Stupid, fatty me ignores the prick of common sense that tells me it’s really 225 calories or more, because of the slant at which I cut the margarine. Can you believe that? Well, I’ve had it with me!
Watch out, world! I’m coming alive. I’m a baby chick pecking its way out of its shell, a dormant volcano about to erupt. I must go it alone. No one can do it for me. It must all come from within. Allen can support and encourage, but no matter how hard the coach works, no score is made unless the player carries the ball into the end zone. At this moment, I have the ball, and I see the goalposts, and I’m going to stop meandering toward them. I’m going to take off in a hot run and not stop till I cross that blessed white line!