I am wrapping up our busy tourist season here at Casa Fitzpatrick and if I don’t go on a diet soon, I’m going to become diabetic, get high cholesterol, and not be able to fit into my capri pants. And don’t make me put those in order of importance.
According to PBS, the morbidly obese can be malnourished, so my fears of dying a fat person with scurvy and rickets and being the most ironic thing at my own funeral is just another thing to worry about.
We’ve had a lot of company, which I love. I honestly do. And I’m not just saying that because the people who have visited read this blog (or claim to). I love being the hostess, showing people how paradisical (new word, I just made it up, you’re welcome) Florida is, what a laid-back-yet-relatively sanitary housekeeper I am, what a good grill cook my husband is, and how all these super good restaurants are close to my house and offer convenient valet parking.
When people come to visit us, they’re usually on vacation. And I feel some obligation to also be on vacation. (I never was good at handling peer pressure. That doesn’t just stop after high school, you know.) Despite the fact that I still have to drive my daughter to school, pick up the dry cleaning, go through the mail, and do laundry, I try to act like I’m on a get-away, particularly when it comes to food.
“Hey, we’re on vacation,” I told my husband when I mentioned that we were going out for dinner - again. It’s never a good sign when an explanation starts out with, “Hey.”
“No, we’re actually not,” he said.
“Well, someone is, so I can’t be going all baked chicken for dinner. If it’s not swimming in something, infused with, glazed, drizzled, stuffed, or on a bed of something, it’s not vacationy enough. Put your elastic-waist party pants on, we’re going out - again.”
Last night we had fish and chips, without the newspaper to soak up all the oil, and it was about the last straw for me. I tried to cut the grease in my digestive system with a big piece of key lime pie, to not avail. I had a hard time fitting into my One Size Fits All pajamas last night and I feel a little bit ill even 12 hours later.
“I’ve got to go on a diet and you’re coming with me,” my husband said last night.
“Not until your mom leaves and takes all of her cheese and mayonnaise-based cracker spreads with her,” I said.
So at the end of next week, I really am going on a diet. I’m not joining Weight Watchers or Jenny Craig; I’m not logging on to Lance Armstrong’s inspirational charts, I’m not counting calories. I’m just not putting sheets on the guest room bed.
Labels: company, dieting, eating out, restaurant food