Every year for the past twenty or so, we’ve gone to the annual WeinFest. I secretly look forward to it every year because I consider it my unofficial birthday; it’s a weekend of relaxing, having fun, drinking wine, sometimes just my husband and I — and sometimes with family and friends.
Last weekend, I had the pleasure of spending it with my husband as well as my daughter and her little growing family — her husband and young son. Being able to enjoy the weekend in an unlimited way is one of the biggest goals and joys of having been on my journey; it used to be that I couldn’t do much of anything on my own, but that’s hardly the case, anymore. And while I totally sucked at it, I even entered one of the throwing competitions and totally won a sympathy bottle of wine.
Free wine, people! Free wine!
Along with the joy was the aftermath, though — not only weight gain, but also a recognition that I remain sensitive to those who make off-hand remarks about my eating choices. I intentionally chose to eat off plan, and while I know the intention wasn’t rude, someone made a comment about my food choices, and it hit me exactly where I am apparently still sensitive. It helps me to understand context and intention; those are rational thoughts, though, and my immediate reaction was emotional.
I’m also a little ashamed to admit that the food I was eating at the time wasn’t even all that good, but I ate it, anyway, partially because I felt like I would be giving in to someone else’s opinion if I chose not to eat it. That was a ridiculous reaction on my part; I always have the right to eat or push something away if it’s not what I really wanted.
I have moved on from that, except to note that this may be something I will always need to work on. I have been silently — and not so silently — judged my entire life for my eating choices. My father callously made comments about my weight and my diet, despite the fact that I was hardly overweight at the time and he was not exactly a good role model, himself. Yet here I am, on the brink of 58 years old, clearly remembering the sharp bite of my father’s critical words.
As expected, I also put on weight that gained much faster than I’ve been able to lose it, and that process always makes me a bit introspective, especially as close as I am to being at a weight goal. Last weekend was the first of food holidays; I have a major one coming up, so I must remember that I can’t be too harsh a critic of myself, either. And also remember that not every bite is worth it; while I may have grown up in a family where I felt obligated to eat what was put in front of me, that’s no longer the case. I have the power of choice, and as I head toward my next excursion, I’d do well to remind myself that I am the only person who decides how I care for myself.