Letting Go of Old Habits

It's 11 pm, and I just hung up my apron for the day. With less than 2 weeks left(!), it really feels like PCP is winding down. Today I slept till almost 11 am. I found time for some bumming around in the beautiful weather and a movie by myself. I wore leggings as pants—a totally daring move. I waved at myself in the mirror and my lower arms did not wave back at me. I went to a party and didn't eat any of the snacks, not even the delicious Brazilian pacoquita (which sort of reminds me of halvah.) This past Thanksgiving was the first in recent history where I did not feel like someone should roll me to our annual post-feast movie. I even bought myself a pb&j chocolate bar and a slurtle—beer caramel, potato chip, and chocolate—from Liddabit Sweets to celebrate with after Day 90. And I wondered about whether I would jump rope the day I eat them.

The hardest part of this past two and a half months has been reframing the way I think about food. Nutrition aside, having what, how much, and essentially when I eat dictated to me has given me new perspective on how I use food—for comfort, for space, and sometimes even as a weapon against my own body. I started baking when I was twelve. I never stole a taste while I cooked. That summer, I would eat half a bagel with apple butter every day, whatever my mom (or I) made for dinner, and beg one of my parents to take me to the track so I could roller blade three or four miles . . . more, if I had eaten any of what I had baked. Once, someone gave me a candy bar—5th Avenue, my favorite—and I made it last for nearly a week, cutting off a small piece every day. I lost twenty pounds, to much fanfare from my family. The need to control what I eat has followed me since—that cycle of guilt and withholding, rebellion and shame. The obsessive, helpless need to exercise.

Yet, today, more than sixteen years later, I am in the best shape of my life. I eat enough to feed a small vegetarian army, and I exercise less than an hour a day. I was a little worried about falling into old habits when I found out we had to weigh our food, but as much as PCP appears to be about control, it has liberated me. Being fit isn't about eating less and exercising more. It's about what you eat and how you exercise. But if I had to trade in the iron guns and the perky buns, this program is worth all the sweat, sore muscles, and peanut butter cravings because it has given me a time out. For two and a half months, I have ceded control of my eating habits to someone else, and I didn't explode. I found new ways to deal with stress. And I realized that the food on my plate is not my enemy. It is simply a choice to feel good—or to feel bad, depending on what I eat. But I make every decision knowing full well the consequences. Which is a whole lot better than being afraid of what will happen if I just let go. . . .