I have been a bit stressed out lately, feeling like I am hovering an atoms-width away from nuclear meltdown (a precarious situation, to be sure). I didn't realize how severe my anxiety had become until I found myself rummaging through the cupboards in search of something - anything - sweet. The only thing I could find was a bar of Ghirardelli unsweetened baking chocolate. I took a bite and then another, crinkled up my nose in self-disgust and reminded myself that I don't even like dark chocolate (let alone unsweetened chocolate that is intended to be sugared and sifted into a bowl of cream).
Then I thought, mmmmm.... pie. In part because that is a natural progression when one is obsessed with discovering some sort of confectionery prozac hidden in her cupboards - not that I am depressed (though I did use the word "melancholy" twice in one day) - but mostly because I have been watching "Pushing Daisies" which, in spite of my insistence that it would not affect me, has sent my husband running to the store on two occasions to procure a pie. Not at my urging, mind you. All his idea. I just cheered him on from the sidelines. (Except that one time when I said we really didn't need pie at 11:00 at night and he finally relented, an action I sincerely regretted the next day (Sunday) when 8:00 hit and I was like, "wish I had some pie.")
And then it dawned on me: I'm a stress eater. This is one of those things about myself that I didn't know. Even after spending nearly 30 years with myself, somehow it slipped by me.
This does not help me in my quest to lose weight. Of course, neither does the fact that when I say "lose" I mean it in the sense that I would like to stick the weight somewhere and promptly forget where I put it. ("Honey, have you seen that sack marked 'Bonnie's hips and thighs'? I can't remember what I did with it!")
I know some would say I could reduce stress by working on my self-control, but I know where I put that. It's hidden at the bottom of a bag of potato chips.
Nope, still haven't found it.