I am the self-designated portion control policewoman around here. I really don’t like to use the word “nazi” to describe myself for obvious reasons, so I will now and forevermore be known as the portion regulator, which is prob more accurate. I am the one who doles out specific serving sizes and amounts to my family. Or as my husband calls me, herr field marshall. I’m not really sure how I came to wear this mantle. Maybe it’s because over time, I watched those around me eat bags of chips, unlimited cookie consumption, handfuls and jowlfuls of nuts, and I had to put a stop to it. For my husband, it’s because I tell him he’s no longer 25 and his metabolism is not the same as it once was (nothing is). He simply can’t eat like he used to. None of us can. I dole out his snacks into the approved amounts; 2o almonds, 10 chips, 2 cookies–and tell him he needs to be satisfied with what IS there and not complain about what is NOT there. The day has long passed when he can have two ice cream bars in a row.
On the other hand, my son has that freaky metabolism that burns calories the minute he starts chewing. He can and does eat all day. I do hate him for that. I really do. It’s not fair. It really isn’t.
Here’s a true story. It enters potentially dangerous territory involving a MIL and a DIL but I think we both handled it in an adult manner. Well, you be the judge. I’ve had a gin-gin (Tanqueray and diet ginger ale) along with a glass of wine, so I might not be the best judge of anything. (BTW, all consumed at home; we don’t drink and drive.)
Once upon a time, my daughter-in-law was visiting. Since I only have a son, I never really had the fun shopping experiences with a daughter that I had with my own mom. When DIL comes to town, we always try to have a shopping day, which is a win-win for both of us. We shop, I buy. This particular day, we were in Encinitas on the 101, where there are a multitude of shops from a global marketplace to a couple of consignment stores and boutiques. We were in a boutique and each picked out a cute summery shirt. If I remember correctly, hers was a tangerine orange that totes complemented her beautiful skin tones, and I chose one in a peacock greeny-blue with birds all over. As I paid for them, S spied a dish of hard candies on the counter. I watched her out of the corner of my eye as her hand reached up to grab one, unwrap it, and stuff it in her mouth. Without blinking an eye, I finished the financial transaction, turned to her, and said, “Spit it out.” I said, “You most definitely do not need to eat pure sugar that’s going to go directly to your pancreas, empty calories that are not necessary and contain no nutritional value at all. Just spit it out now.” “But there’s no where to put it” (She kind of whined here, sorry S, but you did.) “Just spit it in my hand. That’s what moms are for.” We all know that moms’ hands are the repository for old gum and other gross stuff, right? And so she did, my Ph.D. DIL, I am so proud of her and so pleased that she really did spit it in my hand. I felt like such a mom! She’s also a real lover of “crisps”. That’s UK SPK for chips, potato chips, any kind of chips. When she was here a couple weeks ago, I watched her (like a hawk) open the Trader Joe’s Veggie Chips and thrust her freshly manicured hand in and commence consuming massive amounts of chips while we were chatting about whatever. I grabbed the bag with her hand in mid-grasp, and pried the chips (crisps) away from her. I placed an appropriate amount in a bowl and implored her to savor every bite and become conscious of the flavors so that she wasn’t eating without thinking.
Oh, and she’s beautiful, in great physical shape, very strong, lots of endurance for hiking and biking and surfing; it’s simply that I’m very health-aware and want everyone in my family to function at their peak performance level. Plus, I admit I’m a bit of a bossy pants… I’ve also been told I’d make a great drill sergeant. Hmm. Not sure what to read between the lines on that one.
I can’t imagine what you’re thinking right now. Do you have similar tales to tell, or am I on this rock all by myself?
Maybe it’s because I’m only five feet tall, but I find a high level of tolerance, like a Pekinese or Chihuahua that barks at a St. Bernard or a German Shepherd and the larger dogs just look at the tiny one in astonishment, like they can’t believe what they’re witnessing.
I am now in the one percent club. In a moment of weakness, the captain revealed to me that he listens to only about ten percent (10%!!!) of what I say and I disagreed, telling him he actually listens to only about 1% at the best of times, so now I am officially a one percenter.
On that note, have a great Friday evening, and don’t drink and drive.