Don’t Eat Healthy

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• February 18, 2017

It was early on Saturday or Sunday morning, and given that this was a time before I did comedy, I was an early riser.  Up with the sun.  Already, I could hear my parents fussing over something in the kitchen.  I lay in bed, looking at the clouds in the sky through my bedroom window debating if I should start my morning.  Restlessness won, and perhaps hunger, and I was in the kitchen where my parents started berating me about “my brother.”  Whenever my brother did something my parents were angry or annoyed with, suddenly he wasn’t their son, he was my kid brother and I had to talk to him about his behavior.  On this morning, I burst into laughter.  I could not help it.  My parents were furious because chocolate syrup looked like it had been sprayed all over the kitchen.  As if someone had murdered Count Chocua, there was chocolate spatter all over the countertop, the refrigerator, the cabinets, and the curtains of the little window above the sink.  I could see why my parents were upset.  It was ridiculous.  Which is why I found it so funny.  There was evidence of a poor clean up job, but my brother, upon coming home late (probably under the influence), had made himself chocolate milk and/or an ice cream sundae and left behind the most hilarious mess possible.  My parents are borderline (my siblings would argue that they are full blown psychotic) OCD.  This was their worst nightmare.  My Dad (not for the first or last time) banned both chocolate syrup and ice cream from our household (oddly enough, he never banned booze).

Now, I was pissed off.  Because I loved ice cream.  No exaggeration, I used to eat ice cream after almost every meal.  I was seventeen, rail thin, and as a very late bloomer, still in the early stages of puberty, I was eating at least 1000 calories a day in ice cream alone, and I still could not gain weight.  These were blessed times.  Every night, I made a giant bowl of ice cream with cookies crushed on top.  My metabolism was insane.  My pediatrician was perpetually perplexed by my growth chart, since I continued to grow in my twenties, and even though being grossly underweight, my cholesterol was near 260 in my teens.

So my Dad banned ice cream, somewhat ludicrously, like Trump banning muslims (but let’s be honest, banning ice cream is worse).  And guess what?  I lost weight.  My already boney ass lost weight because I cut out 1000 calories a day in pure fat.  My Mom was always the soft one growing up, and she bought us some Edys cookies n’ cream (my fave), and my Dad was pissed, and my Mom just said to him, “look at your daughter!  She’s wasting away to nothing!  She needs ice cream!”  That’s right, Dad.  I NEED ice cream.

I had the worst diet in my teens.  I ate fast food regularly.  Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, all had bacon in them.  I constantly ate candy.  These were great years.  I took advantage because I knew my crazy fast metabolism, and my late blooming, would eventually come to an end.  But in the meantime, I happily ate all the worst foods imaginable.  At 23, I stopped growing, and so did my miraculous metabolism, and since I’m vain as fuck, I had to start not eating all the shitty food I wanted.  I grew up a beach bum surfer, and our kind likes to be shirtless June through September, and it has always been important to me to look good in a bikini, because I genuinely don’t like wearing clothes when the sun is warm and shining.

In my early twenties, I discovered that not only did l like to fuck with my brain with drugs, I also like to fuck with my body chemistry with diets.  Within the last five years, I’ve experimented with various diets, giving up certain foods, just to see how it would effect my body and/or mind.  Science is right.  You do feel better when you eat better.  Unfortunately, cutting back on dairy almost eliminated my frequent sinus infections (goodbye ice cream!  You were my first love).  I cannot eat fast food any longer because my body will almost immediately reject it.  My stomach has become so sensitive to foods that are remotely greasy, dairy filled, or sugary.  In making my body healthy, I have destroyed my body’s ability to process junk food.  It sucks.

In today’s society, we love to coddle people.  In this self esteem preserving candy ass generation I’m part of, we’ve convinced you that you’re beautiful no matter what.  Well, if you were brought up in my shallow household, you would know, not only is this not true, but it is more unhealthy to be overweight than insanely vain.  Seriously, I sometimes see people bragging about their body self confidence who seem to be blissfully ignorant that heart disease is the number one killer in the country and eating donuts is literally killing you.  A little self hatred goes a long way when it comes to dieting.

Being a fit girl has it’s drawbacks (which are exceeded by the benefits, but let me complain because I enjoy it so much).  First off, I don’t care what you do to your body.  Really, I don’t.  Time after time, when I turn down food that’s bad for me, and other’s indulge, they accuse me of judging them.  Trust me, you’ve already been judged.  This moment will change nothing.  But really, I don’t give a shit.  I don’t care if you eat a piece of cheesecake.  I don’t care if you do heroin.  I don’t give a fuck about what you do to your body.  It’s your goddamn life, stop being so insecure around me because I’m a healthy eater.

Second, leave me the fuck alone when I eat.  People just can’t seem to let me eat in peace.  If I’m eating a salad, people comment about being a skinny, white girl eating a salad.  But if I indulge in something, like, say penne alla vodka with ice cream as a dessert, I’m suddenly ragged on for eating carbs and sugar.  PLEASE JUST LET ME EAT WITHOUT COMMENTING ON MY MEAL/BODY TYPE.  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST STOP TALKING TO ME ALL TOGETHER.

Don’t try to be a smart ass with me if I turn down a cookie either (and I love cookies, cookies especially test my self discipline).  If you say, “c’mon, have a cookie!  It’s not going to kill you.”  I might say, “no, because I run 20 miles a week, but it might kill you.”  Don’t put me in a position to be an asshole to you, because only I will enjoy it.

My system works for me.  I eat super healthy Monday through Friday, and then I’m more lenient on the weekends (which I call “reward” days).  I avoid fried foods, red meat, and sweets (which is hardest for me. I love sweets).  I only eat French Fries one day a year (March 1st! Yippee! (one of my best friends, Dennis Rooney has said this makes me the weirdest person he knows.  BUT Colin Quinn said anyone who has the self discipline to eat French Fries one day a year has the self discipline to take over the world.)).  And I haven’t had a potato chip since 2014.  I actually like running, and if I don’t get to exercise, I get really kind of batty.  I take care of my body, and it is, probably, the only thing I really do a good job taking care of.

The point is, leave me the fuck alone.  That’s always the point.  But seriously, you should take care of your body.  Trust me, I worked in a nursing home for four years, I’ve seen what happens if you don’t.  It sucks.  Respect your body.  Have some self discipline.  It’s hard at times, yes, I will not deny that.  Moderation is key.  I suck at moderation.  So I have to eliminate foods all together. I can’t just eat two girl scout cookies.  I will have to eat the whole box.  So I save that for Sunday.  And then all week I eat fruits and vegetables and grilled chicken.  This system works for me.

Again, I cannot stress enough about how little I care about what you do to your body.  It’s your body.  But remember that you are going to die, and how you treat the meat vehicle you’re stuck in may drastically effect the how and when.  And this stupid body is all you got.  Take care of it.  God knows, no one else will.