No Really, It's Not My Jeans. It's Me.

Sixteen days in Oklahoma taught me something. No matter how much better I think I am than everyone else regarding my eating choices, specifically enormously fat people that use butter as dipping sauce, I'm not better than anyone. In fact, I'm just as bad.

Now we all know about me and my poor food choices. We all know that I have no qualms about eating mystery food hidden amongst the cheese in the grocery store. We all know that I single-handedly emptied the 7-11 on Seattle's Stone Way of all of their grape-flavored Laffy Taffy from my daily visits to redeem my "Free Coke" cap. Even when they were trying to hide them from me, I still sifted through the strawberries to get the grape. And, I counted down the number of days I had left of grape-flavored Laffy Taffy. And I also hid a couple under a less-popular candy just in case some other grape fan came through. I have no doubt the guy behind the counter was behind the disappearing grape Laffy Taffy conspiracy. He wasn't pleased at my luck of ALWAYS getting the "Free Coke" cap. He started charging me a nickel for my free coke, and I gave it to him. You can't get away from sales tax, even when redeeming a free coupon. And that daily habit may have been a contributing factor in my weight gain while living there. That and the Cheez-its…and the Broccoli & White Cheddar Pasta Roni…and the pizza (don't even get me started on the pizza)…and my aversion to exercise (Actually, scratch that. It was more like my version of exercise which consisted of sitting around all weekend watching infomercials about exercise (see: The Firm, Windsor Pilates, Total Body Makeover, BeachBody.com, That Creepy Lady That Claims You Can Lose 200 Pounds By Just Sitting, and Billy Blank's Tae-Bo, just to name a few. Oh, and in case you were wondering, I DID purchase one of these. I'll never tell you which one though.)

Given this knowledge, this partial history of my frighteningly bad eating habits, perhaps it shouldn't be a surprise to anyone what I put my body through over the past two weeks. You'd also think that given the fact that I get physically ill from eating crap, I would know better than to revert to my old ways. But, the call of the fried food is a strong one. It's my siren's song.

When I first got into Oklahoma City, I had a plan. I was going to be H-E-A-L-T-H-Y. Sure I was still going to sneak in a few treats, fried okra, a hamburger, some Mexican food, but I was going to be good. I also joined the gym for 2 weeks. Talk about initiative!

How did it all go? You be the judge!

Day 1: Breakfast consisted of a scrambled egg and cheese on a biscuit….and an enormous iced tea ('cause that's how I roll, people!) Lunch, well, that was mediocre Mexican food. And dinner, hmmm…I wasn't hungry, but I decided to eat out of habit. Since my parents were gone and left little food for me, I checked out the pantry and ended up eating a couple spoonfuls of peanut butter and half a bag of Ruffles potato chips.

Day 2: I woke up and went to the gym. This was my first trip to the gym in…well…let's see here…many months. Shameful! After the gym, I planned to go to the grocery store, but I was pretty hungry, so I went to Johnnies—home of my all-time favorite burger, not to mention the best onion rings I've ever eaten. I also got an enormous iced tea. As I ate my delicious 2, I wondered what the possibility of opening my own Johnnie's franchise in San Francisco would be. And where would I put it? Oh Johnnies, how I love thee. In my younger days I always got the frankfurter, mostly because I thought frankfurters were fancier hot dogs (and they are!), but ever since I graduated to the 2, I haven't looked back. I know what you're thinking, and no, I didn't make it to the grocery store, nor did I choose to eat something healthy for dinner, so I wouldn't totally wreck all of that hard work at the gym. Instead, I ate potato chips and peanut butter again. I think that might have been the night that I ate frozen Cool Whip for dessert.

Day 3: The gym didn't happen. I had to go shopping for clothes (because that's what I do in Oklahoma City. You see, San Francisco isn't high fashion enough for my buying needs. I have to go to the heartland for today's hottest trends). After my shopping excursion, I decided I really needed a salad, so I did the only thing I could. I went to the Texas Roadhouse (and called my brother to see if he was game, but he was not available). Once there, I sat at the bar and ordered my salad, which was a delicious concoction of fried chicken, cheese, bacon, egg, oh yeah, and some lettuce. As I awaited my healthy choice, I glanced over at the couple on the other side of the bar. They were sitting silently next to each other, in the way that people who have been married for a long time and have nothing to say to each other anymore do. They were, as you might expect from someone who frequents chain restaurants of this sort, portly. The waitress brought over some rolls and honey-cinnamon butter. I, as a single person, received four rolls. Intellectually, I know this is overkill in the same way that I know how wrong it is for a single person to eat an entire bowl of tortilla chips at Chevy's, but that never stopped me from asking for a refill. Feeling my inner glutton emerge, I witnessed something that made me realize what the 10th bad choice could have been (as in, 9 out of 10 of my eating choices are generally bad). While I knew I would probably consume the entire basket of rolls before my meal was done, I also knew that I could pass using the two tubs of butter since the rolls are already doused in butter. The woman on the other side of the bar had far greater butter needs than me. She proceeded to eat her bowl of rolls and dipped her bread in the butter tubs in between each bite, in much the same way that one might dip a triangle of pita bread in hummus. She also requested extra butter. To say I was appalled would be an understatement. To the best of my knowledge, the FDA's recommended daily allowance of butter is slightly less than a half a cup at lunch. Our food arrived at the same time. Looking at my salad, I just laughed. This healthy eating thing wasn't going to happen for me, especially since my first bite was all cheese. Glancing at the meals the couple across from me ordered made me wonder if that whole Oklahoma-City-going-on-a-diet program was actually working. The husband had a chicken fried steak (which, don't get me wrong, is one of my favorite things to eat despite the days of discomfort that follow such a meal) that covered his platter-sized plate. The wife went with a grilled chicken dish that was equally huge. They also ordered more rolls…and made an order to go. I, on the other hand, couldn't even finish my meal. I hardly touched the lettuce in my salad. Oh, and I did take my iced tea to go (which is this new thing at restaurants in OKC. Every restaurant provides you with a to-go cup for your drink). That night, well, you can just guess what I ate.

Day 4: Not only did I go to the gym, I ALSO went to the grocery store and bought groceries. And, when I got home, I made a salad. It wasn't very good, though. There wasn't any cheese, or bacon, or fried chicken. Just vegetables. How boring. That night, my brother and I went out for pizza. As an after thought to my order, I decided we needed to get the fried cheese and fried mushroom appetizer. My arteries are far too soft.

Day 5: Mexican food. That's all you need to know. I ate Mexican food, and I apparently don't appear to be someone from Oklahoma. The waitress knew I was an outsider. What was it? The fact that I was sitting alone at a restaurant? The fact that I don't have blonde hair and big boobs? Was it the gorilla suit? Was it my average size? People come in either extra small or extra large in this place. Hard to say.

Day 6: No I didn't go to the gym. Yes, I did have a deliciously fried dinner that consisted of fried catfish, fried okra, and a salad (of which I hardly ate because it wasn't that good).

Day 7-16: My parents were back, and that meant I was now eating my dad's menu. Okay, let's be honest here, I had been eating my dad's menu from the second I stepped off the plane (And, in case you were wondering, I made it to the gym only once more. That initiative really paid off). I dined on ham sandwiches, brisket, fried steak, mashed potatoes, fried pork chops, baked potatoes, Mexican food, spaghetti, cheesy chicken and broccoli casserole (that may have been my suggestion to get away from a night of frying), and yesterday we topped off the week with my dad's typical Friday lunch: Fried Catfish, Fried Okra, Hush Puppies, and French Fries. How he hasn't had a heart attack is a total mystery to us all. Also, if he hadn't spent most of his life underweight, we would have break down a wall in the house to get him out with a crane because he's just your average-sized 63-year-old. I think my dad is a medical marvel where metabolism is concerned. I'm not sure I inherited all of those genes.

I feel like I'm going to barf just thinking about it—my diet for the past two weeks, not my genes.

Now, after all of this, you'd think that I'd realize that perhaps I HAVE gained a little weight and may not look my best right now. Well, I have realized that, but not before snooping on Facebook to see how many people from high school became big fat fatties. I was relishing in my smug superiority until this morning when I looked in the mirror and saw that merely touching my hip made everything jiggle…for a long time. I've crossed over into dangerous territory, and karma might be to blame—that, or my total lack of self-control around artery-clogging cuisine.