What horrible words: “fat camp”. For SO many reasons. The pejorative adjective, the idea that people of a certain size need to be rallied together in a concentration-like camp to physically change something about themselves.
My mother-in-law once came to our house and joked that she always loses weight when she comes to visit, that staying with us is like going to “fat camp.” I froze. Was she on to me?
We don’t have sweets around as a general rule. If we bake cookies, I go get the ingredients that same day, and then the leftovers get put into the next day’s school lunch, sent over to neighbors, or just plan discarded. We don’t keep Oeros in our pantry or potato chips on our shelves. We have only recently begun keeping cereal around (because you really can’t beat the ease of that kid-friendly breakfast). We have single-serve ice cream cups, which are worse for environmental waste and also a waste of money. We don’t have pre-made freezer dinners or fancy cheese or crackers.
You get the drift.
It’s not because we’re exceptionally healthy. It’s because I can’t handle the temptation. I doubt that my husband has ever really noticed this or thought it odd. He grabs breakfast at Starbucks with his morning coffee, eats lunch wherever he wants (or skips it when there’s a particularly high patient load), and then I make dinner most nights. He never really thinks twice about the lack of snack foods.
Things have gradually changed as my kids have gotten older. We keep bagels and white bread, and we have a collection of sugary cereals in the panty. There are frozen waffles and occasionally a bag of powdered donuts for breakfast. When I feel strong enough, I throw another “forbidden” food into the mix and bring it through our front door.
I’m getting there. We even kept homemade cookies around for three days last month, though honestly I thought of those damned cookies nearly every minute of every day. Day 82.