I was in the dairy section of the grocery store last night when a crisis hit me like a rake to the face. Reaching for my usual quart of Dannon Light & Fit vanilla yogurt, I noticed three terrible words: “Great New Taste!”

What.

Why do they need to go changing my favorite yogurt? I don’t need it to have a “great new taste” – I loved the old taste. And! AND! What’s worse: it has increased from 80 calories per serving to 110 calories per serving. I DO NOT LIKE THIS. This is almost as bad as the day that they started packaging Tampax in bright orange wrappers – an absolute betrayal. How is one expected to be inconspicuous with something orange – the color of panic devices, like flares and Coast Guard buoys and the terrorist attack level “High”?

It’s not quite as bad as the day I found out that they no longer produce Burt’s Bees Lip Shimmer in “Coffee”. But still. Completely unjust.

I come from a long line of calorie counters – it’s in my genes. At various points in my life, I have been absolutely ruled by the regimented balancing act of caloric consumption/expulsion. Last summer, I achieved what should have been a dieter’s nirvana, reaching the lowest weight of my life and fitting into the tiniest pants I’ve ever owned; however, I still felt a panic and a desperate need for control. I still saw my pipe-cleaner arms to be flabby, my thighs to be trunk-like, and my flat stomach to be completely unworthy of a bathing suit.

I couldn’t relish the accomplishment of it all. I was too busy worrying about gaining an ounce.

Since then, I have considerably loosened my tight rein on calorie counting. While my mind feels a little bit freer, my body is also a little bit heavier. What’s a girl to do?

I want to live in freedom from the oppression of low self-esteem, terrible body image, calorie counting, exercise obsession, and general control freakage. I’m not there yet. But I want to be. And for me, I think that “freedom” is going to have to mean weighing a few pounds more than I know that I could weigh. It’s going to mean not beating myself up over my caloric failures of the day when I crawl into bed at night. It’s going to mean recognizing and living out a healthy balance of enjoying food, and being active, and getting enough sleep, and having a glass of wine if I want one, but not having too many.

It’s going to mean eating the extra 30 calories of yogurt. And it’s going to mean not flipping out about it.

Chocolate: “I love you.”

Peanut Butter: “I love you back.”

Be sure to check back later today for a very special surprise. I’m serious.

But before your mind goes all haywire, know that the surprise is none of the following:
1) An engagement ring.
2) An ultrasound photo.
3) Anything related to “Lost.” I haven’t watched yet. DONOTTELLMEANYTHING!!!!!

In the meantime, to sustain your minds and hearts, here is something that I learned yesterday and tried last night with the fabulous Mary Hiemstra, visiting from Seattle:

Purée a can of black beans (rinse them first, then refill the can with the beans and water to the top), add a brownie mix and some coffee grounds, and bake. The world’s greatest tasting brownies ever. High fiber, high protein, low fat. No bean-taste at all. Try it – you will not be sorry.

Since I arrived in Nashville, I have been subsisting on a steady diet of:
* Breakfast: egg on toast
* Lunch: one piece of bread with mustard and turkey (no cheese)
* Dinner: tomato soup with 4 Ritz crackers crumbled in.

Yesterday, my mom reminded me that I am NOT at the bottom of the hole (yet), and stop being ridiculous, and go buy yourself a brick of cheese, for crying out loud. I do have some savings, and the reason that I saved money for so long was to HAVE it when I NEED it. Now is one of those times. And so, I am allowing myself to spend some of my life-savings on Caloric Intake and Survival.

After much thought and prayer, I decided that I could allow myself a mid-afternoon snack. So I purchased two of my favorite ingredients: apples and peanut butter.

Adam’s, my favorite peanut butter, was nowhere to be found in this foreign store they call Kroger. I did, however, find what looked to be the next-best-thing: Krema Natural Peanut Butter. I took it home, and before opening it, noticed a suggestion on the label:

“For stirring tips, visit our website!”

Stirring tips? Intriguing! Now, I am one to follow instructions, adhere to the rules, even when it involves using the tube’s “suggested” amount of a 1” strip of toothpaste every time I brush my teeth. So, naturally, before proceeding any further with my snack, I checked out the website.

Their tip: “Oil separation occurs naturally, just stir it up!”

And once again, there went 2 minutes of my life that I can never get back.

This afternoon, I walked from Beacon Hill to the Back Bay, and then over to Cambridge to explore Harvard, and finally, back to Beacon Hill. It was about an 8-mile walk, and it felt good to stretch my legs after, you know, quitting exercise this fall. Boston is beautiful, and if I wasn’t so set on Nashville, I would seriously consider moving here.

Sadly, I did not spot any “Harvard Hotties” in Cambridge. In fact, I realized that a significant part of the Harvard population is made up of college freshman – and I just can’t “go young.” I walked around the campus for awhile, but eventually was intimidated by the electricity of brain waves in the air, so I bought myself a coffee and left.

Christina took me to Pizzeria Regina in the North End for dinner, which is billed as being the “World’s! Best! Pizza!” We were not disappointed. They even gave us our Sangiovese in big tumblers.

We ended our night by watching “The Departed,” with a Boston mob history lesson from Dan, Christina’s husband. It was the best kind of day: walking for miles and miles, only to eat well in the evening, and watch some serious Scorsese carnage.

Boston, my booty – and my belly – thank you.

Listen up, Pounds,
I knew you would show up – it was inevitable. Throughout my life, you have come and gone as you have pleased, but The Big Trip in particular has been made of conditions favorable to you: travel, friends, 4,000 miles of sitting, delicious food, celebratory drink, and a complete and utter lack of routine or discipline. A few of you were welcome for a little while, but now? Really, Pounds? There are too many of you.

You have taken up residence wherever you have seen fit: a little here in the thigh, a little there in the waist. You never asked if I welcomed your company; you simply arrived, and then invited your friends. You have been sneaky – never fully crowding me out of my clothes, but just making them fit differently. And I did not pay a ridiculously high price for jeans only to have them optimistically tugged and stretched.

I have always had a love/hate relationship with you. With one halting hand at the end of a stiff arm, and the other beckoning you to come hither, obviously you may have been confused. I have sent you mixed messages, and for this, I apologize.

But how could I have acted any other way? How could I ever resist you? You have come cloaked in chocolately-fried-goodness, and have been effortlessly washed down in a deluge of red wine. We have had a love affair every night for weeks, but I have been dumbfounded and irritated to find you still at my side (and on my side) the morning after. You are annoying. You cramp my style. I do not want to share my young, single, glamorous existence with your vexatious kind. Get out of my bed, and off of my body.

Sorry, Pounds. It was fun while it lasted, but your day is over. I will destroy you with an arsenal of aerobic activity. One or two of you can stay, but the rest of you: prepare to perish.

See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya,
Annie

Last night, I flew from Seattle back to Nashville. If there is one thing that I love about Southwest Airlines, it is the little travel snack box that they pass out to passengers. It is here, and only here, that I allow myself to indulge my secret shame.

Ritz. Cracker. Cheese. Sandwiches.

Oh yes, you know what I am talking about. The crispy, buttery, mouthwatering flavor of Ritz Crackers, coupled with cheese that has a texture akin to the dust from a moth’s wings. The packaging boldly claims, “MADE WITH REAL CHEESE!” but I know better. There is nothing legitimately “cheesish” about the filling, aside from the color – and even that is a bit too complex a shade of orange to be genuine.

I do the math, and I realize that each sandwich is worth 33 calories. I tell myself, “I will eat just one,” but it never turns out that way. I borderline inhale all 6 sandwiches, bringing me to a grand total of 200 calories of poison.

Crackers? Try crack.

And that is why I fly Southwest. Ding!

I’m sitting outside a Midas in Redlands, CA, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. AAA has once again come to my rescue, replacing a flat tire with the spare this morning. On the day after a “party like a rock star” wedding and two hours of sleep, car issues are the last thing in the world that I want to deal with – so I am grateful for my recent upgrade to AAA Plus. And how cool is it that they have Wi-Fi? I love America.

I have been in southern California this past week, first visiting my dear friend Muggs Shoop in Burbank, and then migrating east to Redlands for the beautiful Christina’s wedding. And what an amazing occasion it was…

Christina and I went to junior high together in Montrose, CO, but she moved away in 9th grade. We wrote letters through high school, but faded apart in college. She graduated from UC Irvine and then went to law school at Boston College, while I was busy doing my thing in Seattle. However, in a fortuitous turn of events, we reconnected via MySpace last year – I am such an advocate of the internet. After taking the Bar, she came to visit me in Seattle in August, and we picked up right where we left off. I knew that I had to make her wedding a part of The Big Trip.

Christina and her now-husband Dan live in Boston, and so the wedding was an awesome cocktail of east and west coast folks. Not knowing anyone other than the bride and her family, I boldly inserted myself into the mix, and wound up meeting an entire crew of amazingly fun people.

With the stunning bride:

My new soul sisters, Fong and Chloe:

Steak? AND salmon? I’ve died and gone to Redlands.

After all of the amazing food at this wedding, today officially begins a new diet. Because this?

Was thoroughly consumed.

Last week, I went shopping for new running shoes. As I have mentioned before, I hate shoe shopping with the fire of a thousand suns. I have the hardest time finding shoes that fit well, that are comfortable, and that don’t look like the white Reeboks my grandma wears to “the club.” So I decided to enlist the help of an afro’d salesman in the New Balance store, who promptly offered to measure my feet and “hook me up” with a sweet new pair of kicks.

After placing my feet in weird metal contraptions and adjusting levers, and then having me stand up, then wiggle my toes, then sit down again, the salesman called over his manager. They stood a few feet away, speaking in hushed tones, and covertly stealing glances back at me. Finally, he returned with the news: “Miss, it seems that your left foot is a size 8 and your right foot is a size 9.”

[collective gasp from the blog readers]

An entire size of difference! No wonder I have such issues with shoes! I asked him why this is, and he said that the arch on my right foot has fallen. “Ew,” said I.

Our feet were not meant to be shove into shoes. We were created to walk barefoot, and to have the earth adjust and mold to the natural shape of our feet. Instead, we have created flat-bottomed or high-heeled shoes that our feet try to adapt to, causing arches to fall and blisters to form and all-around bitchy attitudes from girls like me.

Speaking of the natural way of things, Bryan and Stephanie took me to the Ballard Farmer’s Market yesterday morning in order to teach me about eating conscientiously. They’re good at it. They are organic, fair-trade, grass-fed, free-range kind of people – and you know what? I think they’re onto something.

I really love farmers markets, and Stephanie put words to it: “Coming here is like going to church – everyone’s fellowshipping and here for common values. And there’s music!” :) People are walking around with dogs and babies, and everyone is excited about sampling the cheese and chocolate and different honeys and breads. The food has enormous flavor, making me think that I could be satisfied with so much less. I would not need to sit down with a block of Kroger cheddar – I could have a little wedge of herb gouda, and it would taste delectable enough to fulfill me.

People who shop at farmers markets, where the produce is local and normally a product of sustainable process, eat only what is in season at the time. There are no pesticide-ridden strawberries being flown in from Chile in the deep mid-winter; certain fruits are only available in the late spring and early summer. And this is the way that things were created; the earth and the seasons have a rhythm, and maybe we are meant to live in accordance with this pattern.

I guess I accept the fact that I have to wear shoes. But yesterday, I just might have been converted to the organic side. The next thing you know, I’ll be concerned about global warming (wait – already am), voting democrat (wait – already did), and grocery shopping with a canvas sack (a gift from the UPC Gospel Choir).