Are you well on your way to shedding all the holiday treats parked around your middle?  You know, the New Year resolution to lose X pounds in 2013 and keep it off?  The waistline is in the back of my mind and I’ve been easing my way into it, day by day.  I don’t really want to put it on the resolution list.  It seems it’s an ongoing challenge and hardly worth a stand-alone line item.  It’s never resolved.  Besides, I’m getting a lot of reminders in my house about keeping the get-skinny goal whether I want them or not.

My husband is a cyclist.  He belongs to a team and he races.  He sets personal race goals and strategies.  And the only way he can achieve those goals is to lose serious poundage.  Climbing long hills is a lot easier with less baggage.  If I’m not careful he will weigh less than me unless I follow his “biker diet” lead.  It’s not an official diet you can find in a book titled “The Biker Diet.”  Not yet.  But it works for non-bikers too.  I did it two years ago and I saw dress sizes I haven’t seen since I was 15.  It was great while it lasted.  I don’t know what tipped the scales, but something pulled me back up the weight category.  I’m guessing it’s a case of salad-greens fatigue.  I’m wilting, not the lettuce.

Now after the holiday snacks, cakes, cookies and wine, my jeans are screaming for me to stop pushing the stretch potential or they will literally pop a rivet.  (I thought I was in the clear on that front until yesterday.  Too many football games in fuzzy sweats, couch side. Chip bowl included.)  My husband knows well enough to not say, “Ah.  You really shouldn’t be eating that.”  My kids however, know no boundaries and are happy to proclaim their nutrition righteousness and save me from the depths of weight-challenge darkness.

“What did you eat for breakfast Mom?”  Alex looks at me with an eyebrow raised as I shove a potato chip into my mouth at 7:45 AM.  In my defense, I explain how I had to get everyone else ready first and I haven’t had a chance to eat yet.  True.  I grab another chip, must have been Lay’s.

The other day, my husband shopped with my oldest son to load up on a week’s supply of chips.  They came home with four bags, all orange colored for some reason.  They thought it odd and showed me the phenomenon.  Then my oldest looked at me.  “These chips are not for you.  You are supposed to be on a diet.” (A sick trick.)

“Well, I’ve been easing my way into it.”

“Christmas is over Mom.”

“But my birthday messed me up.”

“That was two weeks ago.”

I had no idea the CHiP Patrol lived in my house. (More than one kind of CHiPs exists in California: One for speeders and one for snackers.) Maybe I should call it the buddy system.  They are just holding me accountable.  After all, I wouldn’t let them down a bag of cookies in one sitting or a bag of chips for that matter. They are saving me from myself.

Officer TJ did not stop there.  For dinner I made a special meatball and pasta dish, not the stereotypical red sauce dish, something unique with capers and pancetta.  We are all stuffed after one meatball or two, depending on the person. (Officers eat more.)  They were kind of big.  We don’t eat like that much but the hubby was away, so I thought we could live a little.  It was for the boys after all I’d like to think.

I got dinged.  “Mom.  This really isn’t good diet food.” He was trying to explain the heaviness of the food and our sense of fullness.  It was whole-wheat pasta at least, with lots of chopped tomato.  I think with the cold weather we’ve become accustomed to hearty soups.  No wonder this Italian treat felt decadent.

“Look.  We don’t all have to eat like dad.  I can’t eat salads at every meal like a rabbit.  I won’t do it.” Officer TJ let me off with this defense. He went back to his regular job as teenager/dish-washer-avoider. He sped off to his room before mom the drill sargent could assign him KP duty.

I guess it’s good to know the guys are listening to us and we shouldn’t worry about the “freshman fifteen” in a few years or heart attacks in adulthood.  They are recognizing good food vs. bad food; super strict vs. loose willpower.  They know tough love and are only trying to help me.  And even if they are not watching my every move while at school, the evidence of a depleted chip bag is as good as a hidden camera.  Let’s just hope they take the other cue from dad too:  Don’t tell the wife what to eat or tell her she needs a diet.  Then I think they will live a long happily-ever-after, just like dad.

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