Reaching for the Carrot

Last night I posted a call for suggestions for things that might make great rewards– carrots, so to speak– for various milestones along the weight-loss journey.   There were some stipulations: it couldn’t be about food. (I’m not anti-food, but rewarding yourself with a night of indulgence seems counter-intuitive.) It should cost less than $100. (Because I have to save up for the big prize at the end.) It should not be something that I need, but rather a small luxury, something to underscore the achievement with a little sigh.

And the suggestions came.

A trip to California. Not that I can do it on a $100 budget or I would have done it long ago. And of course, with this friend, my astral twin, my sister from another mother– we eat. We luxuriate in eating. So, sad as I am to say it, that won’t make the list.

A treat for the body– massage, mani-pedi, etc. This one from a new friend, a fellow blogger who is bound for Machu Picchu one of these days. It’s a great suggestion, and it might make the list. I’m scheduled for a Day at the Spa soon, so maybe I should just wait until I hit another milestone.

From a dog show friend, the excellent suggestion of a new show lead. I have my favorite kangaroo lead, but that’s not to say I can’t go shopping for another. Thanks, Robin, you helped me fill in that blank.

Of course, there always has to be a wiseass, and this was no exception. What do you do with someone who keeps suggesting that  you should get a stripper’s pole? This time he tried to pawn it off on my husband, but I know better. From someone else I’d believe that this was incredibly cruel, but not so much in this case.  I think maybe this is the grown-up version of the kid that used to yank on my braids in the second grade. Okay, you’ve got my attention.

Sadly, the stripper’s pole is out of the question. Not only because carrying around all this excess baggage has made me incredibly shy about my body, but because it’s not just the weight. It’s the years. Maybe one day I’ll return to that slightly raw-boned Joni-Mitchell knobby-sort-of-thin, but I’ll never again be twenty-something. I’ll never again have those kinds of supple, smooth planes of flesh that young women have. And that’s okay. But my dear, if you mention stripper’s poles to me again, we’ll be taking you to some kind of nefarious club on Dixie Drive for the afternoon.

There’s a linen dress from J.Jill that I want, and a bracelet from my friend the incredible jeweler Jill Raney Wright, and I’m sort of hankering for a good pair of sunglasses– “Hand me my Ray Bans, Jill”– but I am still entertaining suggestions. Unless you’re an extraordinarily tall, thin, snarky baker, in which case, just hush.

Target number is 63.2, down half a pound from yesterday. Steps trotted along today numbered 5710. On the menu: 2 cups watermelon, banana, 2 mini Reese’s peanut butter cups, steak salad (romaine, 4 oz filet, grape tomatoes, half an avocado, half  a cucumber, bleu cheese dressing), six pencil thin grissini bread sticks, half-cup rice pudding with a lot of nutmeg (I love nutmeg), half-ounce dark chocolate, a cup of raspberries, and a tiny bowl of blood-orange sorbetto.