I have weighed the exact same amount since I was a teenager. How do I manage to keep the weight off when everyone else is experiencing expanding waistlines? I have a secret weapon: I'm a lousy cook. This makes second helpings unappetizing, and voila! I can still wear (ugly) jeans from the 1980s. I'm thinking that I should write a diet book called On Second Thought, I've Had Plenty, Thanks which would be full of boring recipes like the same dang tofu stirfry which isn't that great no matter how many times I make it. Or maybe I could start up one of those diet meal-delivery services; the pasta would be soggy from being overcooked and the potatoes crunchy from being undercooked, and who wouldn't lose weight eating (or not eating) that kind of food? The pounds would just melt off.
David, in contrast, has well-developed cooking skills. Whenever he makes something for us, which isn't that often, it's so delicious that I wind up getting a little angry. "This is great! Why don't you cook more often, dammit?" Yelling at him for engaging in a behavior I would like to encourage doesn't seem to be working.
I may not be much of a cook, but I don't mind eating rabbit food. This is a result of living in two different housing/eating co-ops during a brief but formative period in the mid 1990s, where they cooked and ate a lot of hippie food. You know, things like bulgur. And millet. All the food was vegetarian, which was ironic considering there were always plenty of animal life forms in the kitchen, primarily cockroaches. The consumate co-op experience is opening the silverware drawer and seeing twenty cockroaches flee for the darkness.
At one point I moved from one co-op to another, which upgraded the level of filth in the kitchen from "unbearable" to merely "inhuman." This new co-op was cleaner and did not have a cockroach problem; instead, it had a mouse problem. (I am not sure it is even possible to have simultaneous mouse and cockroach infestations. Do mice eat cockroaches? When you live in a co-op, these are the kind of questions you ask yourself.) We addressed the mouse problem humanely by getting live traps and then inhumanely never checking them, so that the little buggers unlucky enough to be caught starved to death.
One day I stumbled into the co-op kitchen for breakfast, and decided to make myself some toast. With my eyes still closed, I shoved two slices of bread into the toaster, and tried to depress the toaster lever. It wouldn't go down. Something was wrong, but my sleep-fogged brain wasn't properly processing, so I just kept! shoving! down! the lever! -- and then I heard a faint scurrying sound from inside the toaster. THAT woke me up.
Here's how things wound up for all the players in that sad drama: The mouse went to the Giant Toaster In The Sky, where there are plenty of crumbs for all. I developed PTSD (post-toaster stress disorder) and switched to using the toaster oven. I'd open the door and meticulously and carefully inspect every single inch of the interior to certify there were no inappropriate life forms in there. It got so it would take me 20 minutes to make toast. The toaster was de-moused and returned to duty, which might be the grossest part of the whole episode. The only good news was that with the mouse out of the picture, there was plenty of room for cockroaches.