The Food Police

I am 75 days into my eating plan, motoring along for the most part, down 34+ pounds.

Why, then, do people feel they have to “help” me?  My DH (“Dear” or “Damned” Husband, depending on the usage) is the worst offender.

Example A:  We are at the birthday party of a close family friend.  DH announces to all present that I am on a “severely restricted diet” and therefore cannot have cake.  Now, mind you, I had not said anything about eating or not eating cake (and I even helped cut and serve it).  It, of course, caused a lot of unwelcome glances and chatter.  You know “the look” – when someone hears you, the fat chick, are on a diet and they look you up and down super closely (judging how much the diet is needed?  How much the diet has worked or not worked?).  I *hate* “the look”.  I again reminded DH that *I* can handle my eating situations without his intervention.  He said he was only trying to “help”.  His help does not help me.

Example B:  Then, when out to eat at a barbeque place this weekend, I am ordering a salad and he butts in to tell the server that I cannot have the onion straws in the salad.  I knew they were there, I knew the calorie load, I had not yet decided to eat them or not, but I had already requested them on the side in case I did not want to eat them.  Really, truly I am a grown person who can manage what goes in her mouth without his “assistance”.  He now rambles on about diet and the nutrition of food as if he is a paragon of virtue and font of diet knowledge.  He is neither.  And, my eating plan is in no way about him; it is about me.  When I said that I do not need his help, he erupted and has not talked to me since.

I *hate* being food policed.


And I *refuse* to let DH (and, just for the record, it is *not* "Dear" today) derail my success.  I am doing this for *me*.