First World Food Problems - To Take-Out or Not To Take-Out

NYC-ers don't cook in their kitchens.

As a typical New Yorker, I'm used to ordering out for every meal.  My stove is basically a fancy metal closet for my non-seasonal clothing.  But no more.  Since I've been Snatched-ing it's seen more action  than Pamela Anderson's vagina.

If I'm not cooking up a batch of brown rice for the week, then I'm likely roasting some veggies or hard boiling eggs.  Unfortunately, all this culinary activity has left my poor sweaters homeless, forced to squat on the narrow strip of floor surrounding my bed.

The kitchen sink, once sparkling from disuse, is now a continually shifting skyline of crusty pots, pans and Ziploc containers balancing precariously over discarded avocado rinds and carrot peels.  Sure, it sucks to be in a constant state of dish-washing, but the positive effect on my bank account (and waist line) make it almost - almost - worth the pruned fingers.

Still, it's been a serious challenge following my Snatched nutrition plan and hitting my calorie and protein goals.  Who'd have guessed it would be so difficult to cram down 2200 healthy calories?

I'm a spoiled New Yorker when it comes to dining options.  Why bother cooking when there's every type of ethnic food just a phone call and delivery boy away?  But now that I'm counting every calorie and gram, take-out has suddenly become the devil.

It doesn't help that my previously tame OCD tendencies have blossomed into full out crazy now that I've hit my mid-40s.  The thought of ordering Chinese food while on my Snatched plan literally sends me into a panic.  I picture myself huddled over that white take-out container with a pair of tweezers, separating and meticulously weighing out each ingredient on my shiny new digital food scale, wondering if I should pat down the steamed chicken to get rid of the extra water weight, and then tossing everything back together to make sure I have an accurate calorie count.  I know, sick, huh?

Anyway, It's now the end of week 3 (of 6).  Thanks to my high daily calorie goals I'm rarely hungry, unlike some of my fellow Ninjas (that's how clients are referred to at MFF) who seem to be starving all the time.  But I'm also bloated and gassy as hell thanks to all those damn veggies.  I've learned to quietly and stealthily release while sitting in the subway and then immediately turn to the person next to me with my just-sucked-on-a-lemon face as if to say, "Did you do that?" thereby deflecting blame away from me.  I'm not proud of it.

The workouts have also gotten progressively more difficult each week.  Exhaustion is my new normal.  I'm resigned to the fact that my muscles will perpetually remain in ache mode.  At least the trainers have the decency to wear tight, skimpy clothing.  So even while I'm heaving for breath and just about to vomit up the protein shake I just guzzled an hour earlier, I'm also ogling their tight asses and muscular thighs and drooling like a cougar at a frat party.

On the bright side, my clothes are beginning to loosen up and I no longer have to do the "suck in" to button up my work pants.  And although my weight loss has plateaued over the last few weeks, I still see major shifts in my body shape.  The man boobs are starting to deflate and my flat ass is starting to get some J-Lo curve.  So I'm sticking to the plan and getting through the next 3 weeks by visualizing the plate of stuffing and gravy I'll be sucking down come Thanksgiving Day as my reward for finishing my Snatched journey.