Apparently I’m “sensitive.”

I remember around sixth grade or so the big put-down was to be called “sensitive,” I suppose because it sounded better than calling someone a “baby.”  I would get it all the time.  I’d display what I thought was an appropriate amount of distress over being the source of “entertainment” at some girl’s sleepover party (I was never an attendee at these parties, mind…the entertainment was in calling me and letting me know WHY I wasn’t invited), only to hear:

“Tch.  GOD, Lisa.  You’re sooooo sensitive.”

In later years, I would use this sensitivity to my advantage.  Onstage, I could cry quite convincingly.  I was also the “sensitive” gal pal to boys I had crushes on, listening raptly to their hopes, dreams, and beliefs regarding the superiority of certain Rush albums, only to have them ask other girls out on dates.

In the throes of my active alcoholism, I also believed myself to be very sensitive.  Intoxication, as any recovering addict will tell you, mimics emotional authenticity.  It’s why some of us slobber all over you, telling you how much we love you.  It’s why others of our ilk engage in inappropriately intimate online conversations with people we’re not married to, as our spouses sleep in the next room.  It’s why still others watch the sad parts of movies over and over again while drinking Bacardi and crying.  You know – because we FEEL things so intensely.

But what I really want to talk about is CARB SENSITIVITY.  Becuz I haz it.

Muffins.  Scones.  Giant cookies the size of your head.  Rolls from Bertucci’s.  I love you all, but you’re no good for me.

I’d put on some weight after moving to the ‘burbs.  OK, I put on 15 pounds of said weight after moving to the ‘burbs.  My clothes had gotten to the point where — okay, you know when you crack open a cylinder of Pillsbury biscuit dough?  That’s what it was like.  And listen – I’ve never in my life been one of these hardbodies with the sculpted abs and all; I’ve always maintained that a little extra stuffin’ under the upholstery makes your partner all grabby in the best possible way.  But what was going on around my middle was on the cusp of unacceptable…for ME.

And so I cut calories.

And I hit the elliptical.

And I did this for weeks on end.

And I lost no weight.

None.

Sad Lisa.

Now, I’d experimented before with cutting “white food” (flour, sugar) out of my diet before.  I did it for a full week, documenting it on me olde blogge, and lost something like 2-3 pounds.  Of course, I promptly put them right back on when I went back to my “blueberry scone a day cuz my life is HARD” diet.  But I remembered feeling, well, better when I wasn’t eating pizza and cookies and muffins for that whole week.  And so about 2 1/2 weeks ago I once again cut the white stuff from my diet.

And I’ve lost 8 pounds.

Before any of you sound the alarm, rest assured that I eat quite well.  Every couple of hours or so, as it turns out.  You become quite creative when the white stuff is no longer an option.  And no, I’m not eating pork rinds and chugging bacon smoothies.  My body simply doesn’t have all those extra carbs sitting around, and so it’s getting down to the business of burning that biscuit dough, as it were.  I feel better, and my clothes are fitting again.

But earlier this evening the houseboy decided to give me a blow-by-blow description of some dessert that a coworker made.

“You take chocolate chip cookie dough, right?  And you put BIG SCOOPS of it in a muffin tin.  And then, you take Reese’s peanut butter cups – the little ones – and you SQUISH THEM ON TOP of each scoop of cookie dough.  And then you bake it.”

And I burst into tears.

Because I’m sensitive.

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