The Fat Diaries: Fighting the Freshman Fifteen

College was the first time I was responsible for taking care of myself. I learned how to survive on my own – chiefly, how to eat on my own. Correction: how to eat badly.

I hope everyone had a nice three-day weekend. Of course, for many of us, it was spent loading and unloading boxes for a university student. Thankfully, I’ve been off the hook for some time now. Having small children immediately eliminates you from the “possible movers” list since babysitting needs to be provided. Having a bad back and knees (a souvenir from my morbidly obese days) is also a great way to get a mover’s “F-card.”

I’ve been out of college for almost ten years now, and I always miss it, this time of year. College was my renaissance. It formed an integral part of finding out who I was, and what I wanted. And for the first time in my life I was taking care of myself. I was also learning how to survive on my own–chiefly, how to eat on my own–correction: how to eat badly.

I had my handy-dandy meal card, whose baffling point system would guarantee that I wouldn’t starve to death (between certain hours). There was a buffet-style cafeteria where you could eat all you wanted of soggy french-fries, very inferior soft-serve ice cream, and hot dishes that all smelled like dog-food casserole. Yeah, big shocker there, the food they served during orientation was much better than the actual food served the rest of the year. There were also a few mall-style food courts featuring fast-food burgers and tacos, deep-fried Chinese food and foot-long sandwiches. We’d have to shell out extra cash for the gourmet sandwich and coffee place. On special Fridays, when class and work was done, and I had two and a half days of freedom ahead of me, I’d get my favorite sandwich: turkey, bacon and lettuce with gouda cheese on a croissant.

Weekends were dodgy at best. At our university, our food court was closed from 3pm Friday to 6am Monday. The only place open was the student dining hall (with the dog-food casserole) and the Quick-e-mart-style convenience store. The latter was very important to weekend nutrition and was where I could partake of the four major college-student food groups: Ramen noodles, Slim Jims, Pringles, and Code Red Mountain Dew. I would blow most of my student-worker paycheck on assorted junk that was almost a meal, and spend the rest on Terry Pratchett novels.

A surprising thing happened as I developed these new eating habits. I didn’t gain weight. I was certain I was going to gain those wicked “freshman fifteen” that everyone warned me of. I’m not sure where the rumor of the fifteen pounds started, but it seemed plausible. Anyone who saved up their meal points so they could spend it on cookies and marshmallow-krispie treats should have had a spare tire that could accommodate a Mac truck. But I didn’t. I thought I had lucked out. I wondered if perhaps something in my genetics had altered and I was beginning to metabolize food at the rate of my skinny brothers. Maybe it was because for the first time in my life I was happy and didn’t feel the need to eat myself out of a hole of crushing depression.

I figured it out when I wore through my first pair of shoes after one month. It was because I was walking. My sprawling campus, and eclectic class selection had me walking all day. The first few weeks, I was kept awake by charlie-horses and aching feet, but they disappeared soon, and I grew accustomed to the collective hours of walking that took me from class to class. As the semester progressed, the walking got easier, and I found myself at liberty to go farther than the campus limits to rent videos and to buy comics at the local mini mall. As soon as I got complacent, however, I’d inevitably get two classes at alternate ends of the university with five minutes to get from one to the other. And for the first time in my life, I ran.

Of course, along with dodging the freshman fifteen, I learned that living on junk food was not without its problems. I discovered little things, like that eating sesame orange chicken for lunch every day was a bad idea, and that drinking all the milk in your fridge because it would be bad tomorrow was a VERY bad idea. I found myself eating salads of my own free will, and yogurt. The year the food court added both cucumber sushi and falafel sandwiches was a great one for me. As the years progressed, I began to take care of myself a little better. If I had a big exam or performance coming up, I’d try to eat more protein and get to bed before 2am. For auditions and screen tests, I’d cut out cookies and chips. I would have to take care with my food choices if I felt a cold coming on, and stock up on chicken soup and Gatorade for my inevitable quarantine in my dorm room.

I made a lot of mistakes with my own care. And all of the choices were easier in college when someone else was preparing all my food and my parents were footing the bill. Sushi’s always more fun when someone else has to do the rolling and cutting and cleaning the rice off of everything. When I transitioned from college to married life (with very little time in-between) I forgot a lot of the lessons I learned. I ended up buying food that was horrible for me, but required little to no preparation. I didn’t need to walk everywhere, so I didn’t. I sat on the couch all day, or at my desk.

I miss the walking, even now when I’m more active than I’ve been in a while. Those forced marches through biting wind, pouring rain, and even wet snow, were the best things that ever happened to me. In a strange masochistic way, I kind of miss getting exercise because I had to, and not because of some vague goal to better myself. I especially miss running into the Student Union building after a snowy walk, and having a hot bowl of soup and a real-fruit smoothie. Now-a-days, if I’m out in the snow all day there’s no big steaming bowl of Italian wedding soup when I get in. I have to make it myself, (and make enough for everyone). Maybe I just miss someone else doing all the cooking for me, and having someone else clean up for me.

Well, I’ve had my time and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I’m also starting to accept that I can’t go back; it’s someone else’s turn. So to all the freshmen embarking on their great adventure this year, I salute you and leave this advice:

1. Take care of yourself.  You deserve it.

2. Cookies are not breakfast (no, not even oatmeal cookies–trust me on this).