In Overeaters Anonymous we use the maxim, “Let go and let God.”

It basically means to me that there are times when I’m not supposed to be fighting in a battle. Whatever it is, it’s time to just let go, let myself off the hook, and trust that it will get worked out in the end even if I can’t see how; because I can’t control everything and that’s ok.

This version has helped me through a lot of tough situations over the years… when I’ve remembered to do it, that is.

On the other hand, there are times when it has a slightly different meaning. There are times when it means to me that I can let things slide and not fight a battle that can’t be won. There is no hope that God will swoop in and fix things. Nope. I just have to let go and let God remind me that it’s ok to lose some once in a while.

My parents took me out to dinner tonight without the kids.

At first, my father said he’d be happy anywhere that I could “get something to eat”. The heavy handed subtext here was, “obviously you are on some sort of diet that you don’t want to tell us about and we want to be supportive of you so you should pick where we eat so you are taken care of.”

A little bit annoying, but coming from a good place.

I let it go.

Then, not two minutes later (after I’d given him a list of places that we could go and seriously downplayed the one Italian place where there wasn’t anything I could possibly eat) he says, “well, if we could find a place where you could get what you want and I could get a halfway decent plate of pasta that would be good.”

Are you kidding me?

I told him yesterday that I’m not eating pasta.

So much for the support.

My mother pounced on him with a vehement, “You don’t need to have pasta! Not that it’s not good for your waistline, but you just had it!”

The panic in her voice was nearly palpable. Or, perhaps, I was just reading into it. But her subtext could pretty easily have been, “You fool! She’s finally starting to not be fat again! Why would you suggest pasta when you know that makes her fat!”

A debate/argument ensued between them as they attempted to hash out when exactly the last time was that they ate pasta and why my mother doesn’t like to eat it. You guessed it: her “waistline”.

Need I say more?

In the end we went someplace where I was able to order steamed fish and not seem like a weirdo and he got a plate of pasta.

Whatever.

Then we got back to their place and were hanging out before I went the 1/4 mile back to my place for the night. I lost my voice a couple of days ago as a result of this lame sickness I’ve got and while it came back mostly today, by the time dinner was over my throat was sore and raspy again. I asked my mom if she had any cough drops left and my dad jumped up saying, “I have a ton.” He took a few out of a sandwich bag and handed them to me.

I asked if they were sugar free and he said he didn’t know.

I asked if he had the packaging.

He asked, “why?”

I said I wanted to check if they had sugar in them.

He was clearly irritated that I was making this demand.

He read the ingredients to me. They included glucose syrup and sucrose.

I said, “No, thanks. I have some sugar free ones at home. I can wait. Thank you anyway.”

And.

Then.

He.

Laughed.

Not a boisterous laugh. But a snickering laugh.

As though I was too eccentric for him and wasn’t I being ridiculous?

I was instantly furious.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to ask him if he would offer an alcoholic cough syrup with alcohol in it?

I wanted to challenge him. Get in his face. Demand that he take me seriously.

Then I realized that I am 38 years old not 13 years old and I don’t need my father to take me seriously.

I also realized that he never will when it comes to this and it is futile for me to try.

So, I said nothing. I let him deride me with his laughter and walk away.

Then I talked to my mom for a while about Netflix and then I went home.

Here’s the part that makes me happy: When I got home, I didn’t eat anything. I could have because my dinner was light and I’ve been allowing myself some fat free sugar free frozen yogurt after dinner. But, I didn’t really feel that I needed it. Really, I’m just tired, and feeling sick, and needing some more water, and I don’t really want the frozen yogurt tonight; I’d just be eating it because I can.

So, I didn’t.

Instead, I’m sitting in bed writing about it and waiting to skype with my husband who’s half a continent away.

This is progress, not perfection.

This is me.

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