Rethinking the Treat System...

Weight- 165 (holla) (not strictly true. Weight was taken before glurging on nachos with friends last night. I think I laughed off the extra calories, though)
Calories consumed today- who knows... 900ish?
Minutes spent despairing over money spent on groceries- 42
Things that I bought at the grocery store that I will eventually regret- 0 (That's what I'm talking about!)
Naps taken instead of jogs- 1 (um, deserved)
Days until B-Day- 125

Day 3:
Fun times with old college buddies last night. I served myself a carefully portioned plate of chips, meat, beans, etc. And then another one. And another one. I'm such a food whore. We got into an intense discussion regarding crock pots and chicken verde soup. I finally realized how ancient I was getting when a joyful reunion with friends turned into a discourse about black beans and the nutritional benefits of flax.
I feel, as always, resentful about the money I have to spend on necessary items... gas, groceries. I suppose if I stopped eating and walked everywhere, I'd lose the weight a hella lot faster. I would also probably be a little bit dead or a lotta bit post-Auschwitz.
I am proud to say that I managed to make it through my weekly grocery store assault with minimum casualties. What made it into my cart? Broccoli, black beans, salsa, gross protein crap. What made it into my cart only to be put back? The most delicious looking berry cobbler thing. I know I looked like a bipolar squirrel, hoarding for the winter and then suffering from buyer's remorse.... I would pick up the delectable-looking dessert, fondle it a bit, then put it back into the freezer. Later, passing the aisle, I would ninja back to the freezer case, take it back out, and put it in my cart, then meander away, whistling a merry tune and trying not to look guilty. But I felt guilty. So very guilty. So back to the frozen foods went I, and the berrylicious tart of sin would get shoved back into ice cold purgatory. Not possessing infinite self-control resources, and after a last desperate cycle of longing, retrieving and retracting, I left the store before the yum overrode the common sense.
Here's my issue... I'm like a golden retriever: I will be more than happy to retrieve any stick, perform any trick or accomplish any mundane task as long as there's a treat waiting for me on the other side. Where I get into trouble? Every day features tasks I find myself wanting to bribe my lazier side into accomplishing- laundry, dishes, aerobics, getting up in the morning, putting my shoes in the closet, filling my tank with gasoline, moving... and my treats generally involve food (especially cupcakes. Oh, YUM). One fairly common offender is the cheeseburger... there's nothing more glorious than surviving another week and then celebrating by sinking my teeth into a warm, rare, juicy cheeseburger topped with cheese and bacon, with a sizzling basket of freshly-cooked fries and some Red Robin campfire sauce to dip the whole obscene occasion in (I know that was grammatically inaccurate, but "into which to dip the whole obscene occasion" seemed cumbersome. Also, it always takes me 4+ tries to spell "occasion" correctly). 1600 calories later, I've treated myself into a half a pound of body fat. Mother Nature is an ice cold bitch, people, and I hope that wherever she is, she has morbid obesity, type 2 diabetes, and decaying teeth. And menstrual cramps... but that's not this story.
My new concept is to renovate my treat system for... future rather than immediate satisfaction. That cupcake is oh so very, very, very good, and sinking my teeth into the rich sweet frosting into the flavorful cake below (hopefully with a crunch of nuts or a burst of fruit or a decadent drizzle of chocolate ganache) is a sensation which transcends all human glory and...
NO! REWRITE! Ahem (needed a moment) the cupcake is good, but enough of them and I'm going to look like 50 pounds of christmas ham shoved into a 25 pound sack of lard. So, instead of tasty treats, I'm going to make looking hot in a pair of size 8 skinny jeans my new treat. (Isn't it sad that my thinness goal would be someone else's idea of morbid obesity? In print, size 8 doesn't look that fantastic. Oi.) From now on, I'm going to visualize being able to wear a short skirt without my thighs rubbing grotesquely together instead of nachos smothered in queso sauce. I'm going to picture a swimsuit season free of embarrassment, hip fat overhang and necessary cover-ups instead of stuffed crust pizza smothered in cheese and sausage.
And I'm pretty sure every time I institute this treat system, I'm going to be AS ANGRY AS I AM RIGHT NOW. A. that food is tasty, B. that eating it makes me feel like an orca, and C. that naturally skinny people seem to eat enough for four grown men and a buffalo and never gain so much as a bloated toe.
UGH. Well, off to eat some broccoli. And fantasize about finding whomever it was who discovered fat and beating them to death with a carrot stick.