2 weeks of dieting can be traumatic
First Posted: 1/5/2015
Let’s be honest. Almost every resolution for 2015 involves a diet. Sure, we pretend it’s all about health, but in my thesaurus, “healthier” means “skinnier.”
Last week, my daughter was flipping through a catalog that was actually advertising bathing suits. Bathing suits! I guess it’s for all those lucky b!@%^*%s who go on vacations in January to somewhere other than my favorite winter hot-spot: Dollar General.
She exclaimed: “This is the perfect bathing suit for you, Mom!” I looked and screeched; “You don’t mean this suit, do you? It has a skirt!”
Is this how my daughter viewed me? Does she not see the girl I am in my mind; no cellulite and a spring in my step? No frown line, no bunions? The truth hurts, but not as much as sit-ups. So begins my odyssey with the “Don’t Touch That Bagel Diet.” Join me on this journey of unmitigated carb-control hell as I begin the first phase: Ding Dong the Wicked Bread is Dead.
Day One: Not bad. I enjoyed a fulfilling breakfast of bacon and eggs. Who misses her bagel? Not me. Not one stinking bit. I ate more than I usually eat in a day, but I still felt lightheaded and vacant at times. Oh wait, that’s not the diet. That’s just me.
Day Two: Another egg. How many more days to go?
Day Three: Can I just lick the outside of a hard boiled egg and make it count? The day goes well with me rubbing a Tasty Cake on my pulse points and pretending my sugarless gum was pizza. Who thinks it worked? Who thinks I need therapy?
Day Four: Breakfast is here. Again. I will prevail. I am strong. I am Woman, hear me roar. I am Woman, see me weep. I am hungry, see me starve. For lunch today I got crazy and drizzled an extra 1/8 teaspoon of vinaigrette on lettuce.
Day Five: I went to lunch with skinny friends, and it wasn’t pleasant. I may have spit on their pie. Really, who the hell deemed sugar the enemy? I thought Putin was the enemy. I’d sell a child for a brownie.
Day Seven: Last night, I dreamt I was making cannoli with Grandma, and she ate them all! The whole point of this diet is not to look like grandma, who, by the way, was shaped like a fire hydrant. I so don’t want those same ancestral lower arms flailing in the wind.
Day 8: My husband brought Peanut Butter Ripple into my home today.
If he brought in a slab of burning asbestos, I would’ve been less traumatized.
Days 9-13: It’s getting easier…aside from chasing a 7-year-old for a Krispy Kreme at a wrestling meet on Day 10. I just wanted to smell it. Is that illegal? Anyway – I’m not supposed to get within 15 feet of the school now. Whatever.
Day 14: Ordeal is almost over! I mean diet. I mean near-death experience. But was weight loss really the whole point? Didn’t I also need to become healthier and wean myself off the sugar and bread that were my lifeblood?
Oh, who am I kidding? I just don’t want to wear a freaking bathing suit with a petticoat and cape.
And, please, when you see me at the snack bar shoving a donut down my shirt– pretend you don’t.