If I could travel back to a couple of months ago, I wouldn’t choose to do anything extraordinary for the good of humanity, like warn the Sochi people about their fifth Olympic circle, or urge Leo to ditch the Oscars night and hit the bars instead. Nope, I’d rather rush to meet my super duper hot former self, only to grab the bag of crisps out of her hand and give her a good slap.
This needs to stop, I’d tell her. It needs to stop now or you’ll end up like me. She’d then have a good look at her chubby future self, understand the enormity of the tragedy looming over her sexy figure, and never touch a crisp again.
Believe it or not, time machines are not easy to come by these days. And I probably wouldn’t fit in one anyway. Because guess what, I’ve gained not one, not two, but FIVE pounds since autumn of 2013. Of course I could pretend I have no idea how this came to happen, and conveniently blame it on my super duper stressful let’s-call-it-career-but-we-know-it’s-a-joke or my stupid aging cells, but I’d rather be fat than fat and kidding myself. So as I was facing the evil digits on my scale screen the other day, I decided something needed to change. I mean, it’s been hard enough being short as a bar stool all my life. Now I’m turning into an over-sized beanbag, and it’s really not the sexiest of looks.
So this week has been interesting. Interestingly tasteless.
I’ve given up each and every food my will to live has so far depended on. I’d have replaced everything in our fridge with tons of leafy, super-scrumptious-in-theory things some of which I’ve rarely tried before, if V. hadn’t fought me tooth and nail to keep his yummy half of the fridge intact. Who would have thought crossing fridge boundaries was such a relationship no no. So now every time I open it to get myself a helping of chopped greens or my I-call-it-desert-but-it’s-just-a-carrot-and-it-makes-me-so-sad, I face the colors and smells of countless temptations crammed into his half of the fridge. Not to mention that, in truly brilliant fashion, I also unknowingly started on my diet from hell on the eve Pancake Day, and have been dreaming of sledding down mountains of pancakes every night since. Fun and games.
It’s not all bad. It’s true, I think I may just be developing allergic reactions to spinach and broccoli, but I’m sure I’ll lose the extra pounds in, like, a day and a half at most, and then I’ll be free to stuff myself with pancakes for 24 hours straight. That’s how this works, right? Tell me that’s how this works!
That’s right, ignore my cries for mercy and go back to chomping your tasty forbidden snacks, I’ve brought this onto myself after all. I’ll try to keep the dieting up for as long as it takes/I can, and though I’ll try to document it throughout, I might miss a post or two due to carrot binge eating sessions or fighting through terrible bouts of Doritos withdrawal.
I’m off now, it’s just about lunch time here in Spinach Land, and there’s a lovely leafy casserole with my name on it in the office fridge. YUM!