Yes, I am trying to diet and I am horrible at it. If Richard Simmons called me tomorrow and said, “Don’t call it a Die – it, call it a Live-it,” I would say, “Screw you Richard Simmons . . . I need a cookie!”
I admire every dedicated dieter who counts calories and drinks green juice for breakfast and jumps rope before going to work. I do. I just don’t want to sit next to you at Thanksgiving.[quote button_text=”Tweet the Quote”]Dieting for me is more like Leaving Las Vegas than The Biggest Loser.[/quote]
I know the first few weeks of dieting will involve a drying-out period, so I fight to wake up with an optimistic attitude. I stumble into the bathroom, look in the mirror, and ask:
Mirror, Mirror, on the wall, who’s the most in-shape-middle-aged woman of them all?
Then I repeat the mantra I learned years ago in a motivational session. I stand tall and say, “Every day, in every way, I’m getting better and better.” I repeat this five times, but by the third repetition it somehow transitions to, “Every day, in every way, I’m getting butter and butter.”
The thought of butter makes me think of toast, which makes me think of jelly, which makes me think of sugar, which makes me think of Coca-Cola. My desire to get that can of Coke out of my refrigerator becomes overbearing.
I look at my mirror and revise my question by asking:
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the best slightly-overweight-middle-aged woman of them all?
Once I convince myself that I might actually have a shot at winning that title, I begin to teeter off the wagon.
I wander into the kitchen, lured by the charismatic hum of the refrigerator. The refrigerator is my appliance of choice, because it’s cool. I grab a glass out of the cabinet, trying to ignore the flirtatious sounds the refrigerator makes as it drops ice into the ice-bin.
I move to get to cold water from the refrigerator door. As I get close to the hum of my seducer, I place my hand on the refrigerator’s cool, vampire-like chest . . . I mean door. The water pours into my glass, as the refrigerator door slowly opens. Why? Because my right arm has taken on a life of its own and is opening it.
The light of happiness hits my face and, there, glowing like the Lost Ark, sits the red Coke can. I can already taste that juicy nectar.
I engage in some Lamaze breathing, trying to avoid the seduction.
Shaking from a lack of processed white goodness, I convince myself that all I need to feel better is one sip. So, my hand wraps around that Coke can. It’s so cold, and it fits my hand perfectly. It’s as if we were made for each other.
We walk to the kitchen counter, and I giggle at the funny story its’ carbonation is telling me. I set the can down on the counter and pop the top. The sound makes my mouth water. I decide to partake once I am dressed for work.
I return to my bedroom and attempt to put on my work pants , and notice that they won’t button. WHAT? I try on my blouse and notice that the middle button hangs by a thread due to my growing breasts. Neither being 14 years-old nor the recipient of surgery, this is not good news.
That’s when I face the truth — Coke and I can’t stay together. We are bad for each other. We’re like Liz and Richard, always attracted to each other but not meant to be. I run back to the kitchen in my unsnapped pants and button-less blouse. My husband looks concerned as I pour the Coke down the drain, whispering my good-byes.
I go to the bathroom, shave the stubble off my face (hey, I’m menopausal) and clean up.
I put on a stretchy top and loose pants. I look in the mirror and say, “Every day, in every way, I’m getting better and better.” I smile.
Then my husband pops open a Coke in the kitchen. . .