Going on a diet is EXACTLY like the story “The Very Hungry Caterpillar”. Only instead of eating your way through every single food, you merely stare at the edibles and say things like “Ohhh chocolate torte, you look like my ex-boyfriend from high school, is there a reason you still have to look so damn delicious?”
Also, rather than starting as a tiny egg on a leaf, you begin your diet story as a giant blob at the kitchen table. Or at least that’s where my story begins. My son is learning his numbers. I started my diet the day he counted my chins.
From there you slowly unfurl from your chair and begin to move. Remember movement? Walking? The gym? God in heaven why aren’t these methods of torture illegal? You vow to change your eating habits instead.
On Monday, you eat only apples. And still get bigger.
Tuesday, you decide pears are lower in carbs but still you get bigger.
You conclude that the key is eating tinier fruits. So on Wednesday you mow down on three tiny plums and the scale laughs at you when you step on it.
Thursday you throw out the scale and eat a bag of Cheetos.
Friday morning brings regret in many forms, so you dumpster dive to rescue the scale. Your garbage adventure gives you an old pizza and sour milk smell that you can’t seem to wash out of your hair. The scent makes you gag so much that Friday becomes an all-day fast.
On Saturday you’re invited out for dinner and drinks. Thankfully the spoiled milky-pizza smell came out, so you watch as your friends eat chocolate torte, a plate of penne, a churro, shawarma and a lobster. Afterwards, you are very tired of your diet and make a cocoon of blankets to comfort yourself before bed.
Sunday morning, all of your hard work has paid off because you emerge from your bed, a thin, beautiful winged creature with well styled hair.
Only not actually, you’re still fat. Also hungry. But your partner informs you that he managed to lose 8 pounds this week.