“I’ve already lost
about twenty pounds on my new diet, and it wasn’t hard at all.” That statement
is made by a good friend who does not lie. So it catches my attention. I
really need to lose twenty pounds—well, okay, fifty pounds—but at least ten.
Even five pounds would make me happy.
So, filled with
renewed hope that finally a diet guru has invented a system I can follow, I borrow
her book from the library. My friend, who never lies, tells me that on this diet,
even though you’re eating all the time, the pounds keep melting off. I dive
into the book, seeking out the basic rules of this magical diet. In between the
nitty gritty, the author repeatedly insists that her diet is not a diet, which
any dieter knows is always a lie. I find her weekly food plans and her twenty diet
rules—ten do’s and ten don’ts.
Most of the do’s
seem doable. Drink lots of water. Duh. Eat five times a day. Heck, I’ll eat ten
times a day if it helps me lose weight. Exercise, but not too strenuously. I’m
all over that—I broke up with the gym years ago. I balk at her commandment to
eat first thing in the morning. It seems, according to guru lady, I’m a tub
because I don’t eat when I’m not hungry. Well, I’m a trooper—I can always make
myself eat if necessary. Since one of the
do’s is to follow her plan exactly for 28 days, I guess I’ll become a breakfast
person for four weeks. Like she says, we can make ourselves do anything for 28
days, right? It’s the length of a February. I got this.
Then I start
reading the don’ts. No sugar. Okay, that’s a no-brainer. Nowadays, no
politically correct diet guru would dare allow sugar consumption. I suppose I
can give up sweets for a few weeks. But then I see she also bans artificial
sweeteners—except for Stevia, which absolutely does not work in coffee. Splenda
does. This calls for an executive decision. They’re both sweeteners, they both
start with S. Splenda wins. Crisis averted.
But not so fast.
Next rule: No caffeine. What? Where’s a person supposed to find the energy for
dieting without coffee? There’s no way I’m coping with sugar and caffeine withdrawal. Besides, hasn’t
guru lady been reading Facebook? Every other day there’s an article touting the
many life-lengthening benefits of coffee. And I just reloaded my Starbucks
card. Executive decision number two: Coffee stays. Which of course requires
executive decision number three: Ignore the “do” rule that says we must follow
the plan exactly. By “exactly” I now mean “generally.” Tell the truth, does
anyone follow a diet exactly? Really?
Then I spot the
next two rules. Wait, what’s this? No wheat? No corn? What about her big claim
that her diet allows grains? I definitely skimmed that section too quickly.
Here I was all excited that I could still have bagels for breakfast and sandwiches
for lunch and tortillas for dinner and popcorn for evening snacks. If she cuts
out corn and wheat, what kind of grain is she talking about, anyway? I find the
list. I recognize some items, such as quinoa (only edible if you can’t taste
it). Then I see these mystery grains . . . amaranth, arrowroot, spelt, teff,
triticale. First, what on earth is amaranth, and second, how am I supposed to
sop up my fried egg with it? Well, a closer look at her weekly food plan answers
part of that question. Four days out of the week are low-fat, so she expects us
to eat egg whites only—no yolks, which are the only reason a normal person eats
eggs. What kind of masochist chokes down an egg-white omelet? On unbuttered amaranth,
no less!
I skim her reasons
for banning wheat and corn. Seems our guru’s main beef with them is that
they’re hard to digest. Well, I’m just going to tell my body to digest them, so
there!
At this point, I
realize the “don’ts” list is taking quite a hit. Before I’ve even downed my first
forbidden cup of coffee with my obligatory breakfast on day one, I’ve already
decided to ditch at least five out of twenty of her holy commandments of
magical weight loss. So I’m down to 75% compliance. Well, that’s a passing grade
in most classes. I decide not to worry about it and proceed to the next rule.
Which slams me up
against another wall: No dairy. Seriously? I’m not even allowed to butter my
forbidden popcorn or smother my amaranth in melted cheese? I can’t add cream to
my forbidden coffee? I’m supposed to deprive my post-menopausal bones of calcium
for how long? Forget it. I’m doing dairy. I’m now down to fourteen acceptable
rules, but fourteen rounds up to fifteen, so I’m still good.
Whew! That was
close. For a moment there, I worried I might have to quit before I started.
The diet is on.
I wake up on day
one, determined to make this work. The first and second day of the diet call
for protein, fruit, and grains, but no fat. Oats are one of the few grains I
recognize one her list, so my first forced breakfast consists of oatmeal and
berries and turkey bacon, the only kind of bacon Ms. Guru allows. I think the
packaging might have been tastier, definitely thicker. The fake bacon makes me
extra thankful for my executive allowances of coffee, cream, and Splenda.
As the day wears
on, the no-fat rule becomes more of a challenge. I can have a meat sandwich,
thanks to my decision to keep wheat. But no mayo. I try adding just a tomato
and lettuce, and all I get is soggy bread. As happens on every diet, dinner
time causes me the most consternation. Vegetables are required. Salad is the
only palatable way to eat vegetables. But who can eat salad without dressing?
And what decent dressing does not contain fat and sugar? Diet dressings taste worse
than bare vegetables, so I dress the salad and tell myself at least we’re
eating vegetables.
I survive the
first two days. Then, day three hits. Our guru mandates that day three and four
are limited to protein and vegetables. And she trims the veggie list down to
the most unappetizing variety. No grains, no fats, nothing that tastes good. It’s
like Atkins without the pork rinds! We’re even supposed to eat veggies for
breakfast! Though I’m sure our guru would find some reason to disapprove (she
is a dietician after all), I decide a glass of Spicy V-8 will suffice.
I cheat my way
through the day. A little ranch dip here, a rice cracker there, a whole egg on
my forbidden toast, buttered with forbidden dairy, washed down with forbidden
creamy coffee.
On day four my
first thought when awaking is, “Oh ugh, the diet.” Why had I thought I could
make myself do anything for 28 days? I’m already desperate for day five, when
I’m allowed to eat a nut! To avoid giving up, I decide to skip my second
Atkins-on-steroids day and go right to day five. Surely my body will reward me
for my one whole day of extreme deprivation. I suspect I have lost a
pound—maybe. Let the magic shrinking continue!
On my official day
five, I start the day with breakfast—at a restaurant, with a friend. Buckwheat
is on a permitted grain, so I order buckwheat pancakes. They turn out to be pretty
dry, requiring me to add extra butter and syrup. I also order eggs and
bacon—gotta have that protein in the morning. And the wonderful server keeps us
supplied with strong coffee, which necessitates generous additions of cream.
And Splenda.
By day seven, I’m
pretty weary of choking down unaccompanied chunks of meat, gnawing on veggies
for snacks, and futilely searching the fridge for legal treats. Then, right
after my forced breakfast, my phone gets smashed in the workings of my
recliner. So I need Jelly Belly therapy. And a latte. And more clothes—in size
voluptuous.
