South Beach Diet: Surrender, Dorothy
I emailed Irene the other day that I was feeling lightheaded. That I was starving. That I needed food. About an hour later, I emailed her that I had found strawberry shortcake and was feeling much better. And that was the end of that.
Apparently, I don't do diets well. What I don't do well is refuse myself. When I follow the Golden Mean, I do fine. All things in moderation. When I try to deprive myself, I do very badly.
I know how I gained the weight back. I did it with 3-5 mini-candy bars daily, philly cheesesteak sandwiches 2--3 times a week, gigantic platters of fried things, and heavy cream sauces. Oh, and sitting on my butt. I know how I will lose the weight again. No more daily candy, keeping the cheesesteak to twice a month, ordering the vegetables instead of the potatoes, and chasing after my child's big wheel.
Something works for everyone. South Beach ain't gonna work for me. However, in trying to stick with the program, I discovered that the cafeteria here has really good grilled chicken. The chef mocks me for only ordering the chicken, but that's okay. I am not even tempted by his greasy fries or onion rings.
I just hate being fat. There, I said it. I. Hate. Being. Fat. No, I don't hate myself. No, I don't hate my body. I like me, and I'm cute, but I hate that when I button up my favorite jeans, I have bubble gut. Enough of bubble gut. Cheesesteak does not taste good enough to compensate for how that flab looks as it rolls over my waistband. And yes, looking good in my jeans is enough to compensate for eating grilled chicken more often, and having cheesesteak only a couple of times a month. Yes.
