Dieting is a bitch!
Either Abraham Lincoln first uttered those words while chasing vampires or William Howard Taft after he got stuck in a bathtub.
Regardless of attribution, it is one of life’s sad truths.
Though I once gravitated toward over-the-top fitness, that phase has long passed. I’m now a flawed bulimic — I binge but I don’t purge, leaving me to seek another way.
Thus, I’ve been reunited with myfitnesspal.com, a website where you enter what you eat, what you weigh, what your weight goals are, etc. and it spits back the ugly truth: Everything that doesn’t taste like a brick has way too many calories.
So I wake every morning feeling like I need to eat a tree, yes, bark included–no trans fats, lots of fiber–if I’m to meet my daily goals. By the end of the day I feel like a squirrel. Acorns, fine. Pastrami, taboo.
I’ve been hovering around 205 pounds for a while, and even though that’s all muscle–right!–my goal is to reach 190. On most days I’ve pushed the button after my final meal and the message has been sweet, something along the lines of, “If you continue like this, you’ll weigh 189 pounds in six weeks.”
Alas, the human condition is flawed, which means setbacks.
A rude awakening came from a recent trip to Hooters where Patti and I split a Cuban sandwich, chicken wings (Patti has reminded me several times that she only had two), and French Fries. I also drank three pints of Bud Light and finished the night with a trip to Dunkin’ Donuts. All told, I consumed 2,373 calories at dinner, or enough food to feed Ethiopia for a week. When I pushed the final button for the day, myfitnesspal.com told me I would weigh 215 in six weeks if I kept it up.
Thus, today’s penance: a palm frond and pine cone salad with a bowl of air. Wahoo!