People lie, pictures lie, but a scale does not lie. No no. When my Mom started calling me fat, I scoffed at her thinking she’s delusional. When my friends commented on my protruding assets, I took a sigh of relief thinking I finally hit puberty. I guess sooner or later, I was going to have to retire my “skinny bitch” t-shirt because all those years of burritos and mozzarella sticks were bound to catch up to me.
So I decided to do the unthinkable… the impossible… the invincible: diet. The mere word is almost as scary as the thought of me stepping foot inside a gym. But I knew that eventually one of us was going to have to go: either my love for cheese or my figure. Being the typical self-conscious woman I am, I chose the former, of course.
Diet day 1: All the temptation demons are after me like a dog chasing a ball – they just keep coming back. I decided to severe ties with my old friends, Dunkin and Wendy, because they served more harm than good. My body retaliated as every muscle in my stomach started growling louder by the minute. All the billboards for McDonald’s seem to have suddenly triple in size and are flashing in neon lights. (And I don’t even like hamburgers!) Forget mind over matter – this was becoming personal – it was mind over platter. I hungered for food like recovering alcoholics thirst for liquor – I didn’t need it, but I wanted it, because I knew I was depriving myself of it.
The more I tried not to think about stuffing my face with 500 calories of greasy carbs, the less I succeeded. All my life, I was blessed with a fast metabolism and a petite figure. But gone are the days when stepping on a scale were a breeze, and size 0 clothes adorned my closet. I refuse though – I refuse to live a life full of self-deprivation and nutritional dieting. I want to have my cake and eat it too dammit!
I finally decided it was time for an intervention. So Avani-the-dating-extraordinaire stepped in and said to Avani-the-blossoming-cow: “You’ve given up stuff plenty of times before. This should be piece of cake (no pun intended). Remember the time I gave up on the guy formerly known as P-Dub? Or what about my childhood crush that I pined over for 4 years? Or the time I stopped pretending to care about cars because that guy was an auto junkie?” And so on and so forth the spiel went.
The more I thought about it, I realized that dieting was a lot like getting over a guy. Ultimately, they both require me to fight every instinct I have to act on impulse. What I really want is a large order of fries, but I stuff an apple down. Sure, I’d like to pick up the phone and call him, but I pick up a book instead. It becomes a torturous process of unsatisfactory substitutions. It really just comes down to moving on – from the “what used to be” to “what needs to be.”
Moving on is something else I’m not terribly apt at; I’ve only moved twice in my life: once from the motherland to America and then once within Jersey. Moving furniture or changing addresses isn’t really the hard part. Moving from somewhere is easy – it’s the moving on from someone that’s difficult. I can neatly store all of my belongings inside a big box, load the truck, dispense the keys and be gone. But how do I do that when someone lives inside of me – inside that little beating organ that seems to pump out more memories than blood? How do I change the locks when someone else holds the key to my heart?
I repeat it like a mantra, “I can do it, I can do it…” Interestingly enough, it’s the same pep talk I give to myself right before I swallow a pill (it’s a phobia that took me years to overcome, and one that I still try to avoid at all possible cost). If there was a magic pill I could take that would cure me of all symptoms related to being sprung, then by all means, bringeth to thy. When you start liking someone, it just sort of happens. Yet when it’s time to undo the liking (not to be confused with “disliking”), it takes every ounce of effort to control your thoughts and actions from leading to that one inevitable destination: your crush.
If practice makes perfect, then all recurring acts should eventually be carried out with supple buoyancy and efficiency. Optimal word being: should. Such is not the case unfortunately, my friend. Granted, you learn from your mistakes, so previous failed attempts and its consequences can be avoided the next time around. Yes, in a perfect world, practice makes perfect. But alas, our imperfections stand in the way like a speed bump – only further slowing us down when we’re trying to speed things up. But if it weren’t for my imperfections, I wouldn’t be the pudgy 113 pound girl head over heels a guy who barely thinks of me. And sometimes, honesty isn’t such a bad thing either.
So I decided to do the unthinkable… the impossible… the invincible: diet. The mere word is almost as scary as the thought of me stepping foot inside a gym. But I knew that eventually one of us was going to have to go: either my love for cheese or my figure. Being the typical self-conscious woman I am, I chose the former, of course.
Diet day 1: All the temptation demons are after me like a dog chasing a ball – they just keep coming back. I decided to severe ties with my old friends, Dunkin and Wendy, because they served more harm than good. My body retaliated as every muscle in my stomach started growling louder by the minute. All the billboards for McDonald’s seem to have suddenly triple in size and are flashing in neon lights. (And I don’t even like hamburgers!) Forget mind over matter – this was becoming personal – it was mind over platter. I hungered for food like recovering alcoholics thirst for liquor – I didn’t need it, but I wanted it, because I knew I was depriving myself of it.
I finally decided it was time for an intervention. So Avani-the-dating-extraordinaire stepped in and said to Avani-the-blossoming-cow: “You’ve given up stuff plenty of times before. This should be piece of cake (no pun intended). Remember the time I gave up on the guy formerly known as P-Dub? Or what about my childhood crush that I pined over for 4 years? Or the time I stopped pretending to care about cars because that guy was an auto junkie?” And so on and so forth the spiel went.
The more I thought about it, I realized that dieting was a lot like getting over a guy. Ultimately, they both require me to fight every instinct I have to act on impulse. What I really want is a large order of fries, but I stuff an apple down. Sure, I’d like to pick up the phone and call him, but I pick up a book instead. It becomes a torturous process of unsatisfactory substitutions. It really just comes down to moving on – from the “what used to be” to “what needs to be.”
Moving on is something else I’m not terribly apt at; I’ve only moved twice in my life: once from the motherland to America and then once within Jersey. Moving furniture or changing addresses isn’t really the hard part. Moving from somewhere is easy – it’s the moving on from someone that’s difficult. I can neatly store all of my belongings inside a big box, load the truck, dispense the keys and be gone. But how do I do that when someone lives inside of me – inside that little beating organ that seems to pump out more memories than blood? How do I change the locks when someone else holds the key to my heart?
I repeat it like a mantra, “I can do it, I can do it…” Interestingly enough, it’s the same pep talk I give to myself right before I swallow a pill (it’s a phobia that took me years to overcome, and one that I still try to avoid at all possible cost). If there was a magic pill I could take that would cure me of all symptoms related to being sprung, then by all means, bringeth to thy. When you start liking someone, it just sort of happens. Yet when it’s time to undo the liking (not to be confused with “disliking”), it takes every ounce of effort to control your thoughts and actions from leading to that one inevitable destination: your crush.
If practice makes perfect, then all recurring acts should eventually be carried out with supple buoyancy and efficiency. Optimal word being: should. Such is not the case unfortunately, my friend. Granted, you learn from your mistakes, so previous failed attempts and its consequences can be avoided the next time around. Yes, in a perfect world, practice makes perfect. But alas, our imperfections stand in the way like a speed bump – only further slowing us down when we’re trying to speed things up. But if it weren’t for my imperfections, I wouldn’t be the pudgy 113 pound girl head over heels a guy who barely thinks of me. And sometimes, honesty isn’t such a bad thing either.
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