Beer and pizza. Five slices of cheesy, meaty goodness (yes, five) and an icy Corona. Boom! My Slow-Carb diet is out the window.
I did not even last a single day.
Best of all, I don’t even care.
There’s always tomorrow. Or I could try a different diet. Like the one where you don’t eat anything that has ingredients you can’t pronounce. Or the one with the 80/20 rule; whatever that means.
Chances are I am not going to stick with the program for more than five hours, so no point being too picky.
The dieting thing – it’s a bit of a lark, really.
How indulgent, to be able to cut out food groups and bring them back in on a whim. No sugar today, no dairy tomorrow. Liquids only for a few weeks. There is no bounds to the fun you can have.
In fact, I’d say forget about skydiving and treat yourself to a restricted eating program. How fun to watch 300 grams come and go so quickly. Actually, if we’re talking about last week, for me it was more the case of 1200 grams just coming and dossing on my hips for about five days. No worries. I got rid of it with lentils and a bit of exercise on Monday and Tuesday
What program will I subscribe to after last night’s pizza? This could be my chance to try the Paleo diet.
Recently my mother accused me of being into “all these fad diets.” She says it as if I’m some sort of junkie or compulsive pen-stealer. I am really scraping at the edges of socially acceptable behaviour, according to Jan.
Really, I just want a bit of a challenge. Being a vegetarian for the week is just like trying to run in thongs in the rain and not get mud on the back of your legs. It’s fairly annoying, but it requires thought and precision.
Cooking for my gluten-free, vego flatmate is a riot. Spaghetti bolognaise, one of my favourite foods, but also a representation of slothful cooking, is a no-go area when Amber and I are feasting. On the bright side, meat and pasta are traded for quinoa tabouli; a crappy little butter cake becomes raw chocolate brownies. And the things you can do with tofu. Wow!
Last year I followed Sarah Wilson’s ‘I Quit Sugar’ diet for two months. Not an inch of sugar passed my lips. Jan did not approve. In fact, she seemed genuinely pissed off to have lost a chocolate-and-liquorice-eating partner in crime.
That was a semi-successful diet. I lost a bit of weight and a few centimetres off my waist. No afternoon energy slump, and all that jazz.
The best bit, though, was having a little goal. A side project that did not cost any money and would still shock my mother; it was perfect.
She is still upset about losing her Clinker companion. Poor thing, she has no-one to share the gloom with when the packet is accidentally left in the car and the chocolate melts off the candy and the what-colour-will-this-Clinker-be surprise is gone. Plus, there’s nobody to weigh in on the pink versus green debate. Dad is useless here. He prefers yellow. Huh? So naturally Ma feels like she’s lost a limb when she buys Clinkers now.
But, hey, I didn’t eat any sugar for two months.
For the slow-carb regime I’ve been living off lentils and avoiding potatoes as if they’re likely to possess me.
So, one night of beer and pizza, was it worth it? Well, it was a shake-up from the lentil routine; one night when I did not pretend to be Neil from the Young Ones.
And in diet-land, there’s always tomorrow. I’ll make a fresh dhal.