Over the last year, I've realized that we, as a human collective, take ourselves far too seriously. You should be able to laugh at yourself in each dispicable moment, and not well after the dust has settled. This is a re-post from Open Salon one year and three-hundred and fifty one(ish) days ago. I've edited and tweaked it, but it remains more or less the same. Although it's a past blog, the sentiments still ring true.
The time has come once again in our year for inadequacy to plant seeds into the minds of every human with a television. My husband and I are no exceptions to this season, better known as “the diet season.”
The diet season arises out of desperation around New Year’s when we all squirm uncomfortably in our fancy clothes after the holiday gorge(“this kaftan fit a little looser at last year’s party”). Right then and there, as back fat becomes molded, shaped and rippled under the constraint of bra straps, we silently make vows that never again will we add elastic gussets to our kaftans.
Apparently, there was a vacancy in my pants, or so I gathered from the extra ten pounds that have taken up residency within them. The poor jeans wince around my thighs, the button creaks in its buttonhole, a sound which harmonizes melodiously with my own groans when I sit down.
It was around the same time that I noticed that my husband began drooling over the svelte sex-kitten assassin on TV. Only mildly annoyed, I gently let him know exactly what he was doing. “Darling, you have a little something on your face.”
He attempted to act concerned. “Really? Where?” he asked.
“Your third chin.”
“All right. No wheat, no potatoes, no sugar, no rice, no corn products-”
“No fun,” my husband added. “That should be on the list, too.”
I tried to remain unfazed. “No beer, no-”
“-joy, no sanity, no smiles,” he grumbled, nibbling the leftover crumbs off his shirt.
“No whining, chubs,” I held my ground. We were both going to have a wonderful experience, and by the end of our two-week diet we would need to have our skin tailored, as even that would be too big for our petite frames.
In wanting to document our fantastic efforts, and in hopes that others would learn how to drop pounds like a British billionaire, I kept a daily log.
Day 1- This will be magical. It’s noon, and I’m feeling it already. My jeans are fitting better by the minute (which has nothing to do with the fact that I did five whole minutes of yoga in them just to get the lousy things on). My husband has created a lovely feast of hummus, lean ham and lemon juice wrapped in lettuce leaves for lunch. Doing this diet together was the best idea ever. It has also been noted somewhere that skinny people make more money. Bought lotto ticket.
Day 2- Observed my new physique today. Resembles my old physique all too closely. Ate coffee for breakfast with a side of egg whites and asparagus. I have a feeling that cabbage and fat free cottage cheese will be my best friends throughout this endeavor. My husband began to whine. I reminded him that whining wasn’t on the list. He left for a walk and returned smelling very much like French fries. My jeans are fitting. In using the term “fitting,” I mean to say that I can get them on. Groan.
Day 3- My husband and I had a small spat over the sugar content of cardboard today. I told him there was no use in giving me advice on our diet because I was the queen of diets. He finally ate it. We didn’t win the lotto.
Day 4- My husband and I are no longer speaking to each other. He washed and dried my jeans. They had not been dried since I had children. They now fit my big toe. I went to the store to buy groceries with my daughter. Though it is not on the list, I told my daughter I would eat her for lunch if she asked for another donut, Twinkie or candy. I bought them all anyway--at least, I tried to until I remembered that I had left my money in my jeans at home and not in the sweatpants I was wearing. Went home to eat more lettuce.
Day 5- Levi Strauss was the worst person that ever happened to maternal women.
The time has come once again in our year for all humans to come to grips with our inadequacies. I threw away the jeans, and everything else that didn’t allow movement. Thomas Hancock, the inventor of elastic fabric, was the best gift to maternal women. EVER. Food--real food-- has replaced the rabbit nibblits we had been living on. My husband and I are doing much better, thanks to counseling. Food counseling. We now celebrate that our love has transcended even the cruelest of diets...with beer sausages. He still continues to drool, and I continue to nag, but we are quite content with this season. I call it the “getting over it season.”
The images are new to the blog and not my own. The muffin-top, and the fit folks were courtesy of a mouse in a wheel over at google. The meme is memebase.