Rage and Food Porn

My apologies for keeping (all two of) you waiting. Finally, here it is, momentous event #1: The Rage-Inducing Diet.

Let's start at the beginning, shall we? I attempted to ignore the signs -- the pants feeling a little tighter, my mother's hints, my sudden discomfort in bathing suits, and the fact that my weight is greater than what Bridget Jones sites as totally unacceptable in her movie Diary. But then came the proverbial straw: Marianne's Run The Chop Race. My dad and I run a 5-mile race every year over 4th of July weekend. The past few years I have been remiss in my race-running, but this year I stepped back up to the plate, mostly to prove to myself that I still could.

And I did. The race itself went fine. I didn't stop to walk, I kept a steady (if a little slow) pace, and I did not finish last. I even helped urge my dad along at times. I wouldn't exactly say I'm proud of how I did, but it wasn't terrible. What was terrible was the realization that the box I usually skip over, the one that asks if I want to be considered in the optional heavyweight class for men and women over a certain weight -- I qualified for that box.

I did, in fact, skip over it. It wasn't until about 0.5 mile that it dawned on me -- I could have checked off that box because I am indeed over that weight.

So the following Monday I went to the library (I would never pay money for such trash) and took out a diet book. The South Beach diet book to be exact. This is where I should mention that I basically eat three food groups in every meal: carbohydrate/starch (pasta, bread, potato, or corn), tomato, and cheese. Pasta with sauce and parmesan. Pizza. Nachos. Baked potato. Etc.

As I casually started to flip through South Beach and discovered that I could eat nothing from my first major food group for two weeks, not even fruit, I felt disbelief. When I arrived at the part where I was not to drink any alcohol, it reached full on rage. Just reading about the diet drove me to eat a sausage, potato salad, green salad, spinach and cheese dip, a mini-loaf of bread, and a piece of cheesecake.

After my revenge eating (revenge on what, I don't know), I woke up and found I really couldn't keep my pants buttoned. So I did the unthinkable. I gave the diet a try. My previous record for dieting having been 1 hour and 45 minutes, I did not have high hopes, but I tried. I made it through the first day, probably foaming at the mouth, muttering about foods I missed, and dreamed that night of pasta. The sun rose on Wednesday, and I pushed through again, angry the whole time. Wednesday night I dreamed of cookies. Thursday passed in much the same way, and I dreamed of wine.

It's entirely possible that I dream this much of food normally, but this was overpowering. This had reached the level of food porn, a term coined in Chile, a country known for its tasteless and occasionally even repulsive food. (Don't worry Chile, I still love you.) "Food porn" refers to the visions of food that dance before your eyes, open or closed, when you are truly missing good cuisine (or any cuisine at all). Food porn is a total tease. And it was all I could think about.

Friday I was embarking on a trip to DC. I had made it three days, 6 pounds, and I was prepared to go for the whole 2 weeks in order to fit back into my clothing. I even packed diet-acceptable foods to eat on my trip. That night, Cranston, Tim, and I went out to grab dinner, and Cranston suggested we go to Legal Sea Foods because I had never been. I was already starving when they quoted us a 45 minute weight time, so I was ravenous by the time they actually seated us, over an hour and a half later. When they sat the bread basket in front of me, I grabbed a roll, covered it in butter, and asked, who wants to split a bottle of wine?

I guess the lesson is: Be true to yourself and your carb-loving stomach. I suppose it wasn't so much of a life change as an affirmation of the way life currently is, and I like it.