I can never be on a diet. Ever. Not even for eight minutes. I absolutely lack all self control. I'm a bit of a whiner. I know, shocking. So I often find myself moping around the apartment convincing myself that I can actually feel the muscle on my body turning to fat. And telling Jeremy the scale is broken. And poking at my stomach because, do you see this? See? It grew overnight. And I bet it was all the pizza I ate.
In my mind, I weigh a good 38 pounds more than I actually do. And I'm not one to try and tell my mind that it's wrong.
So the other day I made a decision. Dangit, I was going to practice portion control. And I felt really good about this idea, this portion control business, because doesn't that sound logical? Eat two pieces of pizza instead of four. One piece of toast instead of two. A handful of spaghetti, not an entire plate. And-a-half.
It worked, too. For one meal. And it was pizza, actually. My favorite food. I limited myself to two slices. And I felt good about it. Satisfied, but not full. I was on a roll! Hooray for portion control! I'll be a supermodel before you know it! This is the best day ever!
And then tonight I thought it'd be a good idea to
eat an entire pound of spaghetti give up that dream. And, man, did I give it up. Two servings of spaghetti. Big servings. And garlic bread. After cheese quesadillas and a four-pound piece of Snickers cheesecake last night.
But. But I was hungry! And I'm crabby when I'm hungry. And really, I only did it for the sake of others, because you don't want to be around me when I'm crabby.
Except here I sit. Full. Rumbling. And at least 11 pounds heavier than when this day started. And I couldn't run because it was raining. And, oh my God, here I go whining, again.
Excuse me, I'll be in the kitchen foraging for dessert.