6:30am. The alarm buzzes. A schedule indicates it’s time to drink some sort of boosting flushing ionizing nonsense. Blurry eyed and reluctant, I pad over to the ‘fridge to pour a shot of this magic elixir that elicits emoji-gasms from a thousand Facebook moms. It’s still dark. I plow my foot directly into a dining chair with full-stride force. THE DIET begins with sleepy reluctance and a broken toe.
I pour greenish orange-y slop into a shot glass and prepare for my stomach to flatten and aging to reverse. But it’s just Tang. Well, Tang that’s mixed with maybe spinach and algae. I wonder if it’s gone a bit off. But I am RESOLVED. It’s 7am and I’m on an OFFICIAL DIET.
Dad gets up and has sole dibs on the coffee pot. Bravely, I’m going to do this thing without caffeine. I’m waiting for the magic potion to imbue me with ineffable exclamation point energy. Dad watches me assemble my first of 30 sad breakfasts. I scoop a rather large amount of powder into a sippy cup for fat moms and shake up a meal that is supposed to taste like French Vanilla.
But it doesn’t.
It tastes like disappointment, chalky milk, possibly vegetables, and is infused with a vanilla essence intended to trick dieters into thinking “sweet.” I gag through three gulps. Dad is giggling at me. I put it on ice, get a straw, and dry heave through 3 additional, timid sips. The rest gets poured behind the rhododendron, as I have no idea what havoc this might wreck on my delicate kitchen plumbing.
It’s 8am. I’m hungry. I take the horse pill that promises to curb my appetite until TWO ENTIRE ALMONDS are allowed at 9am. It’s going to be a long day. My children wake up and tell me I don’t need to lose weight. I love them. I drink more water.
Lunch allows a near free for all (except for gluten, sugar, alcohol, and other normal and delicious things) and I eat half a roasted chicken and extra vegetable side dishes. I really wanted the other half of the chicken, and I’m still thinking about it. Mmmm, chicken. It was fun to chew for the 7 whole minutes it took me to clear the plate. Tina, our regular waitress, is wondering why I didn’t order my usual mimosa or Sancerre. I tell her. Tina doesn’t mince words: “That sounds stupid.” I agree with her. Mmmm, chicken.
I take another horse pill and begin dreading “dinner.” Uncaffeinated, kind of hungry, and yet STILL RESOLVED, I make this fucking scrumptious dinner for Bernie and the boys that is like penance. I pour more water, elevate my broken toe, and watch Blade Runner. Somehow I’ve never seen the original one– the one where Harrison Ford is gorgeous and manly and kills robots (that don’t seem all that evil) save one that he keeps as a sex slave. In 35 years of listening to boys argue the bold genius that is Blade Runner, no one mentions the sex robot part. Poor Rachel is another #MeToo. Ugh. Bedtime.
I realize I skipped the liquid dinner meal. Honestly, I’m too coffee-deprived, toe-broken, and let’s face it #MeToo world-weary to stomach another sad, shaken meal that makes me gag. I go to bed like a punished child, but STILL RESOLVED. I’m doing this again tomorrow. Tomorrow will be easier.