Waify

I hate dieting. Hate it. It is a miserable, terrible thing to do to oneself. Two months ago, just as the weather was cooling down, I noticed that my jeans, which I hadn’t put on in several months (a year and a half), were feeling a little snug (impossible to button). So I decided to diet.

I had been considering it for a while, but then a friend mentioned that she wanted to as well, so we decided to do it together. In fact, we spent an entire afternoon concocting the most ridiculous plan/points system ever created. It involved weigh ins, calorie counting and scheduled exercise. We called it “The Waif Diet” (don’t try to steal that ingenious name) because we wanted to look like waifs. Think Kate Moss, Oliver Twist and other hungry looking people. That plan lasted about six days.

The thing about trying to lose weight is that it is a full out effort from every side. You’re telling your body, who, until this moment, was perfectly happy with its current state of a nice and steady low heart rate, that it’s time for a change. And that change involves taking away cheese, fried chicken and pasta, and adding lettuce, apples and carrots. That’s just mean. Who takes away cheese?

There are two other side effects to losing weight that are tricky. One is the exercise. Now, I can get into exercising. It does take me a few days, but eventually I’m a bit of a sucker for endorphins and, despite some red face and heavy breathing issues, I enjoy a good run as much as the next person. However, since beginning this most recent regimen, I’ve realized something. I’m old.

It’s been a bit of a shock to discover. Somehow, during my first several weeks of running I managed to injure my right hip. Now, I walk around like an 80 year old, holding my hip and throwing my back out. Sometimes it literally hurts so badly I wake up in the night with it aching. That sounds like a prime nursing home candidate if I’ve ever heard of one. So I’ve slowed on the running because I think it might be awkward if I’m using a walker on my 26th birthday due to overzealous exercising.

The other tough side effect is cutting out drinking. Now, I’m not a big drinker, but I do love a sweet margarita from time to time. And a good gin and tonic. And a nice glass of wine. But those are calories that could be much better spent on cheese. So it’s kind of tricky on a Saturday night when your hip is aching and you’re starving and you’re just watching your friends sip away while you suck down a diet coke like there’s no tomorrow.

That’s why I hate diets. And that’s probably why after I hit the point that the jeans would button again, I hit a plateau in the weight loss. That, and a little holiday I like to call Thanksgiving—which could just as easily be called “Day destined to wreak havoc on the self control of any normal person.” I’m a little surprised the Pilgrims and Indians (am I supposed to say Native Americans here?) didn’t just call it that.

Tomorrow I’m going back on the treadmill again after my weeklong preemptive nursing home avoidance break from running. I’m dreading the red face, heavy breathing and general threat of a heart attack I know will result. But that’s the thing I hate most about diets, you do them long enough and suddenly you’ve convinced your body it’s not supposed to be happy with pasta and a low heart rate. And that’s just crazy talk. What’s next? Convincing yourself that cheese really isn’t the most delicious thing ever created? Crazy.