I’m dieting again for the millionth time. I’m eating something called a granola bar. What the eff is granola anyway? It doesn’t taste like food or a food that I’d want to eat. I look at the ingredients and it has corn flour and sugar. That can’t be good. It’s supposed to stop my hypoglycemia when I’m on the go which is not often since I have agoraphobia. I hate these new effing words. Can I just say I get dizzy if I don’t eat for many hours while on the go which is not often because I don’t leave my house?
I hate dieting but it has been the bane of my existence which means a pain in my ass. So why do I do it? I do it because I don’t want to buy new clothes that I can’t afford or leave my house in order to buy them.
I remember the first time I went on a diet. I was a new mother at eighteen and I carried 150 pounds on my five foot frame before and after giving birth. What! That’s what I said.
I remember the shaming that went on in the labor room. What! Yes, it was 1969 in Brooklyn and the nurses thought we were too much in pain to have a brain.
I remember the head nurse parading a slew of medical professional in my room saying. “Look how big this one is:” This one, what am I, a medical specimen.
“Well, she isn’t as big as the one in room three, that one is enormous but yes, wow” the younger nurse said. Wow indeed! Where did you get the license to judge and shame me in front of my roommate who was Chinese and didn’t even look pregnant? She couldn’t understand English and was too preoccupied with her labor to care but still, I felt more pain than my hard labor required. So, after I gave birth, I bought my first diet book.
It was The Stillman diet. For those of you too young to remember that piece of crap diet, It’s basically meat and water, a lot of water; too much water anyone should drink in a day. I ate two meat patties with ketchup twice a day and an ocean of water. I looked forward to that ketchup. I wanted to pour the whole bottle on that meat patty, probably because I was starved for any nutrient whatsoever. I lost five pounds a week, every week. It was amazing. I had to stay in because I was peeing more than the average bear. My boyfriend taught me to say that. I don’t really know how much a bear pee’s but I can guarantee that I peed more.
The bad part of all this and believe me there were a lot of bad parts, is that I became a zealot for this particular diet, and I wasn’t even getting paid by Mr. Stillman or anybody else for the excellent promotion.
I’m persuasive when obsessed and I went to all my friends houses making sure that not one drop of milk would be poured into a coffee at breakfast, nor one vegetable at lunch or heaven forbid a grain of rice eaten at dinner. This is difficult in Puerto Rican households where husbands insist rice and beans are the meal and everything else garnish. I didn’t care. I was on a mission and pretended not to notice the dirty looks I was getting from my friends families. My husband worked all night so I didn’t realize how much trouble I was causing. I’m immune that way.
All of my friends lost weight but inevitably we couldn’t keep it off for long. So then, I found a new diet that promised if I was faithful I could keep that weight off forever, and so it went on and on until I realized diets don’t work unless you either fix what is inside your head and soul, or lose your sense of taste. I guess I haven’t done the later because this granola bar tastes like crap.