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Diet Journal, Day 1
Wednesday, September 25th
So, last night, in preparation for my diet starting today, I completely purged my kitchen. I really had the best intentions – honest to God, I did. But as most things go with my life, what started off as a great idea, ended with me crying on my kitchen floor with a box of pizza to my left and a box of wine to my right – both of which were, of course, empty.
I got home from work around 6:30, contemplated going to the gym for all of twenty seconds, and then remembered that since my diet hadn’t yet begun, neither had my gym regimen. I was off the hook, thank Christ. As I stood staring into my fridge, eating cold, leftover Chinese food directly out of the containers, I thought about what I actually wanted for dinner. Obviously, the Chinese food didn’t count as a meal because 1) it was cold and 2) I was eating it standing up. I decided to order a pizza as my sort of last hurrah before this diet officially started and because I was feeling really sad about not being able to eat for the next month indefinitely, I decided to splurge. Extra cheese. Extra meat. Extra large. Did I mention that I hate myself?
As I waited for Gary, the pizza delivery man whom I am on a first name basis with, I decided to otherwise prepare for my nearing starvation. I grabbed a few trash bags and began to attack my cabinets and refrigerator with the eyes of Nicole Richie circa 2006. Anything caloric, fattening, processed, died, tasted good, or looked good had to go. Essentially, if it wasn’t kale or water, it was trash.
I began to throw my cereal into the garbage bags, then came the chips and the Ramen and the Easy Mac. I was a woman on a mission, and my mission was to get skinny. Scary skinny. Like, I honestly wanted people to ask if I was sick or perhaps had developed a cocaine addiction. Images of me parading around in size 00 jeans danced in my head as I tossed the ice cream and frozen dinners into the trash. “Screw you, real butter! Screw you to hell!” I yelled and did a little jig as I tossed the Satan sticks into the bin and fantasized about the day that my now size 6 jeans would be laughably too big on me.
I was dancing around my kitchen, dreaming of the skinny days to come, and belting the second verse of Katy Perry’s “Roar,” when Gary arrived. I greeted him with my typical “Garyyyyyyyyyyyy! I hate you for giving me this. Just kidding, I love you. But I kind of hate you.” And he did his typical “Oh, girl. You funny. You a funny girl.” As I smiled and nodded in agreement that yes, I am in fact a funny girl; I pulled out Gary’s tip and told him that I wouldn’t be seeing him for some time.
“I’m starting a diet tomorrow, Gary; a diet that involves self loathing and no pizza.”
“A diet, Miss Catie? Girl, you don’t need to start no diet.”
“Well, you’re very sweet, Gary. But yes, yes I do. I will, however, miss seeing you four nights a week. It’s like we’re breaking up!”
“Oh, me too. You look great though. No need for a diet. I like a girl with a little meat on her bones.”
“Go to hell, Gary.”
As I slammed the door on the man with whom I had been in a relationship with for the better part of three years, I began to tear up. Gary, while a dirty enabler, had become somewhat of a friend. He was a real sweetheart. Or at least, he was, right up until he called me fat. Now he’s just an asshole.
I carried my extra large pizza box to the kitchen, grabbed a box of wine, and sat on my floor. There I stayed, watching season two of Girls on my laptop for the next four hours. I cried for every way my life resembled that of Hannah Horvath’s. Then I drank some wine. And I cried some more. It was really therapeutic in an “I hate myself so much” sort of way. Finally, at around 11:30pm, I pulled myself off the floor, chugged three Gatorades, and fell asleep on top of my bed…with my clothes on.
Waking up this morning with an atrocious hangover was admittedly not the best way to start my diet. And since the point of this journal is to keep me honest, I will honestly admit that I ate a bacon, egg, and cheese bagel from Dunkin’ Donuts and also consumed a large hazelnut coffee…with real cream and real sugar. As I ordered my breakfast, I justified it with two reasons 1) I would literally die without it and 2) I’d go to the gym tonight. See? Not so bad.
I got to work only 15 minutes late, but my heart attack inducing breakfast had staved off the awful hangover I truly deserved, so I definitely count that as a win. I lasted two whole hours at my desk without getting hungry or fantasizing about a lunch at Applebees. Seriously, my diet was going really well. By the time 11:30 rolled around, I was feeling a little famished, but told myself that I’d get a nice big salad from the deli next door and all would be right in the world. As I gathered my belongings and set out for a healthy lunch (dressing on the side, thank you very much), I was bombarded by four coworkers asking me to go to lunch with them to celebrate Jim-In-Accounting’s new baby. Because I’m not a heartless monster, I agreed to go.
Of course, we ended up at Applebee’s and of course, because I didn’t want to make everyone else feel uncomfortable by my super healthy eating habits, I ordered a burger…with cheese…and bacon. Okay, I ordered a bacon cheeseburger. And a margarita. Yes, I have a problem.
I made it through the rest of the day without any other snacks, though I did treat myself to a Venti Pumpkin Spice Latte because my boss congratulated me on a job well done…and because I was tired…and because I just really wanted one. But, it would give me energy at the gym, and that was definitely a positive. Really, my PSL was helping my diet.
At 5pm, I ducked out of the office and set out for the gym. I opened my trunk and looked in my gym bag, only to realize that I had forgotten a sports bra. Ohhhhhh, no. How could I ever be expected to half-heartedly “workout” on the elliptical for thirty minutes if my small chest wasn’t being suffocated by a boob corset? I mean, the answer was obviously that I couldn’t. No sports bra. No gym time. So I hopped back in my car and headed to my apartment. Feeling the need to punish myself for not having worked out, I popped a Lean Cuisine in the microwave and pouted during the three minute cook time over the fact that I would be ingesting flavored, over-sauced cardboard. Then, for the health benefits, and the health benefits alone, I poured myself a glass of red wine. I spent the next three hours sitting on my couch watching old episodes of SVU. I did sprint to my door to make sure that it was dead bolted during a particularly scary part, so I do feel good about myself for running. Also, I did seven sit ups during a commercial break. Granted, I did not do seven sit ups during every commercial break, but, like, baby steps.
All in all, I’d say that it was an okay start to my diet. Was it perfect? No. But I mean, who do I look like, an Olsen twin? I wasn’t born to starve myself; it’s going to take some work. Hopefully tomorrow goes better. Although it is Thursday, which will most definitely involve a Happy Hour. I don’t know. I may just have to take the weekend off and start again next Monday. I think that makes the most sense.
Until next time,
Cate
Respond
Catie Warren
Catie struggles with adulthood and has been celebrating her 21st birthday for the past three years. She attended college in the nation’s capital and to this day is angry that Pit Bull lied to her, as you cannot, in fact, party on The White House lawn. Prior to her success with PGP, Catie was most famous for being featured in her hometown newspaper regarding her 5th grade Science Fair Project for which she did not place. In her spare time, she enjoys attributing famous historical quotes to Marilyn Monroe and getting in fights with thirteen year olds on twitter. Email: catie@grandex.co
@catie__warren
@catie__warren
what Gary should have said was “I think you’re perfect just the way you are,” but it sounds like his english isn’t awesome, and he delivers pizza for a living so saying smart things probably isn’t his strong suit. I think there’s a compliment in what he said, but he kinda blew the delivery. poor, poor gary.