I’ve always been a greedy guts. I would like to blame my doting Russian grandmother but with my first word being “more” I really can only blame myself. Add a dash of 13 years of ballet to the mix and I would have to admit every diet I have ever tried, I have hilariously and triumphantly counterbalanced - be it eating one’s weight in calorie-filled nuts or eating whole blocks of Camembert in the name of avoiding the devil of the dieting world - the “carbohydrate”.
I would be lying if I didn’t pine for long limbs more often than not, but I would also like to take this opportunity to boo diets in general, on principle. The rise of body activism is finally cracking down on discrimination among the masses. Pun unintended. And something must be said for the group who actively buck the skeletal trend or thinness as currency, as power, as “interpreted” control. I hate it.
I could go on and bore you with my self-indulgent, hypocritical, senseless but equally justice-filled drivel, but instead I think the madness of my musings during a day I tried (and miserably failed) the controversial 5:2 diet (basically, deprive your system of food for two days a week) really speaks for itself.
Monday: Day 1 of torture diet, 5:2.
I have chosen it after reading Nelson-based Fairfax columnist Grant Smithies’ sentiments. If it worked for him, it will work for me, right? Also, giving up on the baked goods would be counter-intuitive for the purposes of this food blog. Plus, The Paleo or the “cave-man” diet has swept through my workplace and I don’t fancy myself as a hunter/gatherer.
7am: Wake up. Last night I spent the evening trying to convince myself this was a good idea. It’s not. It’s not sustainable. I don’t like what it says about food. I love food. I’ve just been dreaming about food. Sweet sweet baby cupcakes. I’m literally losing my mind and it’s 7am in the morning.
7.01am: Don’t think about food. Stop. Ridiculously trying to think of those less fortunate than me.
7.02am: I don’t know why I am thinking about food. I don’t ordinarily eat at this hour in the morning.
7.03am: Please make it stop.
8.30am: Work. Coffee. Carrot. This is horrible.
9.30am: Currently unnecessarily and irrationally angry. I hate this. Why am I putting myself through this. Equally, why is this so hard?
10.30am: Colleague brings in morning tea to celebrate her birthday. Oh god. Croissants. My weakness. Given my francophile disposition and love of all things buttery this is truly a crime against humanity. There really is no justice. The mince pies can get away from me. Actually, while I’m not ordinarily partial to mince pies and I have a tendency to favor vegetarianism, I want nothing more than that bloody pie. Meat. Sweet sweet pastry. Sugary ketchup. I hide in the bathroom and tell myself to get it together.
11.30: Court reporting in court. Surrounded by suite-clad lawyers and disenfranchised or poverty-stricken people who have fallen victim to crime. Well that’s perspective, isn't it.
11.31: Perspective has waned. So hungry. Can’t think. Need a carrot.
12pm: I’m finding myself checking facebook, my phone, my instagram account to try and fill the void. #foodporn. I would very much trade a limb/kidney in exchange for a piece of ruffle-icing cake at present. In other news I must one day attempt to master the ruffle-icing cake.
12.30pm: Never realised I was this neurotic. Hmm. Interesting.
1pm: I have taken to look at inspirational quotes/articles which prompts the question, will I do any meaningful work for my actual job today? Unlikely. Live, Love, Laugh.
2pm: I’m so cold. I feel faint. I’m wasting away. I can see my bones forming by the minute. I think I would prefer to be “cuddly” at this point. More to love, amIright?
3pm: Mental strength. None. Feeling teary and vulnerable. I pass by a shoe shop on the way back to work from court. Willpower has gone out the window but new shoes is preferable to a chocolate chip cookie right now. #nailedit.
5pm: Home time. I have decided to go to bed early so that I can avoid the hours of thinking about food and instead I can dream of stuffing my face.
Thursday, Day 2:
7am: Feeling indifferent, cranky, jaded and unhappy.
7.15am: Contemplating taking a day’s sick leave because I can’t bear the thought of work.
8.00am: I can recall Monday’s trauma but I’m slightly less obsessed. I’ve lost the will to think about or eat any food.
11.00am: Have come to the conclusion that this exercise has been entirely fruitless. With all that effort you’d expect to see ribs or collar bones.
11.30am: Model Kate Moss said “nothing tastes better than skinny feels”. Well, nothing tastes better than 20 bloody pancakes.
12pm: Cafe. Absolute euphoria.
