If anyone ever tells you that diet's are easy...well- they're
Or simply ignorant about the entire torturous process of shedding unwanted weight.
Sure, diets can be easy if you just need to lose a few pounds. The smart solution would be to cut out sodas for a week, skip dessert on Sunday, and Zumba with your friends a few times after work. In a matter of days, you ought to be back in your tiny tops and skinny jeans, looking like that anorexic movie star that you aspire to be.
How nice for you.
But there are those of us whose greatest wish in life is to be thin. Are we wanting mansions? Sports cars? Exotic vacations to faraway places?
We are simply wanting to look good in our own skin...
...to look in the mirror and not see that layer of fat pouring out like fleshy syrup from beneath a too-tight bra strap...
...to sit down and not have to hide the multiple belly rolls that suddenly appear like the coils of a Amazonian python....
...to walk to one end of the mall to the next without having to call 9-1-1 and beg the paramedics to bring oxygen.
And a donut.
For me, a diet is a continuous obstacle. It must be confronted every single moment of every single day. Just like dirty dishes, soiled laundry, and the green grass in summer- it needs constant attention or it simply gets out of control.
I've come to believe that control is the very thing that I lack. I love vegetables, fresh fruit, broiled fish and baked chicken. But control is thrown right out the window and run over by a convoy of 18-wheelers the minute that something sweet crosses my path or dilates my nostrils.
Most sophisticated and classy women can nibble a slice of cheesecake the size and thickness of a credit card and complain of "being stuffed". That is control.
(Not to mention total delusional nonsense...)
But gals like me prefer their cheesecake the size of encyclopedias, their pastries as wide as a queen size bed and their M&M's poured into their mouths like buckets of candy-wine.
I have diet dreams.
Every Sunday night I dream of Monday's diet...
...of waking up as fresh and sweet as Cindy Crawford...of floating around the house in spandex shorts, eating petite organic carrots sticks and sipping honeyed green tea...of purposefully bending and stooping and squatting as I dust and sweep and go about my daily chores...of pushing away that tuna sandwich at lunch before it's even half eaten...of jogging down the road a half mile and back- and still having the energy to mop the kitchen floor and prepare dinner...
Yes, I have dreams...
I have dreams that my arms will no longer have wings- that instead, I will have firm, tan biceps that can kick the crap out of any sugar cookie that calls my name...
I have a dream that my stomach will be so flat that my boobs will cast a voluptuous shadow upon it - and so tight the grand kids can play racket ball against it...
I have dreams that my closet will be full of single digit sizes, strapless dresses, sweater dresses, smart looking outfits and sexy swim suits... and tiny underwear the size of a Hobbits slingshot... and not the size of a mini-trampoline.
I have dream that I can slide into a pair of faded jeans, pull on a white blouse, stick my hair up in a messy bun and look like a million bucks...that I can sit with my legs curled under me on the couch ans think of nothing but good music, fun times, and my next shopping trip...to not be overburdened and obsessed with counting calories, measuring portions or weighing ounces...
I dream of being both anatomically and politically correct.
I don't even want to have to think about control. I just want it to be there. To exist. To do its thing without being told. To exercise it's omnipotent power and envelope me into a perfect world where food is not the enemy and a plate of pasta doesn't add six pounds overnight.
I want to be me. Just me. And not some circus freak in a fat suit whose thighs rub together while running the vacuum -or someone who has more chins than the Chinese phone book.
I have dreams.
Beautiful, gentle dreams... and I am in control.