The Worst Dieter Ever

It has finally happened. I’ve become so frustrated with my recent weight gain that I’ve decided to go on a diet. Normally, I am not that interested in my weight. I don’t even own a scale. But on Saturday when I was shaving my legs, I noticed that suddenly it was much easier to shave around my knees than before. That’s because I no longer have knobbly knees! They are just corners of flesh on my legs. When I came to this startling realization in the shower, I threw down my raiser, jumped out of the shower, and immediately proceeded to clean out the entire contents of my fridge, still wrapped in my towel.

Here’s the thing about dieting to me. I am an emotional eater. Not emotional in the sense that when I have a bad day I take down 2 large cheese pizzas by myself, but emotional in that I love to share food with people. The act of “breaking bread” to me is communal and friendly. There’s nothing I love more than enjoying a good meal out with friends. The problem lately has been that there has been so much to celebrate, I have been enjoying my meals a little too often. But now that I have decided to go on a diet, I wanted to pick a strategy that would allow for celebratory dinners out…and even just regular old its-Tuesday-and-I-don’t-want-to-eat-at-home meals out.

I should want to warn you – I am not a happy dieter. I’m not one of those people who just loves feeling healthy. The gym does not give me more energy. Water does not taste as refreshing as a Coke. And Little Debbies will always taste better than fat free, sugar free pudding.

I also hate dieting because Chris is a stick. He’s lean and trim and even if he ate McDonald’s every day for 4 years (which he actually did in college), he would still be lean and trim. I hate him. And his flat stomach. I’m chomping on a carrot stick while he’s inhaling Oreos, and life is just not fair. I’m going to start hanging out with Lucy by her food bowl, wallowing in misery. Nothing like turning to your 20 pound Chihuahua for moral support…