Internal Confessions of a Dieting Mind

I’ve been on a pretty strict diet for about a month now. It’s known as the very popular, widely practiced MIHOW diet. You may have heard of it. After reading the Southbeach Diet book about six months ago, giving it a try and failing miserably after being confronted by a plate of french fries, I decided to follow my own this time. That way, there really is no where (or no one, rather) to fall from.

When I tried this the first time, I was setting myself up for failure. In San Francisco, I ate to feel happy. For lunch, I would eat an ENTIRE burrito from the Mexican place up the street. (If you knew the size of these bitches, you’d be shocked.) At the end of the day, when Toby came home from work, after sitting around doing nothing and feeling sorry for myself, the first thing I wanted to do was consume the biggest plate of cheesy pasta and wash it down with a loaf of garlic bread and some wine.

Nutshell: Gained weight. Felt like shit. Did nothing.

This time, I’m happy. And I didn’t even realize it was so until last night as we were walking to Daddy’s to meet Gerry and Anna. I’m happy. So I might as well look happy, too.

Basically, I calculate everything I consume using Web sites and books. I even carry around a little orange notepad around my neck and diligently add everything up. That way, at the end of the day, I can find out how much I’ve taken in. It’s fascinating if you start paying attention to the science behind eating. Truly.

Perhaps, this is just something to do because I have some time during the day and I have a constant need to amuse myself. Or maybe I’m determined this time and joining a gym (right now) is not an option. I hope it lasts, I do. As long as no one introduces me to a plate of fries or a bowl of macaroni and cheese, I should be fine.

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