Love. That’s a four-letter word I would never associate with a diet. Nope. Not ever.
But, I really, really love this diet.
You see, this past weekend I went on an estrogen-rich camping trip in which every single solitary calorie known to mankind was present. And I ate them. I think I ate them all. Well, except for the ones claimed by the super-thin model-goddesses who lingered in the cabin kitchen sneaking powdered sugar donuts when their daughters weren’t looking.
I had gone with the intention of keeping to my strict diet plan. I had brought ingredients to adhere to it faithfully. And then, somewhere about the chocolate chip oatmeal cookie, I lost it. I crammed it all in.
And on the way home, I ate half a small pizza and all my daughter’s crusts (I adore crusts. They are manna from heaven.) And I topped it off with a small jar of Halloween candy during my long soak in the bath.
Monday morning, I knew I would be paying on the scale. I was okay with it. I had definitely earned every ounce that scale would show. So, I weighed in. I slid the balance to about 4 pounds heavier, recognizing that I typically gain 3 pounds from one pizza night. The scale thunked down. Okay, too heavy. I slowly slid the scale lighter. And lighter. And lighter. And realized that I’d lost a quarter of a pound over the weekend.
Okay, so it’s not as though I should be keeping score, but, well, I am.
And, though I never thought I’d say this about a diet, allow me to repeat, I love this diet.