Two days after Christmas, I could take it no more. I couldn’t wait until the New Year to start. Actually, I saw no point in it. The lard has overtaken me. I am one with the blubber. It must leave my body posthaste.
Fourteen months of being nicotine free has been a small, yet lardishly large, price to pay. I smell better, although I’m now able to notice a disgusting odor that hangs on to my former smoking buddies. I’m no longer a social leper. I don’t worry about where I’ll be able to light up when going to every function. No more passing up a piece of Death by Chocolate cake to have time to run outside and light up at lunch. No more passing up any food item. Period.
I can’t say I’ve saved any money, though. What I didn’t spend on tobacco, I spent on food. I’ve bought two entirely new wardrobes. I’m not really breathing any easier, as the lard has encroached on my midriff and lungs. I wheeze from obesity. I waddle.
I hate having my picture taken. I hate meeting new people. I want to qualify every meeting with “Hello! It’s nice to meet you. I don’t normally look like this. When you meet me in the future, I’m hoping you won’t recognize me due to the resumption of my former, svelte figure.” I don’t want to see people I know. I don’t want them to look at me and think “Whatever happened to Ina?” I know that’s what they’re thinking. I was quite the middle-aged hottie before I was nicotine free.
So, the diet began before the New Year did. Kevin brought the dolly in from the shed and helped load me into the truck. He drove me to the nearest weigh station on the turnpike, where we were graciously allowed to use the scale. He brought me home and I rolled myself into the house. I ate a carrot. I drank nine gallons of water. When I got up on the treadmill, I was sure I could hear the beams in the house creaking. I feared crashing through into the dining room. I’m hoping to develop anorexia.
I forged forth. Two days ago, I thought my left boob felt lighter. I hefted it around a few times and decided it wasn’t a hallucination. I compared it to my right boob. No, my right boob was the same, but the left had definitely deflated a bit. I hope unequal boobs aren’t going to be a trend. I had a beer to compensate. Then I had three more. Oops.
I stepped on the scale this morning, a full fourteen days into the fray. I’m down 3.3 pounds. Since I’m doing an every other day diet to fool my sluggish metabolism, that was the result of only seven days worth of dieting. I think I can live with that.
I have to remember to keep my goals small and attainable. My current goal is to be able to see my pubic hair – even a glance of it just once – by the end of the month.
I’ll keep you posted.