I watched a TV show recently that claimed diets made people put on weight. When they backed up the claims with compelling evidence I roared and threw my fist in the air (surreptitiously). It was just what I’d suspected for years. Dieting makes me FAT.
So I thought, sod this for a game of soldiers, I gonna eat what I want, when I want. It was G.R.E.A.T. I ate biscuits, puddings and lots of bread; I had huge bowls of muesli and honey for breakfast, chunky KitKats for lunch, potatoes and rice for dinner. I didn’t limit snacks between meals. I was taking control of my life.
Last week, as I rested the empty wine glass on the shelf beneath my boobs I began to have doubts. Perhaps, this growth wasn’t wind or a phantom pregnancy. Perhaps, not dieting makes me fat. Have I have spent so long jumping on and off the scales, reading the calorie count on the back of microwave meals and looking away from the chocolate by the till in petrol stations, that it’s not even dieting, it just a way of life?
I have for some time accepted the fact that my body likes to be a certain weight. It’s not the weight suggested by diet clubs or the BMI index, it’s the weight my body always creeps back up to three months after a diet. It’s as if my body has always known what size it should be it’s just waiting for my personality to catch up and fill it. Well, I’ve tipped way past that certain weight. My clothes don’t fit and as a full time student I’ve no money to buy more.
So I’ve given in.
I’m on a diet – The fast diet. It looks easy: eat what you want for 5 days a week – I can do that. The other two days fast on 500 hundred calories. I’m counting on carrot soup to see me through.