The Diet

The Herald, June 2014

As I lay in bed I plan and plot for the next day.

What I would eat, what I would avoid.

How many pounds would I miraculously melt away?

Rice cakes.

Those crunchy glued cardboard rounds.

Yogurt and wheat germ.

A cracker or two and a handful of raisins.

A tablespoon of tuna.

A palm sized piece of chicken (the palm of a small child).

I lay my head down and smile.

“I will do this; I will do this,” I chant as I drift off to sleep.

Dreams of monster cakes filled with decadent creams.

 

Éclairs, with skinny little legs are chasing me down.

I trip over a cupcake and fall face down in the river.

I swallow mouthfuls of creamy fudge as my middle expands.

I try to get up but the gooey chocolate sucks me in deeper.

All too soon I awake to the buzz of the alarm.

With a gnawing emptiness inside I greet the day.

I shower.

I dress.

I venture off to work with my little lunch bag I had

packed last night.

I reach in and grab a rice cake.

The flat, lifeless taste leaves me wanting.

I plop myself down at my desk and immediately I am

struck by the sweet aroma of donuts.

I wave ‘no’ as my colleague offers me the

scrumptious sprinkled delight.

“Don’t tempt me,” I exclaim, “I am on a diet.”

A saddened hush comes over the office.

My belly breaks the silence with a long, low growl.

A speck of tuna – barely three mouthfuls.

The salty crunch of a celery stick, and another rice cake.

I toss a few raisins in my mouth for desert and head

 

back to work.

I feel the pity of my co-workers as they try to shield me

from their fat laden lunches.

As the clock strikes five, I decide to join my peers at

Happy Hour.

One white wine spritzer won’t hurt, I convince myself.

I am only going for the camaraderie. Really!

As I park my car I glance in the rear view window.

I promise myself again, “Only one and then home.”

I join my crew and with a smile order my spritzer.

Oh, what luck! It is two-fer Tuesday!

As the bartender hands me both glasses I try to

convince myself they are small glasses.

I sit back and take a sip. Ummm.

A calming effect takes over me.

Out of the corner of my eye I watch the waiters bring

out the happy hour delights.

Myself and I talked me into walking over to the massive

spread ‘just to see’ what was on the menu.

I took a deep breath.

When I came to I was licking sauce off my fingers.

I glanced down to see a small mountain of empty clam shells,

 

a pile of chicken wing bones and remnants of meatballs.

All amidst an array of sauces.

My mind cried out “What have I done?”

The smell of real food had sent me into a blackout

where I devoured platefuls of food.

Delicious, delectable, and devilishly fatty foods.

Like a piranha I had whittled it all down to the bones and shells.

I had oinked through it all.

I caught my image in the mirror and quickly turned away in shame.

I was part of a feeding frenzy not unlike a pack of wild dogs.

In anguish I quickly finished what looked like my fourth spritzer.

I sheepishly bid farewell to my comrades.

Unaware of my blackout binge, the sent me off with smiles.

Bloated and remorseful I made it home.

I changed and brushed my teeth.

I got in bed early.

Foiled again!

As I lay in bed,

I plotted and planned.

What foods I would eat and what I would avoid.

The vicious cycle continues.

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About barbaraswrittenwords

I am a writer, farmer, certified herbalist, friend and child of God. I try to create streams of words that flow to please all those who read them.
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