Extra Fiber, Hold the Tasty
The notes would also tell me not to eat my strawberries on the bus on the way to school, which I would do anyway, but just feel like a criminal. I've never been good with temptation.
Like the peanut butter cups, which I had to put in the drawer of my desk that's blocked by a box full of stalled manuscript. I suppose since I moved the box in the first place in order to put the peanut butter cups in there, I could just move it again in order to remove and ingest them, but it's the ceremony of the gesture that counts. I am not eating this candy. I am so not eating this candy I'm putting it in prison. And maybe, just maybe, when I emerge from the skinny end of my new diet regimen, I will roll away the manuscript stone and free them from their tomb like the Risen Christ Himself, gilded, shining, and oh so sweet.
I'm two days into my swearing off of all things sugary, yeasty, and (let's face it) enjoyably saporific. I'm willing to bet the peanut butter cup-as-Jesus metaphor is a direct side effect, but then again I pretty much feel that passionately about candy all of the time.
This, my friends, is the problem.
It's not that I don't enjoy eating a bowl of spinach for dinner. It was pretty good. It's just that after I've reduced my bowlful of leaves to a smattering of grass clipping looking residue, I can't help but look around for the real dinner that should follow. Carbohydrates are the bricks and mortar of my diet; they are the vehicles for the stuff I'm supposed to be eating to travel to my mouth. How else would tomatoes and cheese get into my stomach if not for their doughy surfboard? Grilled chicken breast carpools with toasted kaiser roll--who am I to break up their system?
Two days and I'm already pining for pasta so deeply I could write quatrains to the beef ramen sitting in my cabinet. All my food has come unglued without its vital carbohydrate components. I'm left with salad, the messy bedroom floor of the culinary universe. Caesar salad just looks better wearing its herb and garlic tortilla jacket. Spinach is happier when you let it roast for a little while in a pastry-shell tanning booth. Without their integral starchy elements, my meals look like they're in their underwear.
This morning, a morning on which I have just barely resigned myself to a cup of black Komodo Dragon blend instead of a Pumpkin Spice Latte with whipped cream, I found an open issue of People and two peanut butter cups sitting next to Kirsten Dunst's bony scapula. Usually the stuff my boss leaves on my chair rules.
Today it's writing trite feminist poetry for me.