For the past two months, the Mad One has been on a diet.
Not that I’m out of shape, you understand. “Round” being a shape.
It’s Nutrisystem, thanks for asking, and I have to admit I’ve been pretty pleased with the results, at least so far. I’m down a whopping 22 pounds, and yes, that might be an indication of just how much I needed to lose in the first place. And the food doesn’t taste half bad, either, although the portion sizes leave a little something to be desired.
And my wallet certainly is losing weight along with me – diet food must be one of the most expensive substances on the planet when measured on a dollar per edible ounce basis.
Unfortunately, the end is nowhere in sight. And that often rejected package of turkey medallions in gravy with mashed potatoes is not getting any more appetizing with each passing week. Yes, I’m already growing diet weary.
And that’s not the only rub. The other problem is the alcohol or the specific lack thereof.
I’m sure many Mad Gringos are well aware that booze (particularly the beers and mixed cocktails the Mad One prefers) is drenched in lard-producing sugars. And in addition to its own caloric content, there is a certain lowering of inhibitions associated with a few tips of the glass that make those presently forbidden Cheetos almost irresistible.
As a result, I’ve foresworn all alcoholic beverages for the duration. Well, at least that’s how it started.
I knew I had to give up beer, possibly my favorite tippler, because even I can figure out that they don’t call it a “beer belly” for nothing.
I did pretty well up until this weekend when some clever friend noted (while at a party where I was allowed to eat all the kosher dill pickles I wanted) that a straight shot of whiskey has only 100 calories.
I smiled at this news. It meant that all I had to do was skip dinner altogether, and I would earn myself not one, but two whiskey shots – enough to produce that faint, happy buzz that makes awkward social settings a bit easier to handle.
Unfortunately, I forgot about the munchie effect. I was last spotted tearing through the buffet line, gorging on every cocktail weenie and rice crispy treat in sight.
We’re officially calling this “a setback.”
One, maybe two, days more and I should almost be back to where I was before the event – which is what, maybe three more months to go to reach my goal?