Diet Another Day

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My genes want the tender caress of cakes and pies.

I’m out of control. I know it. I’m on a bread-a-thon. A cavalcade of carbohydrates. I’m puffing up like a blowfish.

It’s that time again.

Moderation is everything, they say. They should shut their stinkin’ traps.

No, I’m not going back on Atkins, successful as it may have been in the past. I usually do great the first few weeks, then I lust for ice-cream and chocolate like Burroughs jonsing for heroin.

Moderation is everything, they say. They should shut their stinkin’ traps. My brain knows moderation is everything, but my genes want the tender caress of cakes and pies.

No, this time I’m gonna augment the proteins with fruits and vegetables, regardless of natural starch and sugars. Maybe this will temper the beast.

I got nothing in the apartment that fits the bill, so I take my book and make way through the rain to Little Purity on 7th Avenue. It takes all my energy not to visit The Tuscan Gun, where they just added a pressed Nutella croissant to their menu. How could they do this to me?  No, no. I must be good. I only started yesterday.

Out of the rain, I slide into a booth by the window and order a burger with sauted onions and mushrooms. Not exactly dietetic, I know, but low carby if not for the sugars inherent in the onions.

“No fries,” I say. “And no bun. And a Diet Coke.”

Don’t ask me why I ordered a Diet Coke. I panicked. I haven’t had one of those in a long time. Zero carbs, but also chock full of stuff that doesn’t belong in your insides. Shoulda ordered a non-sweetened iced tea. Next time.

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There’s worse ways to spend a rainy weekday afternoon than reading at a diner, eating an unusually good burger with mozzarella, mushrooms and onions.

“I can do this,” I think to myself.

I order coffee and keep reading, occasionally glancing up at the rain. Having made a mental note to eat more fish, I think about picking up some on the way home so I can surprise my girl with a change-of-pace dinner.

Just then the waiter places a beautiful piece of apple pie on the table.

“This is for you, boss,” he says to me. “They just made it.”

For a second I think to come clean. Thank him for the gift but say I’m not eating those kind of carbs. Before I know what happened the piece of pie is laying on top of the burger in my stomach. You’ll have to trust me when I say it was picture perfect and it didn’t stand a chance. It was so nice of him to offer it that I didn’t want to say no.

“Ok, this is a temporary setback,” I think to myself. You can’t plan for something like this. How often does a complimentary piece of fresh apple pie makes its way to your table?

This is what happens. Like when you promise yourself you’ll go to the gym three times this week, and suddenly you have a pain in your knee that came out of nowhere but the spite of the universe.

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I finish the coffee, savoring my book a while longer, and ask for the check instead of a refill. Tucking the book away I approach the cashier to pay the bill. Glancing it over I see a piece of apple pie listed; $3.45. Uhmm… wait… what?

Thanks again, universe.

I file this away onto the ever growing list of things I won’t make a fuss over, pay the bill and pick up some Tilapia on the way home.

Tomorrow is another day.

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