High on Life


I just stood in front of the ice cream in the freezer case at Target for three minutes contemplating whether or not to buy low fat, high protein Archer Farms Mini Donut.

I processed what this would mean. I have 776 calories left for today. If I eat this whole thing, which is the point, I will have 426 left for dinner and dessert. Which, I have to have dessert.

I suppose I could go over, but then I’ll feel bad. But if I don’t buy this, will I make a worse choice, like a milkshake or cookie from Potbelly?

Then again, I’ll have to eat this in front of my co-workers, who know I’m on this dumb diet. Not that they’ll care, but I’ll feel seen.

Buy the ice cream.

I walk away and get about a hundred steps away when I change my mind. I do not want to feel guilty the rest of the day. I don’t want to eat this in front of my co-workers. I don’t want to barely eat anything at dinner or *gasp* skip dessert tonight.

Instead, I settle on a grande iced decaf americano from Starbucks with one stevia (I really want two) and a bunch of cinnamon.

This is no compromise at all, but at least I don’t feel as bad.

Actually, I do feel bad.

I am sick of this fucking diet.


I am ten pounds away from what I think will make me satisfied and have fallen off the wagon a ton for the past month. Up and down, my weight has fluctuated about four pounds and every time I manage to get down to a decent enough number, I blow it all up eating too much.

I didn’t renew the Noom app. Could that be it? Could that one dumb app be the only key to my success?

I’m tired of the constant awareness of everything I put in my mouth. The endless calculations. The near constant thoughts about what to eat, how much I can eat, when I can eat.

I realize this is not how science works, but running two and a half miles and walking over 12,000 steps should mean I can eat a whole pizza and still lose five pounds.

Ugh. Fuck science.

Does it feel good to be smaller? Well sure. Do I feel accomplished? I did, but lately my inability to keep the streak going is downright discouraging. Also, fitting into a smaller size is a mood lifter for a bit, but it doesn’t carry you through a day. I mean, maybe I should spend the rest of my life in a dressing room?

I rarely drink. I don’t do hard drugs. I can’t have caffeine. And now I’m trying to cut back on calories and sugar.

I do yoga and meditate every damn day.


Why am I so pissed?

I know that eating McDonald’s breakfast will not solve any of these problems. But the pure act of it, the rebellion, the “fuck it!”, the beauty of doing what I want, is so tempting. Maybe I’m mad because everything feels like a restriction, a NO.

There is no indulging. I buy clothes and it lifts me up momentarily. I get a pedicure and run the massage chair the entire time and that’s nice, for the time being. I’ve gotten so much positive feedback, so many sincere compliments. They make me smile and then five minutes later I’m shoving graham crackers in my mouth wishing they were s’mores.

I want to find balance but I don’t know how. I want to find acceptance, but I wonder if that’s even possible.

I want to love my body and eat a peanut buster parfait.

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