A Defeat

I’m not one to give up easily. In fact, I typically fight until I win, or I stop caring all together about the outcome. Achievement is ingrained in my being. I have to do well. I must succeed. I must be perfect.

Alas, I’ve met my match recently. I concede. And who is the triumphant victor? Try a what. Carbs.

But let me detail the war! Only then can history reveal the weakness in our battle strategies! A few weeks ago, a dear friend developed gestational diabetes and was put on limited to low carbs. In an effort of solidarity, I decided to join her. I knew I wouldn’t be perfect, as St. Patrick’s Day weekend was ahead of me, and it would involve mandatory green beer and other libations. But the ideas was sewn into my mind.

Details magazine released a new section called “Body”, and in the inaugural issue, they had a story about how we don’t actually need carbs at all. They wreck out body with the insulin stimulation, etc. And the wheels turned. Then Borders decided to go out of business near me, so I ventured inside. Low and behold, the South Beach diet book was 40% off! How could I object? I could tone up, and show my friend she wasn’t in this situation alone.

I started the South Beach Diet three days ago. Fresh on a Monday and from a trip to the grocery store. No bread, potatoes, pastas, chips, and so on. I’d have two weeks of meat, veggies, low-fat cheese and other nonsense to ingest.

My first two days went so well. I ate fish three times. Lots of salad. I did well at restaurants. Nary a carb went into my mouth. I lost a pound or two. I even thought to myself today, “Oh this isn’t so bad!”

What I wasn’t expecting was the total mental and physical crash associated with three days off carbs. I nearly fainted walking into my house. That compiled with a mountain of work stress, and I was a gibbering mess. My mom called, heard me for a few seconds and immediately kidnapped me.

Then the convinced me to go the way of the devil. She took me to my favorite Mexican restaurant, put a margarita in front of me, and demanded I eat real food.

I’ll tell you this, a margarita and quesadilla have never tasted so good in my entire life. By the end of the meal, I was licking my fingers. My headache was gone. I felt full for the first time in days. And the margarita took the edge off the work stress. Just what the mom-doctor ordered.

And so I’m here to say, in this battle of fitness. In the war of physical achievement, I concede. I’ll limit my intake to a few a week rather than a few a day. I’ll exercise 4-5 times a week. I’ll do what I have to, to achieve my fit goals. But I won’t give up my carbs. No way.

They won. The white flag is raised.



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