The South Beach Massacre
Inspired by our friends, Jon and Tanya, Lis and I have embarked on the South Beach Diet; we’re going on vacation in a few weeks, and Lis wants to lose a little weight prior to hitting the beach. Me? I’m along for moral support. Frankly, I don’t really care what I’m eating — and by refusing to absorb the logic or strictures of this particular diet, I’ve guaranteed a sequence of of increasingly frustrating inquiries:
Jamie yelling from the shower: “Can we eat bagels? No? Damnit.”
Jamie returning from taking out the trash: “How about dumplings? No? Well — Jesus, what am I supposed to order from Chinese, then?”
Jamie, two minutes after getting into bed: “When you said you can make a sandwich with lettuce instead of bread … I don’t understand. What did you mean by that?”
Truly, though, I don’t mind. My only concern is that I might lose more weight than Lis. See, there are two factors working against her. First, I have a tendency to randomly drop habits and practices (like smoking, drinking, sex), either permanently or for a pre-determined period of weeks or months. I like doing it, though I couldn’t explain why. Back when I stopped drinking for two months (that’s my estimation, though my friends maintain it was for longer — it probably seemed like an eternity to them), my buddy Mink began to disgustedly refer to me as Sick Boy. Remember that character from Trainspotting? It can be insufferable.
Second, I’m competitive on a genetic level. Even if I don’t want to beat Lis in this endeavor — even if I signed-on as a teammate, to make the process of shopping and preparing meals easier — there’s a facet of my personality that cannot be consciously overcome. She cares, deeply, whereas I don’t; and this is the perfect formula for a silent, grumpy, and very hungry household. In retrospect, I should’ve never agreed to this.
(One last note: the lightbulb in our refrigerator blew out yesterday, and I didn’t get around to replacing it until today. Under the new regime, it was somewhat disconcerting that I couldn’t see what I was eating until the moment before I shoveled it into my mouth.)
So, yes, we began yesterday; Jon had warned us that he lost five pounds in the first five days, a result of purging your body of sugar. (Or something like that. I wasn’t really paying attention.) It was with this in mind that I woke today at 6:00, turned on the coffee machine, and trudged off to weigh myself — we’d bought a scale the day before, and had recorded our respective weights just before bedtime.
Standing in the bathroom, squinting to make out the display, I finally had to turn on the light; once I’d stopped blinking and cursing, I took a more careful look — and immediately jumped off the scale. That couldn’t be right. I waited until it oscilated back to zero — so it’s properly calibrated, yeah? — and tried again. Again, the same result: somehow, I’d managed to lose three pounds overnight.
How had this happened? While the diet requires that you stop drinking for two weeks, I’d had two beers at Happy Hour, and five more when I got home. I ate the skin off the chicken at dinner (another no-no), and had even contemplated ice cream for desert. I’d done everything in my power to tip the scales (literally) — and I’d lost three fucking pounds! I’ve weighed the same amount for the past eleven years, since I graduated high school, and now this? Good god — Lis was going to kill me.
But I dutifully recorded my weight on the dry-erase board, as agreed. I drank my coffee, quietly, while watching her sleep. She was going to kill me with her bare hands. I just knew it. Maybe not this morning — maybe later in the day, or after I’d fallen sleep that night. How had I been so careless? Finally, when I couldn’t put it off any longer, I kissed her on the forehead and tip-toed out the door.
The next two hours at the gym passed in a blur. My last ride on the Precor. My last time standing next to the lady who blows her nose in her shirt. The last time I’d see that girl who looks like a Russian gymnast, and privately wonder why anorexia makes extra hair sprout on your forearms. It was all very depressing. Would they miss me? Probably not — not once my obit announced I’d lost three pounds in the final hours of my life.
I walked home … tromped up the stairs … crossed the threshold … and was immediately greeted by the happy news: Lis had lost three pounds, too! Hooray! Hooray for us!
(Of course, now I’m convinced the diet’s killing me — and not very slowly, either. If I’ve lost five pounds before I post again tomorrow, I can at least take comfort knowing I’ll be buried in a Ziploc bag.)
