The South Beach Massacre, pt. II
(I have to be quiet; it’s still relatively early on a Sunday morning, and my metabolism is resting. As well it should — for the past week, it’s successfully attempted to kill me.)
(This diet was a misguided, dangerous idea. Why in god’s name would I lobby to lose weight? I haven’t put on more than five pounds since I was fourteen — clearly, I’ve established a sloppy equilibrium. But, no, I’ve got start messing with my carbs, or sugars, or whatever else I’ve reintroduced or substituted in my diet. And now I’m wasting away.)
(SHH! My stomach just grumbled. It’s listening. I don’t have long.)
(I’ve lost six pounds in the six past days; to put this in context, I haven’t weighed 147 lbs. since I went through puberty. I thought I was being all crafty: whereas the commandments of the South Beach Diet explicitly state that one’s supposed to abstain from drinking for the first two weeks, I’ve gone against the grain. Hell, if anything, I’m drinking more than usual. It hasn’t worked, apparently. I’m a waif.)
(Full disclosure: I took a vitamin last week. I don’t think I’ve taken vitamins since I was a sophomore in college; a friend, Ben, saw me pop one at breakfast and grinned, “Really? Really?” He had a point: given what else I ate at that meal, and what I’d felt comfortable — nay, obligated — to do to my liver the night before, it was like blowing on a fire through a straw. And yet, on Tuesday I willingly ingested a B-50 capsule. “B” what? “50″ of what? I have to assume it was some kind of flesh-devouring bacteria. Fifty of them. All working in concert.)
(What’s most distressing, I can’t stop myself. It’s not like I’m a Brazilian supermodel, or anything — it’s that I agreed to do this for two weeks, and I can’t abandon a project I’ve committed to. Seriously. I’ve been saying for years that I want to compete in the annual Empire State Building race — paced sprints up all 100+ flights — and I just can’t imagine myself crapping out on the 40th Floor. Why, this stubborn conviction? Why?!)
(I have to go to brunch in twenty minutes — it’s not covered anywhere in the book, but I have to believe that the residents of South Beach are tops on brunch, so I’m just playing into their hands. My metabolism can doubtlessly handle eggs and bacon without breaking a sweat — and even knowing I’ll chase it down with three cups of coffee, and an early trip to the bar this afternoon, it doesn’t seem to matter. I’m victim to my little, adolescent engine.)
(There’s the doorbell: Lis’s parents. In the words of the bard: don’t cry for me — I’m already dead.)
