I’m a serial dieter.  Not by choice, but because I’m a lazy bum and I love to eat great food and drink the best cheap wine I can find (and it turns out there are plenty of good, cheap wines!).  So that means that when I finally face up to the fact that I’ve gotten a little bit more than chubby, it’s time to check out the latest greatest diet craze.

There are certain things I refuse to do.  I’m not going to suddenly start running marathons, and I’m not going to do any extreme diet.  Not because I’m so righteous, but because I have this auto-mechanism in my head that, as soon as the word “diet” pops up, every cell in my body starts screaming for food.  I can’t think of anything else.  My usually (relatively) sane thoughts of “What client work do I need to do next? What time is that party this weekend?” and all that boring stuff is suddenly replaced with:

“I HAVE TO go check out that new chocolate store in Boulder.”  (Piece, Love, and Chocolate)

“What time is it?  How long til lunch / dinner / snack?”

“Forget reading that business book, where’s that new cookbook?”

And it goes on and on and on.  A steady food fest in my head.  All. Day. Long.

So I get started on whatever the sensible diet plan is that is supposed to make me look like a svelte 25 year old Spanish Hottie  (OK, you can pick yourself up off the floor now), and I eat my 2 tablespoons of oat bran and 1 oz. of fat free cheese for breakfast.  Now it’s 7 a.m.  Really?  It’s only 7 a.m.?  5 hours to go til lunch time and I get to eat my 1/2 cup of cottage cheese?  Let’s look at that list again.  Maybe I missed something.”

Oh, RIGHT! I did miss something.  It says right here that I’m not allowed any wine for the first week.

“Honey, how about if we go out to dinner? Sali says that new wine bar is really nice.”