I hate dieting. Not only as an activity or as a weight loss tool, but as a concept. This is because, to me, dieting–even in its most abstract, non-sensical form–is usually implemented as a tool of last resort. Sort of like a slower, milder form of sensory deprivation like they do in between the waterboarding.
Of course, I realize that some of the more popular diets are quite healthy (and I’m also excluding the term “diet” in the sense of a healthy manner of eating lots of fruits and vegetables regularly, etc. A la Schoolhouse Rock) yet there are SOOOOO many that are based in, for lack of a better term, “depravapidity.” (That’s my own personal combination of stupidity and depravity. What!)
Now that I think about it, that’s probably one of the main reasons I don’t like to diet. For one thing, I’ve never really been much of a joiner. In fact, you might say I’m an “anti-joiner” when it comes to all things “trendy.” (Read: the iPod–for the first couple of years, anyway–Lost, rompers–combination shorts and top, eww, American Idol… Don’t Read: Anything by Stephanie Meyer) But I think it’s a little more than that. Growing up, watching my friends (and certain family members) go on one crash/binge diet after another, I couldn’t help but notice that none of these diets seemed to work without first nurturing a profound hatred–or at least a strong dislike–of one’s current self.
Again, I’m not saying that everyone who diets hates themselves. I’m just saying that it’s MUCH harder to really and truly like yourself “just as you are”–in the words of Jane Austen–and also stick to a painfully regimented diet plan. After all, nobody LIKES eating things they don’t want to eat/not eating things that traditionally bring them joy (Read: chocolate, cheese, soda, pizza, and pretty much anything not on one of those brave new diets). And I, for one, don’t think it’s mere coincidence that the word “diet” happens to contain the word DIE.
(Also, “dieting” can be easily rearranged to form: Tied Gin, Ignited, I’d Get In, and Din Get I…which we all know is Pidgeon dialect for “I didn’t get it, did I?” But that’s not really the point.)
The POINT of this rather flabby and ponderous confession is that I’ve never been able to stick to a diet, to the letter. To me, forcing myself to live life by ANYONE else’s rules is painful enough without having to eat by someone else’s rules on top of it all. So, when forced to diet, I always find ways to modify the torture slightly. Just so they (and by they, I mean the ones turning the proverbial screws, however imaginary they are) know that I refuse to suffer their Diet of Death Du Jour.
I’d rather eat nothing but Lima beans for a month. Pbbbbbt! So there.