Dear diet: It's not me, it's definitely you
It's not me, it's you. No, seriously.
Don't get me wrong: You look great on paper. You've got the looks, the charm, the charisma and you make me feel like I can do anything. (Like choose grapes over chips. On purpose.) But, in real life, I'm just not that into you. Mostly because you turn me into this hangry, hormonal train wreck who would totally steal candy from a baby — especially if the candy were a cheeseburger.
When I'm on a diet, my friends and family invite me everywhere that doesn't involve food (which, when you're on a diet, is nowhere). Why? Because the look I get on my face when they're eating chicken wings and I'm eating salad is way too Hannibal Lecter for them to handle.
You know how if you lose one of your senses, others become more pronounced? My taste buds are so underutilized while spending time with you that I can tell exactly what my bestie had for lunch just by smelling her breath. (She hasn't spoken to me in days, by the way.) And, when my body's lost all sense of what it's like to feel full, the people around me start to resemble the foods you tell me I can't have — and the ones you ruin with all of your calorie shenanigans.
Yeah, you know the ones: The cookies and chocolates that are only 100 calories you swear taste exactly the same. They don't. And when I eat them, I have no idea how to feel. Do I feel proud because I didn't completely break down and pull a Cookie Monster? Or do I feel shame I didn't have the testicles to indulge in the real thing?
Thanks to your ridiculous standards, I'm now so over-analytical about what I "should" and "shouldn't" eat I can't remember the last time I actually tasted something (and not just because your recipes don't contain flavor).
So, here I sit, the epic diet failure I am, knowing I'll never be good enough for you. As much as I want to look like that super-happy woman on your website with her kale salad and bottle of water, admit it: She's only super-happy because she was paid exorbitant amounts of money to model for you and bought a Big Mac with it. (On a side note, are you hiring models? I could really use a Big Mac.)
If there's one thing I've learned from this period of deprivation and guilt, it's this: You suck. I thought it was me who was the problem, but it's you and how you make me feel about myself. I'll never be one of those perky women who's excited about smoothies that taste like bad breath and enjoys exercising during commercial breaks (pah-lease). While I will be more mindful of what I eat and how I eat it (because vitamins), I'm not going to revolve my life around you anymore. You can kiss my cellulite.
And in case I haven't been perfectly clear: We (we!) are never ever ever getting back together.