I’m more of a goal-setter than a resolution guy at the beginning of each new year, but this year, the girls made a New Years Resolution for me without even consulting me. I tried telling them that wasn’t how it worked, but they either weren’t listening or didn’t care. I even pointed out how rude it was to make goals for me without consulting me, but again, my whining, which is what they called it, fell on deaf ears. I was forced into surrendering and not even Bagheera, our cat, seemed to be on my side. I turned to the fourteen-year-old for support, but she just said to leave her out of it and hid in her room, so as not to get caught up in the madness. I threatened her allowance, but she reminded me I don’t give her one as she waved at me, leaving me to my fate. “You’ll never get an allowance now,” I called after her, but I don’t think she cared.
So what am I being forced to endure? What have the girls set their sights on to better improve this fun-loving, carefree individual? It amounts to starvation. At least, that’s what my stomach has been growling at me ever since they sprung their trap.
You see, in 2011, I quit my day job to write full-time. That meant there wasn’t much in the way of movement from me, and soon, my skinny self found it’s fluffy side, which never really bothered me. The girls, apparently, were tired of looking at my fluffiness and had decided I needed to go on a diet and get healthier. I pointed out that the first three letters of the word diet spell die, and it sounded more like homicide, but they didn’t care. I told them that pillows were more comfortable than sticks, but again, they didn’t care. I even argued that if I lost weight, I’d need a new wardrobe, which would cut into their money for purses and weird-looking shoes, but once again, they didn’t care. Are you seeing a trend here?
I entered the kitchen the other night and there were bags of groceries on the counter. I looked at the girls strangely. “When did you go grocery shopping? You just went the other day.”
“We didn’t. That’s the food we can’t have in the house any more, so we’re giving it to Chad.”
I just looked at them, dumbfounded. “Why can he have my food, but I can’t?”
They patted my stomach. “Because he doesn’t have this. He’s not on a diet; you are.”
“But some of this stuff hasn’t even been opened yet.”
“Leave it alone, Robbie. You’ll survive.”
I’m not so sure of that, but again, they didn’t care.
The first day, breakfast seemed normal enough, but that was just a trick to lure me into complacency. Lunch and dinner, however, had changed drastically in my opinion. First they gave me something called taco salad for lunch, except it was just taco guts. “Isn’t this supposed to have the crunchy shell around it?” I asked. “You know, the part that actually makes it a taco salad? This looks like you just threw ground beef on top of lettuce.”
“It has taco seasoning,” they explained as if the seasoning alone is what made it a taco. “We even added avocado.”
“Do I even like avocado?”
“Just eat it, Robbie.”
I glanced at the fourteen-year-old’s plate, and sure enough, she had the crunchy parts to make her meal a real taco salad. She just smiled at me as she crunched away her lunch.
Dinner was even more of a shocker. At first, it looked great. I mean, it had bacon and onions and even sour cream. However, this day had already taught me not to believe everything I saw, so I asked, “What is this?”
“Chicken,” they told me.
“I know that’s chicken. I meant this other stuff with it. It looks odd.”
“It’s like a loaded baked potato. You’ll like it.”
“Like a loaded baked potato?” I stirred the concoction with my fork, looking at it dubiously. (I don’t know if I actually looked at it like that or not, but I like the word dubiously.) “What do you mean like a baked potato?”
“Cauliflower is nothing like a baked potato. You ruined my bacon.” Then I looked at them, almost in a panic. “Wait. This is bacon, right? You didn’t just call it bacon and feed me that turkey crap, did you.”
“It’s real bacon,” they assured me. “You can have that.”
I’m not sure I believed them.
Even my snacks changed. Instead of popcorn or potato chips, I’m now handed pork skins and pepperoni stuffed with cream cheese. Of course, the fourteen-year-old still gets popcorn, but she’s not allowed to bring me a handful like she used to, which stole away a bonding moment between us, but again, the girls didn’t care. On top of that, my sodas have been stolen away again and replaced with water, which I’m now told I have to drink so much per hour.
The girls spend Monday nights now at the dining room table sorting through menus and recipes mapping out the meals for the following week in which to torture me with. They’re sorting through Keto numbers and making food more like math. I hated math in school. They’ve even installed an app on my phone where I have to log in everything I eat or drink. This is going to cut my time playing Disney Emoji Blitz way down. Of course, that guarantees me a couple of hours of quietness, but they’ve taken away all my secret stashes of Reese’s Cups, so it’s not as enjoyable as it sounds.
In retaliation, I’ve decided to tweet about my torture, sharing pictures of meals and my suffering. If you’re on Twitter, feel free to join me and follow along. I’ll try and make it funny for all. I mean, you have to laugh in the face of misery, right?
I’d also love to hear from you. Do you have a healthy recipe you can share with me? Drop me a line. Have your own funny experience with diets or success stories? Send me an email. Have you tried Keto or some other diet that worked for you? How do you stay healthy? I really want to know I’m not the only one doing this. I’d love to hear from you so hit reply and give me some encouragement.
PS Send cookies :)