The Divorce Diet

Yes. I said it out loud. The only diet I haven’t tried. It’s not readily available in all markets. Perhaps you are one of my many readers who stills holds a one way ticket on the short bus and has yet to figure out this is the key to instant weight loss. The diet pill blog? Ring a bell? Anyone home? In the spirit of Christmas I’ll give you the super secret SIF decoder. Just like “A Christmas Story.” Only this decoder won’t tell you to “Drink your Ovaltine.” More like “Get the Fuck Out.” Not very merry I suppose. Perhaps a bit of a “Christmas Story” meets “Ammityville Horror.”  Whatever. Santa’s not real anyway. Yeah, he’s not. And if you still believe, there’s a nice padded room and plenty of medication waiting for you. Yes Mother that means you. I know you still think he eats the cookies and fills your stocking. News flash…I eat the cookies and Dad takes care of the rest. If you chose to call this dynamic duo “Santa” so be it. He’s grey and I’m fat.  We make a tremendous effort if nothing else. Willard is calling. Answer the call. Dad & I need a break from watching Rudolph for the umpteenth time. Believe

Back to the best diet ever. Yes, it’s a high price to pay for weight loss. However comma, I give you 7 pounds in 3 days. The pukers can’t put up numbers like that. SIF 1 Pukers 0. Not to mention they have bad breath and residual issues. I just look committed to the cause and hot. I call it like I see it. In order for this diet to work you have to be unhappy enough to pull the trigger. Sold. In my case it didn’t involve hate or anger. It involved loving ones self enough to know when it wasn’t working. Like oh I don’t know gaining 30 pounds over 7 years. Like that. The sisters would say I can’t blame him for that. Why not? I believe in outsourcing guilt. It makes for a happy SIF. Granted, we all eat when we are happy. We eat when we are sad. The point of no return…. when we become numb. Like when your fat ass sits in a metal chair too long and you can’t walk. You can’t feel your ass. It’s almost like it’s not there. Dreamy. Like that. You stop worrying about what you can’t feel. Yes Mother I just compared 7 years of marriage to ass numbing via a metal chair. I never suggested I offer up the best analogies. Just the ones that come to mind. In fact, when I was hypnotized in hopes of losing weight, my ass went numb from sitting in one of those very chairs. For $80 an hour you think there would have been some padding involved. Maybe it was a sign. I gained 10lbs after that session. Fuckin witch doctor.

Where was I going with this? Oh yeah…the divorce diet. The only point in my life where food has ever been dead to me. Numb. This is key. It’s a journey not a destination. Yes I just used a cheesy cliche’. Click off.  No one wakes up one day and says, ” I think I’ll just say fuck everything and walk away.” It’s suppressed emotion. Kinda like…it’s June but I can’t wait for the Peppermint Mocha shake at McDonald’s. Like that. You know it’s coming. You know it will make everything whole. You just have to wait for the season. Yes Mother I am now comparing my decision to divorce to a shake at McDonald’s. I’m a SIF. Food is my soul. I make no excuses. Dr. Phil says not to make decisions when you are angry. I’m not angry. Just food aggressive. If I waited for that to subside I’d be cashing in life insurance policies not signing divorce papers. It’s very surreal to put yourself before commitments, obligations, guilt and so on. It’s numbing. To be selfish on the most extreme level of selfishness. It’s stealing a happy meal from the homeless. Robbing the man ringing the bell for the Salvation Army. Seriously…I have yet to see him this year. Thank God. He should be giving me a loan. Don’t have the heart to tell him. Who does this by the way? Are people really kind enough to freeze there ass off to beg for change to help others? Not me. Warm, fat & fed. Unless I can ring that bell from the comfort of my sofa….just aint happenin. Perhaps why I am going to hell. Whatever. I prefer warm climates anyway.

So let’s get past the not eating resulting in making me look better than ever. This part good. Food is dead to me. I hope it doesn’t rise from the grave to reclaim the 30lbs. The only other trump card to numbness is giving away my dogs. I’m not going there…. yet. For a size 2 I will reconsider. Let’s talk about adult diaper rash. Yes, I just transitioned to that without any level of effectiveness. My blog. I say who I say when. Now that I’m single it’s imperative I keep my “girl” in working order. You never know when she may be called to action. However comma, she decided to revolt and land me at the Cootie Dr. As you are well aware, I take the Mercedes to the dealer. That’s 4 hours away. Scheduled on 1/13/12. Yes, I’m going on Friday the 13th. What else can happen? I’m down 30lbs. I’m soo getting a gold star. Even if I test HIV+ I’m clearly better off than last year. Dumb nurse… I see your lack of mental capacity and raise you 30. In any event, a quick trip to Jiffy Lube was in order. *Gasp* Taking such a fine piece of equipment to a drive through service is soo beneath me. However, red rash & constant scratching on the “the girl” aint bringing sexy back. So I  made an appt for same day service. Can you imagine such a thing exists? Thank God. The next step was urgent care. I’d sooner cut my shit out than go there.

They didn’t weigh me. Low end. Of course now that I’ve lost 30 lbs they keep me from glory. Bitches. Why are you here? Oil change. Not. Random rash. Check. “Pee in this cup.” Seriously. Isn’t there a box for “I’ve been married for 7 years there’s no possible way this thing is rabid as it hasn’t been used?” Apparently not. I peed in the cup. It sat next to several others that had already turned blue. Mine did not. I had no idea what this meant. I have egg beaters. I assumed all was good. Waiting for the PA- bcs getting real Dr. would just be out of the question. Praying whilst laying on a paper covered table in a half assed attempt at a nightie…classic. “Please Lord don’t let me have the Clap. Lord hear my prayer.” I’m sure someone out there has gone there. I knew it wasn’t possible but I also knew my vag was en fuego! After poking, prodding, swabbing and a solid round of interrogation w/ an inappropriate level of TMI….adult diaper rash. Are you freaking kidding me? I don’t wear diapers. Nope. But I do run, box and hang out in the dark wet zone. How is it I’m single 6 weeks and have already given myself some sort of crud? I would have loved a good story to go with the diagnosis. Nope. Instead I get… you work out to much and you’re a breeder of all things bad. I know this. This is why I did not procreate. Nothing good can come of mini me.

So… 30lbs lighter, 6 weeks into singledom and 1 bout of adult diaper rash later here I am. Full disclosure. Why? So you can feel better about yourself. That next Ho-Ho, that next scratch on the vag, that next fight with your spouse…think of me. Here I sit 4 prescription & 30lbs later…alone. I’m ok with the alone part. The itching not so much. I can’t run or box due to breeding issues. What’s left? Eating. Seriously? My choices are to run and scratch or sit and eat. The Divorce Diet better result in me getting laid soon. Scratch or no scratch. I’m puttin my girl back in service!