Not long ago, I came across an article that described a certain man’s experience in a New York City restaurant. His steak –ordered medium-rare – came out well done, and this guy freaked out. When I say freak out, I don’t mean he yelled, banged his fists on the table, or demanded to see a manager. He didn’t want a comp or a free dessert, he just wanted to punch someone in the face. Less than five minutes after he socked his waiter in the eye, the NYPD escorted the man out and introduced him to his new cell mate (see also, unwanted boyfriend).
What really interests me here is not the unnecessary assault of a pimple faced dropout – it’s the explanation this guy’s attorney offered the court (and the press). “Mister Gabriel was suffering a tremendous amount of mental, emotional, and physical anguish – due to his recent succession of cigarette smoking.” Really.
As a recently graduated college student, I’ve endured my share of nicotine cravings. After five or so beers, there’s nothing that can stand between me and lung cancer. I’ve begged, borrowed, and bummed my way around every bar within five miles of campus. And sure, I’ve thrown a few insults at people who get in my way, but never have I seriously considered assault. I’m guessing this guy’s cigarette addiction was about twenty years running, and closer to the level of heroin dependency than my own recreation.
So it got me thinking, what would it take? Do I really depend on any substance or routine so much, that its removal would be enough to make me slap someone? I considered my relationship with booze, cigs, even ganja, and came up empty. I’d be more bored than angry. Or so I thought. I forgot to consider how I might feel if I wasn’t allowed to eat like a little piggy.
As the month of February began earlier this year, my former roommates and I realized we were only weeks away from our spring break departure to Mexico. Our hearts swelled with the promise of tequila pouring down our throats and bodies – until I pointed out the sad fact that those bodies were still laden with wintertime insulation. Tallahassee winters have an astounding capacity to keep me home on my couch, filling my facehole with bonbons and holiday treats. My pale, flabby tummy jiggled right over the top of my swimsuit, ties nearly hidden by muffin tops.
Days later, we filled a shopping cart with Slimfast and lettuce. Excluding the usual gallon of Breyer’s made my lip quiver a little. My forbidden love. My precious.
I’ve never been a dieter. Ever. The two main ingredients to dieting are hunger and self-deprivation; possibly the only two things I despise more than the Kardashians. Hunger awakens something in me that I can only assume is comparable to opiate withdrawal. Most people get a little short tempered or dizzy, but my head spins a full 360 degrees (and spits pea soup). I hadn’t really considered this in my thoughts on drug dependency. I also hadn’t considered the consequences of all three of us undertaking the same challenge at once.
The first week wasn’t too bad. We were all hyped on the idea of being slim and sexy for the cruise, and I convinced myself that I actually liked the taste of Slimfast. I took great joy in fixing everyone salads for lunch, and pouring myself a bowl of Special K in the evenings. My alarm clock went off seventy-five minutes early Monday through Friday, with me springing immediately into action. I was hungry, but embraced the empty rumbling as a sign that I was succeeding in starving half to death.
Before I’d been so conscious of the physical state of my body, I hadn’t been aware of how hard the weekends bring on the bloat. The difference in the size of my midsection before and after a long weekend is phenomenal. All the work I do during the week, just to gain it all back by Sunday… If that’s not homeostasis, I don’t know what is.
The first weekend of Operation Spring Break came upon me just as any other does – but when the hangover hit Saturday morning, I knew I was in trouble. All I wanted was a nice, greasy bagel melt. Bagel Bagel was calling to me, and I didn’t even want to resist. I gave in, and dragged the others down with me. 1,600 calories never felt so good.
Cheating on the weekend seemed perfectly harmless. Being on an unhealthy crash diet is going to confuse the hell out of your body anyway, so I figured I wasn’t doing any damage that wasn’t already being done. Wrong. I quickly realized that what I was doing was the equivalent of a smoker, trying to quit, allowing himself a few smokes on the weekend. Rather than slowly escaping my craving for cheese and chocolates, I was just inflaming my urge to have them. I was teasing my fat girl brain, and she was getting angry.
The second week wasn’t as pleasant as the first. We’d all lost a little steam, and I was no longer so enthusiastic about my morning workout. The alarm moved forward an additional 30 minutes, and I started noticing the vitamin-chalk taste of the Slimfast again. I mixed my salads with resentment, and thought of nothing all day but what I couldn’t have.
My body’s response to lack of food is far from good, but pales in comparison to my mind’s handling of deprivation – self-deprivation at that. When someone else is keeping something from you, the general response is anger. The natural reaction is to reflect animosity onto whoever is keeping you from your prize. But when there’s nobody else to blame, what then?
My first inclination was to blame Kayla and Allison. They pressured me into this shit. My feelings of hunger (and the anger that came along with it) were reflected directly onto the poor girls. I began to hate them, when they’d sit down next to me with a bowl of dressingless tuna. I’d feel obligated to grab some raw veggies, when I really wanted mac-n-cheese. I even started contriving plans to keep them from working out, so I wouldn’t feel bad about sitting on my ass.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“To the gym” Kayla says calmly.
“Oh, really? Because I got The Social Network from the Redbox last night, and I want to watch it now so I can bring it back before it charges me again. Didn’t you like, really want to see this?”
Victory.
On top of all my guilt conspiracies, I was just being bitchy. The hunger-induced irritability only got worse when the girls were around. The tension was building fast, and by the end of the third week, it was too much to take. All three of us were mumbling under our breath – mostly shooting insults at one another. Every time someone else spoke to me, I would make faces at the back of their heads once they turned around. Yes, exactly the way first-graders do it to their teachers.
On the third Thursday, after my arduous three class schedule came to an end, I be-lined it home – all the while thinking longingly of the ham-and-cheese Lean Pocket waiting for me in the freezer. It’s sad that I had even come to this point, the lowest of lows. In retrospect, there’s nothing about a Lean Pocket that’s exactly worth longing over. The cardboard-tasting crust is filled with a mysterious meat, drowning in mysterious sauce. And they only ever come out of the microwave at one of two temperatures: halfway frozen or melt the skin off your mouth lava-hot. It’s really a lose-lose situation; but in the case of extreme dieting, you take what you can get. Or you take someone’s head off.
Before this day, I had never jumped up the stairs of our front porch. But on this occasion, I actually leapt over all three at once, gazelle style. Inside, I didn’t even bother taking off my jacket. I made a move straight for the refrigerator, yanked the freezer door open, and there in front of me I saw – nothing. Some ice trays, a bag of chicken, and broccoli. A cave of icy emptiness.
Less than two seconds later I was storming down the hall with more power than Attila the Hun. As I neared Allison’s bedroom door, I could hear her on the phone behind it. I knocked and let myself in at the same time. Her head snapped up to look at me, and she made it a point to be clearly annoyed. My beady eyes immediately found the Lean Pocket “Pocket” (actual cardboard that you put your magma morsel into, to safeguard your paws) and a synthetic-cheesy paper towel, lying in an incriminating heap on her desk. Her gaze followed mine, and she slowly sunk back toward the pillows.
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?! The LAST edible thing in this house! Which you KNOW.. IS MINE!”
I wasn’t even using full sentences. My lowered blood sugar had thrown me into a fit of rage, there was no logic. But as I spun around to leave the room, I threw in the real zinger: “Not even like you need it, fucking cow.”
Ouch. That one did it, man. I could hear her crying from the living room. I turned Oprah up louder to drown out the sound. Over a Lean Pocket. As Oprah preached loudly about the beauty and wonders of timeless friendship, and the horror of domestic violence and verbal abuse, I started to feel like what I was (read: a bitch). As I nibbled on a raisiny granola bar, my right mind returned to me suddenly, and I realized that I had just done it: I had just metaphorically slapped one of my best friends straight across the face.
I crept back down the hallway, with much less intensity this time. Lightly tapping on the door, I stuck my head inside. She was still sitting on her bed – sniffling loudly, mascara running dramatically down her face.
“Ally?” Pet name always diffuses a tense situation.
Sniffle. I apologized, telling her that I didn’t really think she was a cow. I said I shouldn’t have yelled, but she also shouldn’t have eaten my Lean Pocket. Humility never was my greatest suit.
That was it for Operation Spring Break. We didn’t go back to the old ways of french fries and cupcakes (though I regularly dreamt of it), but we stopped the intense, crash-style dieting. We just ate healthier foods in normal quantities. How revolutionary. And we continued to cheat on the weekends.
When the week of the much anticipated booze cruise arrived, the three of us were pretty satisfied. We’d trimmed what needed trimming, toned what needed toning, and not killed each other. Each of us has had slightly more success in some areas, and close calls on others – but that’s why it’s a team effort. Granted, I did administer the metaphorical slap – but I was still a far cry from assault.
What I’ve learned from all of this is exactly what I suspected in the first place. Depriving yourself of something your body needs to function, is fucking stupid. Depriving yourself of something you love, like ice-cream or vodka, is also stupid. You can have your cake, and eat it too – as long as you only eat a teeny-tiny piece. It’s all about balance, folks. Health freaks can bite me.
If you ask me, homeboy up in New York needs to balance himself on top of a bong and take up a new smoking hobby. That might not keep him out of jail, but I’m looking out for the good of humanity here.
We spent Friday night ignoring the rain, bar hopping down the main strip in downtown Melbourne. After what was definitely enough dark beer, we got the most awesome ride home ever, from a Zingo designated driver. These guys hang out by the bars with scooters that they can fold up and stick in your trunk. They drive you home in your own car (eliminates the annoying task of retrieving it the next morning), grab their scooter, and scoot away. Coolest ever. A little pricier than a taxi, but definitely worth it, if for no other reason than to say it happened. I think scooters are hilarious. I would never drive (ride?) one myself, but I draw more amusement than I should from seeing someone else buzzing around on one. I guess the last laugh is on me though, because they're getting better gas mileage. 
