I've been on a diet for three weeks. It feels like three years. And it's making me a little cranky. Case in point: This morning I told Michael to quit being a jerk to his sister (he was pinching her for the hundredth time this week), to which he responded "Don't call me a jerk, Mom."
Did I say, "I'm sorry" or "You're right, that's not a nice word to use."? No, I actually replied, "Don't act like one." For reals.
Then I had to excuse myself to my room for acting five.
By the time the post-lunch letdown had reached its peak (it is just so sad to be allotted one egg and a single piece of toast for "lunch"), I couldn't take it anymore. I ate an Almond Snickers and I drank milk straight from the jug. The heavens opened, angels started singing, and my crankiness melted away to reveal a beautiful enchantress.
Oops, no, that was Beauty and the Beast.
But seriously, I actually felt sort of human again. And not as bitter about the fact that David gets to eat 6,000 more calories a day than I do. (Stupid female DNA). Granted, tonight at 9:00 when I don't have any treat calories left I'm going to dissolve into a pile of sugarless self-loathing, but for now, man that candy bar was good.
And it almost made me stop caring that, in a fit of dieting delusion, I bought a dress at Costco yesterday thinking how good it would look when I manage to lose a few more pounds. The dress is now staring at me from atop my dresser and making snarky comments about my hips. To which I say, "Bite me."
Is it time to eat yet?