You would think that this whole dieting thing would be easier for me. After all, it’s not like I want to be at my current size.
(This train of thinking leads to an uncomfortable train of thought — because not only do I want to lose this weight, I want to experience life, all of life, as a skinny person. I want to have the middle school/high school/college experience I would have had if I weighed 120 pounds. The prospects, the opportunities, the relationships, the chances, the events, the neural circuitry. I want the whole skinny person life, instead of trying to salvage something out of the wreckage of my three decades of superfatness. But that’s a different monster, to wrestle on a different day.)
But, anyway. I have attached every star of every hope and dream I’ve ever had on someday, someday, someday beating this body down into a reasonable size. One that fits into an airplane seat. One that doesn’t have to walk down a bus sideways. One that doesn’t have to drag oxygen around. One that doesn’t scare people away without saying a single word.
So this pre-surgical regimen should come easily to me. I should be ready and willing. I should be enthusiastic and happy about the whole damn thing.
And, on one level, I am. But on another, more pervasive level, I’m just tired, sad, and hungry.