Nobody likes a quitter
See those sad little fuckers sitting in my mini fridge… those are what’s known as a crutch. I had a little meeting with my doctor the other week and he got inside my brain. He didn’t straight up tell me I HAD to do anything but he challenged me to write down what I dumped into my body. I took his challenge and it turned out I had been fooling myself about my Diet Coke consumption. It had gotten bad even by my less than standard standards. Like super unhealthy no longer a joke bad. So when I turned in my consumption log I told him it was time to quit.
He was more concerned with the way I ate like an unsupervised teenager. I held up the weak “keto” defense but that just made him laugh. Turns out he saw right through my bullshit and said “you are tricking yourself into thinking this diet works for you because it allows you to eat ridiculous amounts of the food you already love” ouch. The truth really does hurt. But not one to back away from a good argument I countered with “but I stay away from bread pasta and sugar for the most part…” he wasn’t having it.
Look, I’m not a complete idiot. I know eating nothing but meats and cheeses can’t be long term good for my health but my brain is broken. This is the same glob of gray matter that convinced me because the pop was diet I could drink it as my only liquid save beer. Yup, not great.
So he convinced me to do a detox that begins Saturday (strategically planned so at the peak of my assholeness I will be sequestered with myself for the weekend) where I will be limiting my foods to one’s that actually help humans stay alive and tracking everything I consume. He mentioned that this might be harder if I were trying to cut back on the pop at the same time and suggested I try to curb that this week whilst on the road.
I had to be at the airport at 5:00am Monday morning so I took one down as soon as I got through security. When I landed in Philadelphia I drove to a store and bought those little things depicted above challenging myself to drink just one a day. At one point later that afternoon I got pissed at myself for being a stubborn spoiled idiot and decided to stop altogether. So here I sit Thursday night with a thundering headache contemplating an 8:00 bedtime. Holy hell I can hardly stand to be around myself.
In a spooky twist of fate I returned from training Tuesday evening to find that the tiny six pack self destructed. It seems that the cold of my refrigerator was too much for the little fellas and they all blew up. Someone out there is delivering signs. If you know me in real life this weekend might not be the best version with which to have a chat. You’ve been warned.