Megan and I are on a diet. I know I’m not supposed to say “diet”. Apparently “diet” is now a swear word.
Say you’re on a diet these days and you get reprimanded, “Diets don’t work”. Then you get lectured on how you need to make lifestyle changes instead, alter your portion sizes and enjoy eating cardboard.
That sounds like too much commitment to me. Besides, I don’t want to change my lifestyle. I like my lifestyle. I just want less fatstyle. I can deal with a limited time of abstinence so I can get less tubby.
To annoy the nutritionists even more, we are not even doing a known diet. It has no name, it’s not about carbs or proteins or detoxing, and it doesn’t involve paying a premium for your food because the packaging contains words that are supposed to scare fat away. If our diet had to have a name, that name would be Pig Out Day.
To keep ourselves honest while we fast, we promise ourselves that we can have a Pig Out Day at the end of a certain time period. I feel the name is self-explanatory.
The effect is two-fold: firstly, you have a time-limited goal; secondly, the void in your life created by the lack of food can be filled by dreaming and fantasising about food. Whenever you start feeling hungry, it is very rewarding
to talk about the nutritional damage you are intending to inflict on your body when Pig Out Day arrives.
It’s like Lotto: haven’t we all dreamed about what we’d do with the money if we won? I’m sure the daydreaming is almost as enjoyable as the actual winning. As the jackpot gets larger, the plotting gets more frequent and more enjoyable.
Pig Out Day is the same. The nearer it gets, the more vivid and fevered the descriptions. I’ve even started a list of treats to consume on the day. I don’t want to waste valuable stomach space on anything other than the most delicious kai, so I refine the list, deleting less-preferred indulgences for the more decadent.
I also wanted to make sure that the provisions were gathered pre-pig, so that as soon as I was awake, I could start re-clogging my arteries.
Sadly, like Lotto, it may also be the case that the actual day never really lives up to the dream. When it arrived, we leapt out of bed and dived into a giant pan of bacon and hash browns. By 11am we were groaning beached whales. Eyes substantially larger than abdominal regions.
We just weren’t match fit. We’d lost our ability to pig out. As dusk approached and we realised the diet was due to restart the next morning, tears rolled down our cheeks and over the pie crusts falling from our mouths. There’s only so much damage you can do in 24 hours.
We’re back on the diet now. Next Pig Out Day only three weeks away. I’m currently thinking intravenous chocolate might be the way to go.
You can catch Jeremy on TV3 on Fridays, 9.30pm, as the always erudite host of 7 Days.
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