Stupid Rumi

That’s me/Michelle on the left.

It’s been one of those days. Taxes are due, and there’s a complication with our filing. I’m dieting. I’m forced to ride the daily ebb and flow of a teenager’s moods like Michelle Rodriguez in Blue Crush. We’re still waiting for a contractor we hired last year to replace our roof to correct a problem. It seems like I’m always working or cleaning or cooking and have no time for my personal writing. Did I mention I’m dieting?

Today, something pushed me over the edge.

And then I wanted nachos. Or someone’s head covered in hot, melted cheese. But really, I wanted nachos in all their cheesy, nachoey glory.

I was like this guy eating a Red Delicious apple.

Instead, I grabbed an apple and ate it angrily, pieces of red skin flying in the air like confetti in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

“That must be a delicious apple,” my son said.

“Shut up,” I said.

I ate the apple and cleaned the litter boxes and packed lunches and scrubbed the kitchen floor and unloaded the dishwasher, trying to channel my anger into something productive.

After all that, I sat down at my desk and noticed a piece of paper I had saved. It said this:

“This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meaness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor …

Be grateful for whatever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.”

— Rumi

Stupid Rumi, I said to myself.

And then I let myself feel a tiny bit better.

Cavebutch versus the birthday cake

I’m on day four of operation caveman (switching over to a Paleo/Primal diet).

So far, so good.

My body was positioned horizontally but not in a fun way

I only had one really terrible day this week.  On Tuesday, I laid on the couch with a heating paid wrapped around my head like Olivia Newton-John in the Physical music video and watched hour after hour of the Rachel Zoe Project because my head hurt way too much to change the channel.

I’m still getting acclimated to the Paleo way of life and figuring out what to eat.  I think I need to load up on veggies to get the kind of weight loss results that I want.  In the long run, bacon and bananas will only get you so far.  Ask Elvis.

But making the decision to clean up my diet is a big step.  A first step.  I have to learn to be patient with myself and ok with the me that exists right now at this very moment.

I should mention that I’ve scored one notable victory already.

Middle-age cavebutch 1

Birthday cake 0

W got me a birthday cake for my birthday on Saturday.  It was delicious.

Super-size me, Beyonce

I had a generous slice on Saturday, a big ass slice (Beyonce size) Sunday morning and a bigger ass slice (think Kim Kardashian) Sunday evening.  It was my last meal after all.  Dead butch walking was going to have chips and birthday cake and a Coke before no-carb/no-sugar Monday rolled around.

On Monday, I failed to do what all good dieters do and throw away the rest of the cake.

This gave the leftover cake an opportunity to tease and tempt me.  About one-fifth of the cake remained, and it sang out:

“C’mon, you know you want me,” it said in its sexy voice.  “I’ve got buttercream in all of the right places.”

Butch, darling. I want you to know I love you. I’ve loved you more than any woman’s ever loved a butch.

“I’m not bad, I was just baked this way,” it purred in its best Jessica Rabbit voice.

It was a cocky son-of-a-bitch.  And damn fine.  Foxy Brown superfine.  But Middle-age butch has resisted more tempting bounty over the years.

Somehow, I resisted the siren call of moist white cake and sweet, sweet icing.

When Tuesday rolled around, I was hurting.  My body craved sugar.  Please.  Just a teaspoon of the white stuff.  A cookie?  Half an Oreo?  The half with the Double-Stuf filing?  The other half?  Anything, for the love of Little Debbie.  Or what about that leftover birthday cake?  Just a slice.  A single spoonful of icing.

I contemplated eating a piece for medicinal purposes.  Rx cake.  Yeah, just one piece to stop my head from throbbing.  One sliver.  A few bites.  A lick of the icing.  God, I wanted it.  I needed it.

But, I decided to white knuckle it.  If I eat the cake, it’ll just elongate the detox process, I told myself.

On Wednesday, the cake sat there in its round plastic dome and taunted me.  You know what they say about baked goods in glass houses.  This one was pelting me with pieces of icing that it had molded into tiny projectiles.

“Why are you keeping me around, butch?” it asked in its sugary voice.

“If you didn’t want me, you would have tossed me out last night with the leftover spaghetti and that wilted romaine.”

“C’mon, take a bite.  Just one nibble.  You won’t regret it.  I’ve been saving myself for you.  Only you, stud.”

Whoa, this cake was good.  Such a sweet talker.

By the power of Greyskull, Middle-age butch resisted.  I was a cavebutch after all.  I beat my chest and gave my best jungle call.  The cats hid.

On Wednesday night, one of the kids ate half of the leftover cake.  The same kid finished off the rest tonight.

The bitch begged.  I heard it.

The icing left around the edge of the cardboard cake plate made one last-ditch plea.

“Give us a lick.  Please,” it begged.

Middle-age butch felt all powerful and primal and proud.

The allure of the sweet stuff was greatly diminished.  It was sad.  And pathetic, really.

After all, it was just a blob of sugar.  It was no match for this Paleo-butch.

Going Primal

I’m an all-or-nothing kind of gal.

Remember that recent post about making gradual, healthy lifestyle changes? Baby steps in big bad butch boots?

Blew that bitch out of the water.  Already.  And it’s only been three days.

I’d pretend to be embarrassed, but what’s the point?  That’s just me.

Slow and steady?  That’s for other  people.  And turtles.

I need a plan.  And a matching checklist.

The plan has to be sexy and new.  Something that I can commit to with every single fiber of my impulsive being.

I asked W which diet plan sounds better. 

• Atkins. 
• Clean Eating. 
• Primal/Paleo. 
• Weight Watchers. 
• Dukan. 
• South Beach. 
• Low carb.

She said Clean Eating.

I told her that she was wrong.

It’s Primal.  Without a doubt.

Think cave women.  Tiger-striped loin cloths.  Hunting for your own food.  Living off the land.  Long, wild sexy hair.   Tossing your woman over your shoulder and heading back to the cave after sunset for something really primal.

I did Atkins about two years ago and lost a considerable amount of weight in a relatively short period of time.  W and I were having a commitment ceremony, so I wanted to look good in my pinstriped pants and vest.

I found that I could live without bread and pasta.  I also discovered that I had incredible amounts of energy when I stopped eating carbs and sugar.

Like energy to paint a small house or perhaps start my own cat farm.

But this time around I thought I’d go Primal.  It’s not as restrictive as Atkins (at least the early stages of Atkins).  For those of you who aren’t familiar with Primal or Paleo, plan participants eat meat, fish, vegetables, fruits, nuts and seeds.  Processed foods, grains, legumes and most dairy are no-nos. 

Quite frankly, I like the idea of going all Tarzan with my food choices.  Something about beating my chest and swinging from a vine appeals to me.  Maybe it’s the whole taking control of my life thing in a very forceful  way.

What can I say, I like a good gimmick.  Especially when its wearing a loin cloth.  And a bikini top.