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.
As if she had the authority to do so. As if she owned the word “butch” and got a royalty every time someone used the term. Or was in charge of deciding who can be a butch and who can’t, perhaps based on some scale that takes into consideration how many pairs of cargo pants a person owns, if they’ve ever played softball and whether they drink Earl Gray tea.
Not too long ago, I wanted to be a gold star lesbian pretty much more than anything in the world. (Well, not as much as being Olivia Newton-John’s dance partner in the Shake Shack at the musical number at the end of Grease.)
The Flannel Files 