The Theory, the test, and the very bad results. . .

So, after fleshing out the concept yesterday, I was met with a goodly amount of criticism, albeit respectful, thoughtful, and with much love. 

What I didn't share last night, at the risk of putting you to sleep with my diatribe, is the theory behind the concept.  Because I am a writer and not a scientist, I'll put it to you as my thesis statement. 

I believe that, by putting zero restrictions on what I eat, I will eventually develop a pattern of eating that is perfect for my needs; thus, allowing me to maintain or lose weight, but not gain. 

How's that, for a long-ass, grammatically-correct sentence?! 

Seriously though, I know me.  I know that, the minute someone tells me what to do, I will do the opposite or nothing at all, thanks to my raging internal locus of control.  If I perceive that someone or something else controls my fate, I will balk.  Conversely, if I feel like I am calling the shots, everything is cool in the Land of Sharon. 

Starting to catch my drift yet?  What does a diet book do but tell you what to eat, how much, when, and sometimes where?  Instant turn-off.  I feel deprived, starving, and way out of control of the only thing I was born to have control over - my corpulent corpus.

So, by removing all restrictions, I believe I will develop a healthy pattern of eating that will allow me to become more attuned to my body's needs.  But here's the rub.  Until I develop this zen relationship with my body, I will probably eat anything and everything that has sugar and/or fat in it to make up for years of deprivation. And, oh yeah, I have been.

My test week diet has mainly consisted of cereal, McDs, ice cream, cookies, chips, and TV dinners, as I expected and planned.  I wanted to get the "no holds barred" gorge-fest out of the way first.  Giving myself permission to eat with reckless abandon felt GREAT!  FANTASTIC!  Sensual, even. . . like dirty sex. . . on a pile of twinkies, you know, in case I got the munchies after the dirty sex.

Not unlike facing the walk of shame after a one night stand, I woke up after a week's orgy of ice cream to the walk of constipation.  You know, that bloated, miserable shuffle you get when things aren't quite right in the Land of Bowel. 

Three words to describe it:  Black Tar Heroin. 



real black tar heroin, but not mine.

 If you're lucky enough to "score" some, that is. 

Soooooo, the first lesson learned on the Undiet is to know your limits, your 40-odd year old sluggish limits. I am currently dragging around like a constipated zombie.

We went out for Mexican food last night and I wisely eschewed the cheese- and sour cream-laden enchiladas for a more sensible bowl of albondigas (meatball soup with zucchini and carrots in it - oh, and one potato peel this time!).  I didn't even eat many chips.   

What I'm counting on during this experience is that, deep down, I am a pretty smart cookie.  I learn from my mistakes.  Heck, I even ate two pieces of fruit today and supplemented my frozen meal with a little extra veg and protein.  That should more than make up for the two pieces of homemade banana bread I scarfed at work. 

Regardless, I am still jammed up and miserable, and I have a newfound respect for fruit and its wonderful, laxative effect. 

Next time:  the lesson I actually learned from eating half a quart of mint chip ice cream over the course of 24 hours.  Till then, may your BMs be copious and pillowy-soft.  :-)