My Month Of (Fad) Diets

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January 1st, 8 a.m.—time to weigh in. I roll out of bed, still reeling from last night’s chocolate coma. There will be no hiding from the scale’s all too accurate, electronic machinery. It blinks. Then drops the numbers like an avalanche of chocolate-covered guilt.

The phone rings, shocking me out of my stupor. It’s my chocolate-loving compadre, Melissa.

“How bad?” I give her the number and she gasps. “That’s worse than last time!”

“I know.”

“Resolution time?”

“Definitely. Fifty bucks says I can lose more than you in a month.”

“You’re on!” The exuberance in her voice lifts me from the suffocating blubber lodged comfortably on my derrière. “But you better act quick—I’m already stocked up for healthy eating.”

Healthy eating. Psh. Those 50 bucks are as good as mine.

Week 1:

I decide to start with the magically detoxifying Master Cleanse, which boasts a 10-pound loss per week using nothing more than lemons, maple syrup and cayenne pepper.

I’m skeptical at best, but the site declared the diet “Beyonce-tested and approved”. I’m almost positive questioning the pop diva’s verdict would cross a line no mortal should tread.

I pull out my cauldron and begin to brew. Lemon juice, maple syrup and a spoonful of cayenne (the more you add, the more you lose). I take my first sip. My stomach lets out a yelp as the potion incinerates my colon. But I’m sure it’ll get easier.

Day two and my stomach isn’t the only thing spinning. They should really put a disclaimer on this diet: Warning, may cause dizziness. Do not drive or operate heavy machinery. Maybe I just need a little break—just a few days off…

Week 3:

The metaphorical “wagon” is hidden behind a week-long waterfall of Gobstoppers, chocolate chips and an extra two pounds. I try finding shelter in self-control, but to no avail. Enough is enough—it’s time for an umbrella—and a new diet.

I wander the store’s aisles like a lost soul in search of my messiah. And there it is—like a ray of hope banishing all despair—the cookie diet. I swear I can hear angels sing as I read the regimen.

“Wash away unwanted pounds by simply replacing one meal a day with two delicious, mouth-watering, chocolate chip-crammed cookies. This is the one diet anyone can follow.”

I grab the box off the shelf, giddy with the thought of the cookie-filled meals to come. I run to the checkout, pummeling any person that dares to stand between me and my glorious weight loss.

Even the WWE Superstars would be jealous of my impressive stride.

Barely in the door, I rip the box open. So desperate am I to begin my journey that I must remind myself the plastic surrounding each cookie is about as edible as week one’s lemonade.

I take my first bite—delicious. I take my second—decadent. I take my—ouch! I have just bitten into the fragile cuticle of my index finger.

My stomach growls like a pissed-off cat being introduced to another. How do they expect me to subsist on just one of these?! I’m not a rodent, you know—girl’s gotta have her chocolate.

Week 4:

The month’s almost over and I’m becoming increasingly desperate. The extra two pounds sit on my bloated belly like an overstuffed burger sits on a tiny bun. I need some proven science.

I settle on the recently FDA-approved, fat-blocking diet pill, trusting that the government wouldn’t approve something that didn’t work. And, at 50 bucks a bottle, it better work.

I can’t wait to see the look of defeat on Melissa’s face when she learns I won by just taking a pill with every meal. Healthy eating—psh. We’ll just see about that.

February 1st, the big day. Standing barefoot in my bathroom, I can almost hear Biggest Loser weigh-day music in the background. Melissa volunteers to go first—two pounds! I congratulate her, secretly rejoicing at my upcoming victory.

My turn. My blood pressure spikes like the puck on a carnival high striker game. Melissa looks over my shoulder. What?! The numbers blink even higher than last month!

Stupid, demonic, heart-colored arrow will probably never go south.

Speaking of hearts, how much longer till the chocolate ones come around?

Mekkie Bansil is a long time foodaholic whose passion for tree-hugging is only superceded by her cooking-turned-science experiments. She spends most of her time on random adventures or petting her cat, Bootz.