On The Last Minutes of the Day Blues

There was a stretch there where I was on a diet with Megan associated with her work at The Store That Shall Not Be Named.

This particular plan involved eating only the meals that they provided for you (three meals a day plus two snacks, only water to drink except for a morning Special Mixture of Tasty Goodness) for three weeks.  The plan is expensive, but it works.  And it works mostly by lowering your calorie count below what you should be eating and through making everything you do eat extremely easy for your body to process.

And what that means is that you (or I, but mostly I) are hungry all the time.

Okay, yes, there is that brief half-hour window directly after a meal when I don’t feel hungry so much as not hungry. (Feeling full is never a possibility.) And even though the plan has you (but it’s I again) eating every three hours, that really isn’t enough.

It’s enough for the plan, yes, but the plan isn’t the one eating the food.

What this meant is that while on this diet I could not stop thinking about food.  I would actually be thinking two meals ahead because I knew that the upcoming meal wouldn’t be enough to satisfy me.  In the midst of eating I’d be dreaming of what the next meal would taste like.  And I learned the joys of sleep.

[Come again? –ed.]

Sleep, sir.  Sleep.

[I got that.  But how does sleeping relate to the diet? –ed.]

When you’re sleeping, you’re not consumed with hunger.

[Ah, yes.  Quite. –ed.]

And when I’m sleeping now, I’m not consumed with waiting.

This is my problem now that the internet is everywhere I go: constant checking of everything.

Do I have any new e-mails? (Spammity spam.) What do the hits on my blog look like? (Bruises.) Oh God why did I engage with social media? (Because it asked nicely and offered a diamond ring.)

It is just like having a direct connection from the internet to my brain.

Which would be a nightmare.  EXCEPT that if there was said connection, then I would be bound (as would we all) to grow used to the constant connection so that waiting for an e-mail would be like waiting for the regular mail, i.e. There is no point watching the box as it will come when it will come.

So… um… when you get that direct-to-the-brain connection thingie working, just let me know.  Just uh… shoot me an e-mail.

Don’t worry, I’ll be waiting.

This entry was posted in Living, Writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply