On the Merits of Dieting


Evidence that whoever made this cute little homage to healthy eating indeed did not eat his or her vegetables.

My roommates are dieting. This implies several every important things for me, including limiting my carb-gasms, not bragging about $5 footlongs at Subway, and maintaining secrecy for all involved parties.

You see, both my roommates have, unbeknownst to one another, come to me at different points this weekend and admitted to having faltered in very big ways from their strict regiment of tree bark and soy protein. A doughnut here, some pizza there, and all I can say is that this is why I am physically incapable of dieting.

Note: girls, if you’re reading this, you are braver than I could ever be in taking on a challenge like this horrendously difficult diet, and I’m about to tell you why.

I’m of a certain breed that when you take something away from me, I want it more. Rob me of my beauty rest and all I want is for my notebook to transform into a pillow during class. Dictate that the DMV doesn’t open until 9:00 AM on Wednesdays and the only activity of interest to me at 8:00 AM mid-week will be standing in an infinite line of number calling insanity. Telling me I can’t have basic food tenets such as meat, cheese, and alcohol* will simply make me want a healthy dose of chicken cordon bleu slathered in rum.

*You try getting through a weekend of studying for accounting midterms and tell me that libation isn’t a necessary part of your existence.

My attitude and aptitude for dieting is quite similar to my feelings on Lent. If someone (namely the Pope) tells me to do something to better myself, you know what I’m going to want to do? That’s right: not do it. (What, you expected a crazy digression into a pop culture reference or a quotable gem of humorous mediocrity? This isn’t Family Guy, people.) Should I choose to better myself from the cockles of my own bitter little heart, then I’ve got every reason in the world to succeed. But outside stimuli just don’t jive with me. As my loving boyfriend always reminds me, “Nobody tells me what to do but me” and it’s this anecdote, as five-year-olds on the playground as it may be, that drives my inability to follow a diet (or historically popular religious leader).

Now, let me end by saying this: nobody died from eating healthier, and nobody suffered extreme bodily harm from rising to a challenge. Roomies, I valiantly salute you for your efforts, and will always be here when you need a shoulder to cry on or a pizza to share.


2 Responses to “On the Merits of Dieting”

  1. 1 kathleen

    umm KV, chicken cordon bleu slathered in rum sounds…disgusting. Come on Woman! you have high class! also as a side note lately every time I have rum it makes me feel really ill. and I don’t think mixing it with chicken cordon bleu would make me feel any better about it.

  2. 2 Psychotik Mouse

    I think Garfield said it best… “Diet is DIE with a t”.

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