Let No Chip Put This Vow Asunder
F E B R U A R Y 2 7 , 2 0 0 6
I waited until the kids were on the school bus before I confronted my wife by the coffeemaker and said: “Honey, I have a confession to make.”
She looked at me with that nervous grin she gets when bracing for the worst.
“I cheated,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“I can’t believe this,” she said.
It was true. I had violated our shared vow of carbohydrate celibacy and low-fat fidelity. I had strayed from our joint diet—straight into the crunchy embrace of a bag of Doritos. I wish I could say I didn’t enjoy it, but I did. Each bite was pure bliss.
Believe me, I’m not proud of myself.
As my wife pointed out, we had a deal, struck during a calorie-crazed vacation to Disney World over Christmas. “This is it,” I said as we polished off chocolate-covered ice cream bars outside Space Mountain. “When we get home, we’re going on a diet.”
My cheapskate gene had finally trumped my chowhound gene. I either had to drop 10 pounds and a couple of inches or replace my wardrobe.
Jenny is lanky by design. But she, too, has noticed that one of the many charming aspects of rounding the halfway point to 90—along with those stylish Grandpa Walton bifocals and an utter inability to stay awake through the 11 o’clock news—is that calories no longer burn themselves into oblivion as they once did.
Till Chips Do We Part
“I’m in,” she said. And right then we exchanged our vows. We would support and encourage each other, on good weigh-in days and bad, in fullness and in hunger, through cake cravings and linguine lusts.
Many of
our friends were on low-carbohydrate diets, and, frankly, it didn’t sound all that tough. You still got to eat all the good stuff like steak and ham. All you were cutting out were the things that went around them—the rice and pasta and breads and sweets. How hard could that be?
New Year’s Day came, and we launched our diet by dropping in on our friends Mike and Patti for an impromptu pizza-and-beer party. “Here’s to our new lowcarb diet!” I toasted.
The next day, we got another invitation for pizza and beer. “Tomorrow, we start for sure.” I vowed. And we did.
Life knows no joy like opening the day with runny eggs without toast washed down with unsweetened coffee. My children taunted me by gnawing on huge, doughy bagels.
By dinner (a chicken breast with salad), I was so crazed for carbs I nearly tackled my son as he carried a bowl of macaroni to the table. That night I dreamed of bread and butter.
By Day 3, I was fantasizing about being locked overnight in a bakery. On Day 7, I looked out the window and saw plates of steaming rigatoni floating by. On Day 9, I said to Jenny:“My wardrobe needs updating, anyway.”
And on Day 10, I spotted the Doritos.
Surrendering to Desire
The bag lay on top of the refrigerator, wantonly open, barely folded over. O, be still my low-carb cheatin’ heart!
I stepped closer. The bag’s siren call filled my ears, seeming to say: “You know you want me.” I knew I did. My arm, of its own volition, reached up.
“Look away from the chips!” my dieting partner barked. Busted.
But it was only a matter of time. In my heart, I had already strayed. For the next couple of days I searched for excuses to walk past the refrigerator, shooting furtive glances up at the little home-wrecker.
Jenny and I had each lost a few pounds. The diet was working. But at what cost? Was a life without bread and pie and chips and beer—did I mention no beer?—worth living?
And so, I did it. Late that night, when everyone was asleep, I lit into the bag. Just one chip, I promised. Then it was two. Then three. Soon I lost count.
The next day, a few hours after my confession, my wife called me at work. “I just ate popcorn,” she said. “With butter.”
“Oh, that is so like a woman,” I seethed. “One little lapse on your husband’s part and you’re dragging home Orville Redenbacher.”
Eventually, we worked things out. The joint diet is holding—by a thread. It may take counseling, but I think we’re going to get through this.
And you know what? Our marriage will be stronger for it. Assuming, of course, a warm loaf of bread doesn’t show up at the door anytime soon.
