I recently began this nutritional program. Oh, who am I kidding? Let's call a spade a spade. It's a diet. A hard diet with a big, fat capital D. My Dr (who is very lucky that I love him or else he may have found himself wearing 2 weeks worth of protein shakes......at least they "claim" to be protein shakes though I'm completely convinced if you did a blind taste test of vanilla shake vs wallpaper paste, the results would be 50/50) was extremely vague about the details of this "program" before he loaded me up with a box of assorted powders, liquids and supplements. I understood shortly thereafter he had been vague on purpose because if I'd fully comprehended what I was signing up for, I would not have done it. Not one freaking chance in hell.
So I start my days off drinking this scrumptious cleanse drink. How does it taste? Why don't you pour yourself a glass of prune juice, add an equal amount of Robitussin cough syrup and top it off with some finely powdered dirt. Stir. Enjoy. Top o' the morning to ya.
|I'm ready to make breakfast!|
Three weeks into this torture and I've lost 10 pounds. Okay....I get it. It's 10 pounds. It's a step in the right direction. But, for the torment of the last 3 weeks, it should be like 40 pounds. Really. Nevermind that my Dr, who looked fine to begin with, did the program and lost like 18 pounds in five hours. (Am convinced men drop five pounds when they just think the word *diet* Bastards.)
So Dr 18-pounds-lost-Bastard is getting all woo-hooey on me. Yeah, 10 pounds, that's awesome!! As I give him the death stare accompanied by flaring nostrils.
So is my glass half empty? I fully recognize and appreciate my half full, 10 pound glass. But why isn't it all the way full with 40 pounds already? Pessimist? No. Optimist? Not so much. Why-The-Hell-Not-ist? Yep, that's me.