Who eats grapefruit at a pancake house? Actually, who eats grapefruit anyway?
You know what happens when you order grapefruit? You pay three bucks for an orb of sour water pustules on which you must perform delicate surgery with a weird, serrated spoon to excise each tiny bite full of kill-me-right-now.
This is currently my life. A table in a pancake house, smack in the middle of maple and bacon and bakery smells threatening my thirty-days-and-then-some of meal prep and healthy eating and a whole lotta’ pretending I wouldn’t kill someone for a pancake at any moment.
And I normally don’t even like pancakes.
It’s been a couple weeks and at least I’m not craving a beer anymore. I mean, sure it’s 7 am, but you gotta’ count your blessings where you can find them.
Another blessing? People who get me. They say you’re supposed to have a network when you embark on this month-long not-supposed-to-call-it-a-diet thing. Riiiight. Because anyone who knows me knows it’s not super fun to be my friend right about now.
As evidence: an actual text exchange with my friend Steph earlier this month:
Steph: We’re at the Goose, in case you’re bored.
Me: Oh man. We can’t eat or drink anything there. Thanks for the invite, though.
Steph: How many days are left?
Me: A goddamn lot. We’re on day six.
Steph: Holy . . . See you after Easter.
Me: Roger that
Steph’s husband, Bob, thought that she was being rude, but Steph’s seen me on dietary lockdown. It’s no picnic. We had alternating pregnancy schedules, so we both know from experience better than to assume “knocked-up” means somebody is automatically assigned to be our jolly ‘ole designated driver for the next few months. Especially when that somebody is me.
Let’s not pretend. If I’m not having fun, I don’t get all warm and fuzzy knowing you are.
I’m just an awful person and mostly need to be left alone.
I mean, I’m not technically alone. Mike and I are doing this together. “For better or for worse,” and all that. I’m in this because if I didn’t do this, he wouldn’t be able to. I’m the one who generally plans the meals and cooks the food, and if I’m not all in on something this substantial, I’ll be the one throwing out helpful tidbits like “Heck yeah, we’re having pizza. You’re doing what now? Well just pick off the cheese … and the pepperoni, and … just … well … lick the sauce off the bread. Jeez you’re no fun.”
Can you imagine me a cheerleader?
“Go Team Go
Why You Play This Dumb Game Anyway?
I must say, I don’t think I ever thought the “for worse” part might mean “no cheese,” but he probably didn’t think he was going to be married to Ms. Grouchy McSourPants all the time anyway. We got what we got.
And what we got right now is no cheese. And no pancakes.
So. Whole30. Thirty days with no alcohol, no wheat or grains of any kind, no beans or legumes, no dairy. No sugar. Real or otherwise.
And then another 15 days, as it turns out, slowly sampling those things one at a time to see what happens. Kind of like waterboarding.
For now we’re left with our own damn selves and our existential questions, like: who else but an asshole spends money on things like $15 jars of ghee? Because that’s what they had at Albertson’s when I was still too down-to-earth to shop at Trader Joes, where they sell the $4 jars.
And it’s not like I’m still spending nine bucks a six-pack on micro brew on a more frequent basis than I care to admit, so why am I quibbling over clarified butter?
And, speaking of Trader Joe’s did you know you can buy pre-riced cauliflower? You have to be some kind of jerk to get excited about $4 ghee and pre-riced cauliflower, right?
Whatever. All I know is without Trader Joes, I’d probably have stabbed someone for a pancake by now.
Here’s some other stuff I’ve learned on Whole30:
If you want to prove how totally unsociable you can become over the course of several weeks, go out to eat while you’re navigating this Whole30 thing. That’s always a treat. In fact, go out with a great, big group so you can make everyone wait to order while you survey the wait staff about corn syrup and dextrose and soy.
And then your friends will probably want to quiz you, in a friendly manner, on why you’re doing this to yourself. You can patiently explain, watching their eyes glaze over, while they absentmindedly pick the blobs of goo from their chin, remnants of the cheesy-bread appetizer they ordered that you CANNOT HAVE, all the while never realizing how close they are to being stabbed with a fork so you can make off with the poutine.
Or worse, they’ll hold off on ordering a cocktail and that plate of cheesy fries you know they want, because they’re your very best, good friend and that would be rude. And then you’ll feel bad and practically beg them to order what they want, in fact, being so helpful as to grab a passing waiter by the collar to drag him over to your table so you can do that shouty-cry thing you do.
“Look, just order the beer. I know you want a beer. We all WANT A BEER. Do not NOT have a beer BECAUSE OF ME.”
Which is actually just one of many scenarios in which you can lose friends on Whole30, in addition to your craving for sugar, and maybe a couple pounds.
It’s going to be a long day. I might need another grapefruit.
(Note to Whole30 aficionados: Don’t be uptight. I’ll write a real review of the thing once I can have a beer and not be a jerk).
If you click on the banner below for Top Mommy Blogs, then click again to show you’re not a bot or something, my blog gets a vote, boosting my visibility and inflating my ego. If that’s okay with you, I appreciate the attention.