Diets are on the hearts and minds of every girl from about January through…Spring Break. Right about now, self-control is giving way to self-loathing and late night binges filled with cupcakes, Reese’s cups and 73 breadsticks when you totes only meant to have like 1/7th of that one at Olive Garden. Ladies, I have finally found a secret weapon. One that is so powerful, you have no hope but to lose 7 lbs. Throw out that arsenal of relentless calorie counting, stressing over sugars and battling your gag reflex as you force down some sort of cayenne pepper concoction straight from the fiery pits of hell. Let me tell you about my little secret:
Wisdom teeth removal.
Liquid diet, doctor’s orders; and if that prescription weren’t enough, your entire face feels like it got river danced on by the starting line from the Packers, so the thought of a cheeseburger really makes me want to cry and shove my face in an ice pack.
Ironically, though I have eaten a total of like 23 calories since surgery a few days ago….my face looks like I stuffed it full of cheese puffs and then gargled with Mountain Dew to really seal the Fatty McFatFat deal. Going to work was awesome. The revolving doors were at max capacity with my 95 bottles of pain meds and chipmunk cheeks, the jars of soup had to find their own way in.
I think I had a mental breakdown when the doctor told me I would have to eat ice cream and mashed potatoes all day. Sounds great, Doc, but bathing suit season is like 172 days away….now is not the time to lose our cool and jump into bed with the carbohydrates. I’m a 21st century woman. Let’s make the most of a bad situation, drop some pounds and amp up my self-esteem, all on my insurance’s dollar.
First things first, I need some trendy all-liquid recipes to match my trendy post-surgery outfit. Pinterest it is. Faux mashed potatoes? Check. Skinny peanut butter banana smoothie? Duh. Low Cal Jello? Don’t mind if I do. All while rocking super hipster headbands, oversized shirts that could fit me and the 600 pound lady, and the ever popular yoga pant.
I make the road to recovery look good.
Feeling domestic, I thought I would spend an enjoyable evening baking treats, jamming to some folk music and basking in the cleanliness of my apartment (thanks to a very welcome house guest who shall be known as Nurse Mom, who left me well stocked with pudding, jello, Gatorade and cleaning supplies). One should be smart enough in their twenties to mitigate all known risks from certain activities. Baking banana bread bars during a medical fast is an awful idea. Mother Theresa didn’t have that sort of self control, clearly I don’t.
It’s just squishy banana bread, how bad could it be, right? I can handle avocado. I sipped some chicken broth today. Chewing some warm gooey treats shouldn’t be that far off in right field.
Wrong.
After cursing the walnut that snuck past my molars right into my gaping tooth hole, and spitting soggy bread dribble out of my mouth, I immediately regretted my impatient move towards solid food.
Curse you, solid food! Curse you and your delightful texture and tummy filling ways. I shall bid you farewell for the next five days and continue my saga along the trail of soggy, my trek along the track of tepid salt water rinses and puréed veggies. Sayonara, steak, until we meet again my tasty friend. I, seven pounds lighter, and you sturdy and filling, I bid you adieu.
