Day 5, Tuesday: SCORE! I heart candy!

I start out the day with a plain ol’ falafel patty.

Around lunch time I head on over to one of my favorite places of consumer excess, Tar-jay. A la the female stereotype, I am powerless to resist the lure of that giant red bull’s eye. The knowledge that I will later suffer from a purchase hangover is rarely strong enough to overcome the lure of the acquisition high. Any excuse will suffice for the chance to peruse rack after rack of shoddily-made , yet stylish clearance clothes (Sorry Target, you know I still love you.) And since I’m usually at least a season or two behind the latest trend anyways, I don’t mind sacrificing cutting-edge style for economy. Today, my “reason” (like I need one) for entering these hallowed halls of low to moderate priced merchandise is to procure a scale. I “need” a scale in order to document any weight changes that may occur over the course of my 30/30.

After spending time in the clearance clothes section, but finding nothing that tickles my reasonably priced fancy, I head on over to the bedding and bath section to get a scale. Since that’s the “reason” I came, after all. Apparently, scale ownership is for the privileged class only, as the cheapest Target has to offer carries the hefty price tag of $29.99. For that price, I could eat for another month! Believing myself clever, I think I might just weigh myself in the store, thus avoiding the cost of this swank item and the inevitable buyer’s remorse. Unfortunately, I can only assume that I am not the first to reach this conclusion, because the scale is firmly bolted/glued/tied/magically charmed inside of the damn box, and is not coming out without a box cutter, blow torch, and some needle-nose pliers. Having neither the tools on hand, nor the luxury of 30 dollars to throw around on fancy-schmance extravagances, I decide that I weigh 115 lbs.

Now, I admit that I had one additional motive for going to Target. As any self-respecting, clearance-seeking, candy lover knows, early January is a bargain bonanza of left-over Christmas confectioneries. After some trouble locating the post-season sale section, I find the holiday mark-down section in the far back of the store. Alas, it appears that too many of those in the know have been here before me. The treasure trove of holiday delights and delicacies I had imagined is but a flea-marketesque conglomeration of santa-adorned Christmas cards, tinsel, tree toppers, and Rudolph wrapping paper that missed the cut. I fear I have waited a few days too many in my quest to fill that sweets void in my life. Diligence is rarely disappointed however, and after digging through several bins of mostly inedibles, I locate three things worth keeping: (1) a Christmas ornament in the shape of the letter “K”, (2) holiday shape and color Kraft marshmallows, and (3) a giant brick of “chocolate” flavored almond bark. Marshmallows $0.11, and "chocolate" $0.19. Bam bitches!

After deducting these latest procurements from my $30, I now have $0.35, and only 25 days left to go.

As I leave the store with the plan of waiting until after lunch to break open the booty, I realize my inner fat person has gone ahead without my permission and eaten approximately 15 marshmallows before I’ve even pulled out of the parking deck. Ten or so marshmallows later, I’ve made it home, where I enjoy a lunch of Falafel Taco, even more marshmallows, and a small piece of “chocolate.” Never to be confused with Chocolate, “chocolate flavored” anything is the ugly step-cousin of Chocolate. In most cases, I would reject “chocolate” as one might reject dog-poop or arsenic, but when times are tough we must all suffer, my sweet tooth included.

More lentils and spinach for dinner, followed by six marshmallows.

DAY 4, Monday: The clink ain’t that bad, I guess

Thankfully, I have not yet tired of lentils and spinach, since I made a large batch of it when Jeannie was here. It’ll do just fine for breakfast. And the Falafel Taco, my ever-faithful, if not overly exciting wife makes a fine lunch.

When dinnertime rolls around, I am looking at lentils and spinach again, and the novelty has begun to wear off. But like the contemplative convict who has reluctantly accepted her fate, I am resigned to my 30 days confinement in this bleak cell of bland and minimal food. Just as the inmate is tormented by thoughts of what could have been done differently, changed, or made better, I wallow in my regrets. If only I’d eaten a giant, juicy cheeseburger before I started, I wouldn’t crave meat so! OH, how I wish I’d rediscovered that damned peppermint bark I’d stowed in the glove box before my 30 days began!

And as my hypothetical caged convict spends her days carefully planning for the future, I count the days until I gain back my liberty, writing, and re-writing 8-page letters to Pizza on sheets of prison-issue toilet paper. I ponder and plot my first few moments and days of freedom. What will it feel like, I wonder? Do I reform and learn from my hard time served, forsaking my food friends (Jeannie), eating healthier, and exercising more? Or revert to my former self, order seven different types of cheeseburgers from the Vortex, and eat them all in one sitting? And dear baby Jesus in your golden fleece diaper, do I drink a beer or a diet coke first?

Of course, I could end this self-imposed epicurean abstention at any time, thus lifting the burden of serving as both prisoner and my own jailor. But that would make for a really lame blog. So, as I savor my dessert of four frozen blackberries, I decide to serve out the remainder of my sentence. How melodramatic is that?

By the way, I have never had prison food, but I think my girl Falafel Taco probably outshines even the belles of the prison-food balls.

DAY 3, Sunday: So, ladies and gentlemen... if I say I'm a pizza man you will agree.

Ate a late breakfast of lentils and spinach today. Jeannie and Adam had eggs, which I have never been a fan of. I’m content and self-satisfied, since I would have chosen the lentils over the eggs, regardless of the situation. This is good, since my strongest test of willpower yet is soon in coming.

A historic day in my 30/30 journey, today is the first in which I will brave a social setting where (1) food is present, (2) the food is one of my fave’s and (3) all are welcome and expected to share in the fare. We’re going to Brian and Michelle’s, and they are ordering pizza.

To impress upon you the import of this day, I must first begin by reminding the reader how much I love Food. I cannot say often or enthusiastically enough how much I love Food. Food and I have an intensely passionate and long-standing love affair.

As is too often the case in the most fiery and dependent romances, my relationship with food has often been a tumultuous one. Logic, and Fitness Magazine tell me that thoughtful and moderate relationships are the most healthy and stable, yet food and I continue to have a hot-and-cold, but unbreakable bond. I don’t just want Food, I need Food. I love Food for the power it has over me. I hate Food for the power it has over me. I almost got away once. I spent nearly an entire year existing almost exclusively on spinach salads and Ken’s Light Caeser dressing. I’d nearly broken free of the bridle. But like so many of those before me, who have been called back into the reign of a dominant lover, I once again gave over to my feverish, if destructive, devotion to Food.

One of the little mind tricks Food likes to play on me is Pizza. Pizza is like Food, in one of its purest and most wonderful forms. Pizza woos me with excitement, tells me how pretty I am, and that we will always be together. And unless I run every day, which inevitably I will not, Pizza will leave me fat and sad, wanting more Pizza. Pizza always deserts me, and all I am left with is a few extra pounds and the stains down the front of my blouse – which is, of course, now a size too small. But still, Pizza has my heart, my soul, my side fat.

Now, imagine me, watching everyone around me with their hands and mouths all over my true love. My heart and stomach churn with intense jealousy. Noooooo, pizza! You must be mine and only mine! In an attempt to disguise the F-ing lunatic raging inside of me, I smile and resist the urge to tackle Julie as she casually tosses her crust into the mouth of the unappreciative pit-bull mix, Vegas. I eat my falafel taco, which is actually pretty good, with a plastic smile fixed on my face. I talk about how good Falafel Taco is, in an attempt to make Pizza think I don’t care about it anymore. “Oh, yeah, Falafel Taco, you’re so much better for me than Pizza ever was. I don’t know whaaaat I was thinking when I used to get with Pizza all the time. Frankly, I think Pizza is underrated, I mean, overrated.”

But seriously, no matter how good Falafel Taco is, she’ll always be the average girl I settled for. Sure, we’ll get married, move to the suburbs, and have kids, but I’ll always be thinking of Pizza when we’re together. Pizza will always be the prettier, smarter, richer, more popular girl that moved away to chase her dream of being an actress, and actually succeeded. And now I’m at the same dinner party as Pizza with my Falafel Taco of a wife pretending like I’m happy for her happiness. That bitch. I hate her.

I didn’t eat any pizza.

Another falafel taco for dinner. Two frozen blackberries for dessert.

Side Note: Saw the bicycle bandit in the park today.