Diet is a Four Letter Word

I love weekends but like most of the men that I have married (except for this one), they are no good for me.

By Thursday of last week, I was humming right along on my diet. I didn't cheat, the scale was friendly and I was feeling very much in control.

Then Friday hit.

I was well behaved at lunch even though temptation was licking at the corners of my self control. We ate at the most incredible bistro down in Fayetteville with Brandon and Erin who are perpetually plugged into all that is hip, chic, gastronomically divine and cool. I'm not kidding. I had a reasonable portion of marinated chicken which was served with lightly seasoned greens and I didn't so much as blink at dessert. I was the model of control.

At dinner, I stuck to the plan and was feeling very hey-look-at-me-and-my-iron-willpower-ish until I spied the remnants of some Cheetos sitting right there on the kitchen counter begging to stain my fingers orange.

And then it kind of crumbled from there.

Saturday, I woke up and baked a yellow cake in preparation for a holiday party we were attending on Sunday. While it was in the oven, I decided to make a batch of Anzac biscuits for my husband because he finds them irresistible and I wanted him to blow his diet to kingdom come.

I know that sounds odd. Why would I want to sabotage him, right? Because he indulges his every whim on the weekends with barely a flutter on the scale and then the following week, he sticks to the diet plan for two days and sheds a bloody pant size. I cannot express how much this pisses me off. If I even so much as sniff a beer cap, I can't get my jeans done up.

Anyway, the cake came out of the oven and it was perfect. I'm not sure what possessed me but instead of cracking open a can of ready made frosting, I scoured the internet for a good buttercream recipe and learned that the real deal is a far cry from how I usually make frosting. I ended up using a traditional French recipe and it tasted pretty good. As you can see, I got my "Martha" on.

The biscuits went in and as they were baking, the scent of sugar, oats, golden syrup and butter wafted through the house.

I didn't stand a chance.

I swallowed the first one before it had completely cooled. It was pretty good.

So I had another.

And then one more.

And then, I did that thing that every woman who has ever dieted does:

I rationalized.

Since I had already fallen off the wagon, I might as well have at it and get the cheat factor out of my system. I promised myself that I would make a fresh start next week.

So, the Anzac biscuits were devoured, the cake is gone and this morning, I'm nursing a mild hangover. I have chicken and cucumbers packed for my lunch.

I hate Mondays.