a. My occasional starve, then eat, then starve then eat diet.

b. The wonders of Atkin’s diet of which I no longer follow religiously.

c. New environment stress.

d. The impact of the epiphany that I attract douchebags.

If I stay off carbs for the next few days, I’d probably lose another pound before the end of the next week. So exciting!

On top of classes with the 9 to 11 year old kids that I’m really beginning to enjoy, especially when they put pen to paper — nay, 2B pencils to paper — and their usual eloquence just won’t translate into written words; On top of marking spelling and dictation and laughing over “sailor” spelt as “sabira”, “carefully” spelt as “carefurry”, and “quieter” spelt as “queyylietie”; On top of all the pleasant meetings we have every morning… I’m beginning to enjoy food again.

Of course, my capacity has shrunk. No more than two eggs and a cup of coffee for breakfast; one full hour to finish a standard lunch size; and something like half a thosai for dinner.

But the point is, a few weeks ago, nothing sweet, savoury, or bitter even, tasted appetizing. So when I had a coco loco donut from J Co last Sunday, and the sweet mass was dripping with every bite, there was a nice warm feeling growing in me — nothing can compare to the warmth of when the boyfriend force feed me carbs, but this is close enough.

I hate how everything now is so tied to him.

Yesterday, lunch with dad and his friends. One exclaimed I lost quite some weight. Two said I am prettier now (his words, not mine). Three, the only one with a sharp eye, noted that I’m tanner.

That evening, I ran for nearly an hour and a half. And for supper, had one large fries and quarter bottle of ketchup all to myself. Tomorrow, after all the soreness is gone, I shall run again, and gorge on fried pasta. Mmmm.

My body has just discovered metabolism hallelujah.

For once, without the microwave. That’s a feat okay. But mom still won’t get off my back. Why can’t you eat the tuna sandwich instead, she challenged, knowing I have everything against bread but that if I said anything smart back, she could point out that I eat donuts occasionally.

It is so infuriating, because she had started out complaining about me eating scrambled eggs daily. Then she hated how I cooked with the microwave. And last week she gave me so much flak for eating canned tuna on a regular basis. Mercury! How many times must I tell you! Stop buying canned foods!

Let’s skip back to this sandwich that I had refused to eat. Tuna mayo sandwich.

0815 My yogurt is now perfect.

Dutch Lady milk makes the nicest plain yogurt. I love that it is sour. I was using HL before this, because none of us drinks HL at home, and the carton just sits in the fridge for the entire week, always nearly full — and it has this bland taste and unnatural vanilla flavour, even after the milk has fermented into yogurt.

One beer mug of smoothie: Peach flavoured fiber mix, one cup of yogurt, one tablespoon of honey, one banana, plenty of ice cubes. Blend.

My morning has been so healthy so far, it is sickening. I am going to nap.

As the abdominal girth slowly shrinks — or so the people around me insists — I am gradually making peace with my low rise acid wash skinnies that two months ago, I would have refused to wear with anything less than large, roomy shirts.

Massive muffin top.

Speaking of carbs, I was sent on a muffin search this afternoon. While standing in La Boheme, the incredulously dark and moist looking chocolate chip muffins glared at me for a good minute. But because today was a good day — I had dragged my insomnia stricken self across the pavement before 6.30am, with music pumping extra loud because a storm was brewing and running to Pink’s stupid song So What, which goes slow and steady then with an infectious tempo increase at the chorus — imagine jogging at a steady pace and having to nearly sprint when the chorus comes on, and then slowing down again, and speeding up again — I very nearly threw up when the song ended.

So you see, it was a very good day. And being in a shop full of warm pastries was hardly a test of willpower. Just today.

And just for today, I was extremely tolerant of his prying. He was asking for every fucking detail and I don’t know where I found the strength to answer 99% of them patiently.

Me: He said… And so I said…

Him: So what did he say to that?

Me: He said…

Him: And you said?

Me: I said…

Him: And what did he say?

Me: He said… So I replied… And he said…

Him: And what did you say?

I am very thankful that it was only a short coversation that I had to relay. And then there was more, but that’s the gist of it. The whole Q&A style. But I’m not complaining. Does it sound like I am? No one I know cares about the details pertaining to my day.

He does.

I could see the rolls of fat under my chin.

There is most certainly no happy involved here. I am exhausted and planning on sleeping past dinner time, wake up to jog some, and drink more earl gray tea with equal.