I have given up sugar many times, which means I’m not very good at giving up sugar.
It usually begins with a visit to my doctor.
He never confronts the issue head-on and takes the initiative in terms of actually telling me what to do. He approaches it more like, “What do you think you should do?” Which is great, because I have zero medical or nutrition-based qualifications, so I should definitely not be the one making these decisions.
ME: Well, I’m changing the way I’m eating.
DOC: Good! What are you doing?
ME: Cutting way down on sugar.
DOC: So, a low-carb diet?
ME: Heh. Good one. No, I mean I’m cutting down on cake.
DOC: Oh.
ME: And cookies.
DOC: Well, that’s good, there’s–
ME: And ice cream.
DOC: Yes.
ME: Pie, sweets – I mean, candies…
DOC: No nutritional value there–
ME: Puddings…
I’ll suggest a random number, like losing 30 lbs would be a good start. He nods, taps on his keyboard. “30 lbs,” he mumbles. And that is it. My plan. Eat less sugar. Maybe move around a bit. If it doesn’t work, I figure I’ll just chop off my left leg. That’s got to be worth a few pounds. I’ll suggest it to my doc at our next appointment, just to see what he thinks.
We have been here before.
The first time I traveled this sugarless path, I thought I was making a far better plan by partnering better eating with some kind of half-arsed exercise regime. The treadmill came out of its semi-storage world and back to its rightful place, front and center, every week day. 20 minutes of purposeful striding and podcasts, every step recorded on my Apple Watch. More or less. Sometimes when I think I’m exercising, my watch is not convinced and so doesn’t give me credit for it. It’s like I never walked at all.
But, yes, I got an Apple Watch, as all new activities and hobbies first begin with the purchase of a (preferably expensive) gadget. I hadn’t really appreciated the point of Apple Watches, but then my wife wanted one to track her exercising. So, I went with her, the salesperson told us there was a two-for-one deal, and suddenly we both had Apple Watches.
For half-price, I loved my Apple Watch. It measured my steps, my heart rate, how often I take a standing break during the day. It congratulated me when I met or beat my daily goals. It enquired about my health if I didn’t move my little tracking bars as much as I had yesterday. It informed me, without judgement, that I’m not getting enough sleep.
It’s measured my life, and I loved it. Until it got boring. And unrealistic. Telling me at 9pm that I could still hit my exercise goal for the day – which was 30 minutes of semi-strenuous exercise. Just one 29-minute brisk walk and I’d be there!
The original plan really hit a wall when we moved into a house with a yard.
The yard was life changing. Gone were the four walks a day we had to give the pugs when we lived on the second floor of an apartment block. Suddenly, at any time of day, we could let the pack run around on grass, barking at any suspicious folk that pass by (which is everyone; pugs are apparently not a trusting breed). In the evening, we took them for an actual walk. They all lost weight with this new system.
I…well. I did not.
Which is where my doctor conversation and my crazy weight-loss ambition came in.
I know what you’re thinking. You, like me, are a wise person with unimpeachable taste. You’re thinking – but I love cake. When I imagine cake/booze/shopping/fighting in underground naked fight clubs, it’s uniformly awesome.
And, madam, I sympathize.
I also feel this way about butter shortbread biscuits. The good ones. The ones with tartan on the packaging. When I think through eating a plateful of those, only positive feelings fill my soul. And sure, eating a shortbread finger every now and again would be fine. But as many as I prefer to? That would be a problem for my ultimate goal: to lose weight, to be fitter and, ultimately, to live forever (although, so far, so good on that last one…).
Everyone knows what the first step of a new diet is: eat all the things in the fridge and cupboard that do not form part of our new healthy living lifestyle. That’s the prep stage. Then comes the real work of doing the exact opposite of what I’ve been doing for a very enjoyable and indulgent ten days.
Two weeks, according to my bathroom scales, which are approximate at best, I lose three pounds. Suddenly I feel svelte, Olympian; this weight-loss thing is easy. That night, I have a couple of slices of pizza as a reward. I have earned this. The long hours of heartburn-induced sleeplessness that follow are a justified and entirely deserved punishment.
...And life goes on in much that way for a long time. I try lunchtime salads and then give up and just eat nuts and fruit like I’m a castaway. And then I snack as I make dinner...and just about get to the end of my evening meal before mentally checking if there’s any ice cream in the fridge.
All it takes is one not-great weekend and the fragile wall of my self-control comes tumbling down. Having to work all Saturday afternoon? Then I deserve to go out and feast! Sunday afternoon as well? Beer and pizza! And a Monday feeling like a swollen whale washed up on a particularly judgmental beach.
I rally. I have started off badly, but I can still do this. Remember those 3 lbs. Ten percent of my total goal. I make a list of the things I would most miss by going sugar free, and with the help of my ever-willing accomplice (thanks, sweetheart!), I set about hunting them down.
I search Google: Best Cinnamon Rolls Austin. The first list I came to shared my own number one pick: The Upper Crust. This would be our first stop the next day, on a Saturday Sugar Tour...
The next morning, I am at the counter bright and early. The intense young baker hands over my pastry prize and points at my chest. “En-joy,” he says, intensely. Here is a man who understands my quest. The day goes on: raspberry syrup lattes, various other indulgences.
We were supposed to crescendo with the king of desserts: the sticky toffee pudding. But I couldn’t. I felt sick and gross and ready for a glass of water and an early night. Maybe, accidentally, I’d aversion-therapied my way to success?
The next morning, Monday, 7.15am, I am on the treadmill. As a false start or a genuine turning over of a new leaf, I have no way of knowing…but a reasonable amount of evidence on which to make an informed guess. My aim is to reduce myself by 24 lbs before seeing the doctor next. He’ll be so proud of me.
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