I’ve taken the plunge: no coffee, no chocolate, no cheese and no alcohol. Why, you might ask, would I do such a thing? Why would I willingly deprive myself of the four things that make life worth living? Well, the answer is quite simple. It all comes down to skincare. And since the L’Oreal Sublime Skin Patch didn’t do the trick, I decided to go cold turkey.
In order to survive the sheer agony of Life Without Chocolate, I’ve been trying to distract myself through various means: watching Dr. Phil and The People’s Court (because the people on those show always make me feel better about my life by comparison), sorting through the laundry baskets of paperwork (yes, that’s plural) that have been sitting under my desk since I returned from London and shopping.
This was all going very well—the caffeine withdrawal headaches weren’t nearly so bad when I buying things— but then last night happened. Our neighbors came over for a few drinks on the roof deck and I diligently resisted the wine (and the double chocolate chunk oatmeal cranberry cookies) until one of them (the neighbor, not the cookie) turned to me and asked, “So have you seen any results from your detox diet?”
I had to admit that I had not. My cellulite has not disappeared, despite vigorous rubbing with my natural bristle body brush in a clockwise motion. I’ve been dousing myself with cold water after I shower, slathering myself with various creams and lotions and drinking instant decaf coffee since last Sunday but it hasn’t made an ounce of difference.
I’ve seen a slight improvement in the acne department but I think this is due to the cream slathering and not the chocolate deprivation. It’s hard to tell when your skincare experiment has entirely too many variables, and so I helped myself to a double chocolate chunk oatmeal cranberry cookie and a glass of cabernet sauvignon. Life is too short to worry about cellulite.
Besides, it’s not as if I spend all day sitting around in my underwear and even if I did, I’d be sitting alone because I haven’t been on a date in six months.
Well, actually it’s a bit less than that if you count the time I thought it would be a brilliant idea to meet my ex for a cup of coffee when I was across the pond this past winter. As I have since learned, however, the terms “date” and “closure” are mutually exclusive (and to think, my alma mater once gave me a scholarship to Oxford… little did they know how truly clueless I am!).
But you have voted and 46.2% of you want me to start dating again. I’m pretty thrilled about the results, but don’t let this fool you. It’s not because I’m bored or anxious about turning 25 or totally flummoxed by the fact that more and more of my friends are getting engaged. It’s just because the other possible blog topics would have required a slew of terrible things (ie. remembering to actually read the newspaper everyday, listening to people in the coffee shop when I’d prefer to tune them out and worst of all, another round of chocolate deprivation and sublime skin experiments).
And so for you, my dear readers, I am going to join match.com. I’m not sure that I’ll ever be able to top the stories of Stupid Sally and The Shop, but I’ll give it my best shot.