Loathing my general wideness, I decided to try out “The Subway Diet.” It worked for that Jared dude, after all, and he looked pretty trim and tidy wearing his khakis and specs in all those commercials. So I committed to the Subway.
But damn if I couldn’t choke down all those metal parts. The sliding doors gagged me, and those resistant passenger seats just wouldn’t break down, no matter how long I chewed.
After I broke a toof and gained approximately one subterranean ton of weight, I abandoned it as hopeless. I don’t know which the hell transit system that Jared was munching on, but it sure wasn’t the high-fat retired-Chicago-El cars that I was parceling out onto my dinner plate, bolt by bolt.
Why is dieting always so complicated? All I’d really wanted was a diet where I could eat a sandwich–turkey on wheat, piled high with veggies, perhaps.
Now I’ve got a spare tire hanging around my middle and a pile of shocks and plexiglass windows hanging out in my crisper drawer.
The good news is that I’ve just caught wind of something called the “South Beach” diet. Feeling optimistic, I’m thinking that sucking down a gruel of sand has got to be more gratifying than choking on a salad of screws ever was.