Easter is an interesting time of year for most dieters; it is one of the few holidays that separates the men from the boys. Christmas and birthdays give a free pass to anyone looking for that “one day” of cake and sweets, but cheating on Easter is a sure sign of lowered resolve. Justifying it feels dirty.
Luckily for me, the boyfriend’s family has been entrenched in calorie counting since long before he was born. We had BBQ for Easter lunch, with cakes for anyone still eating normally. Most of us watched the pensioners casually eat their slices as we sipped ice water. When I retire, I want to live next to a bakery; they’ll bury me in a piano box. People aren’t meant to reach 100, anyway.
At their dining table, diets aren’t so much awkward constraints as fodder for hour long conversations.
“We’re doing Atkins hardcore now, no more Splenda, sauces, soda, or nuts.”
“Oh, really? I have been thinking about it, but I don’t know how well it would mesh with my blood type. I’m not allowed cheese.”
“You should try P90X, it ripped my abs in a month. You’re hungry all the time, and you lose a lot of muscle, but, I mean, you lose weight crazy fast, Bro.”
“I think I’ll stick with Dr A.”
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