I was in the dressing room at the bridal store, and my loosely fitting (when I ordered it) dress was now too tight. I might have lost my mind.
After a few hours (possibly days), when my breathing returned to normal, I went into total disaster mode. In my world, total disaster mode is all encompassing and ends up affecting everyone else just as much as me. As much as I try to keep things contained in my own world, it just doesn’t happen. Adjectives like subtly, quiet, and discretion are not things I am known for, and so my personal crisis becomes everyone’s personal crisis.
The bottom line was that I had ordered a beautiful, perfect dress and I had to wear it in eight weeks, when I-got-married-when-everyone-would-be-staring-at-me-and-I-would-have-the-pictures-forever-so I-Had-To-Look-Perfect. I knew I had very limited time. The terrible trainers listened to my sob story, denied any accountability (shocker), and determined that drastic times called for drastic measures. They put me on a very strict diet. Prisoners in second world countries ate better than I did.
Here is what was on the menu:
That’s it. I was allowed seasonings if they were salt free. I was not even allowed Diet Coke. You know how everyone who has quit Diet Coke says they don’t miss it? They are lying. Three weeks of no Diet Coke made me even more of a believer. That shit is God’s nectar.
This diet was a nightmare. A Tim Burton full length unedited nightmare.
For starters, I have a rather delicate stomach, and three cups of broccoli a day did not do me any favors. Nor anyone else within fifteen feet of me. While on the topic of smells, do you know how badly re-warmed broccoli smells? Close your eyes and picture the cafeteria of your elementary school on broccoli casserole day (and try not to lose your lunch). Wait for it… yup, that’s the one. That raunchy smell that makes your palms sweat and your stomach flip a little bit. I made the office smell like that twice a day. Everyone who I worked with hated me.