I have not had a cookie in three days. I’m not happy about that.
There’s not even a patch for this sort of thing.
And who would be the person responsible for this deprivation? The very same woman who in six weeks will promise to love me for the rest of our lives. I’m beginning to have my doubts.
My bride-to-be vows that I will be subjected to a healthier diet because she wants to keep me around for a good, long time.
Her opinion of good and long could waver with time. I will suspect that day has arrived when she serves me three dozen steaming chocolate chip cookies for supper. Of course, she might do that for my birthday. But if there’s also a side of cookie dough, I’ll know for sure.
She’s got all sorts of silly notions as to why I should stay away from those chocolatey goodies that previously made up the bulk of my diet — and of my bulk. They’re all bunk.
Plus, it hardly seems fair. They day we met, she wooed me with chocolate-laden cookie bars. The supply of tasty treats continued as she reeled me in.
I was the fish, and chips were the bait.
But since happily ever after was scheduled, have any of those scrumptious morsels appeared? Not on your life — or mine.
I’ve taken to watching “Sesame Street” just to drool with envy over my hero, Cookie Monster.
The Woman Who Claims to Love Me took me grocery shopping last week.
Given the glimpse into my future, I’m not sure she likes me all that much.
“We forgot the chocolate chip cookies,” I whined.
Let me tell you, a nearly 50-year-old man whining is not pretty, but rarely have the stakes been so high.
“No, we didn’t ‘forget,”’ she said. “That’s what the apples are for — to replace your cookies!”
I’ve heard this ridiculous theory before. A diet wacko got on the airwaves once and nattered on about how replacing texture for texture would satisfy the not-so-easily converted.
The crunch of carrot sticks, she claimed, would be an excellent replacement for the crunch of potato chips.
Balderdash! It’s not the texture we miss, it’s the taste!
An oak tree stick may have a similar texture to a pretzel stick. But you’re gnawing oaks on your own, brother. I’m not a beaver.
Still, I can see from the bursting belt that changes need to be made. So I’m trying.
I’ve been eating apples. I’ve been eating pears. I make no promises to touch her celery sticks, but I’m working my way up to the baby carrots. I’m positive they would be better steamed in butter and sugar glaze. And served with a side of ice cream with hot fudge topping. But I’ll get there.
After three whole days of raw foods and bread littered with multiple grains (of sand, near as I can figure), I swear I must have lost at least 50 pounds.
Oh, that reminds me, I need new bathroom scales. The things seem to be stuck on a rather high number that doesn’t reflect my svelter lifestyle.
Anyway, for the sake of love, I vow to stick with these bizarre food choices. For at least two more days, anyway. Maybe three. After that, I’m sneaking some cookies into the house.
Love may be blind, but taste buds see the truth.