A previous post about my glorious pair of Tory Burch flats may have implied that Valentine’s Day 2012 went off without a hitch.
Come on people, this is me we’re talking about.
I’m about to show you my dark side. Also known as my secret love of dairy products. Brace yourself.
Scott and I had settled for dinner reservations at a local restaurant after realizing we were too late to snag a table in the Twin Cities.
I should probably mention that I’ve been dieting again. Remember this post where I discussed my newfound love for running and recent fifteen pound weight loss?
Well…then this little event known as The Holidays came. Which was followed by a Hawaiian vacation. The cherry on top? A stressful move to the Midwest which obviously required a going away party where I ate nothing but cheese.
A chain of events which left me feeling like the human version of this.
Actually, canines are deathly allergic to macadamia nuts.
Unfortunately, I most certainly am not. I’m pretty sure I’m carrying at least five pounds of those delicious Hawaiian gems in both my right and left thighs. So, in regards to my weight loss, I’m back at square one.
This is a code red situation as Scott and I are travelling with friends to Puerto Vallarta in April. And my bikini definitely isn’t going to wear itself.
Don’t get me wrong…I don’t care if I look fat in front of my husband…but looking fat in front of friends from college? I’d rather die a long, painful death from a macadamia nut overdose.
It is for these reasons that I was determined to have a romantic Valentine’s Day without going over my calorie limit for the day. So, I did what any neurotic girl on a crash diet would do and woke up at 4:30 in the morning to get an intense cardio workout in before we drove to Small Town on Valentine’s Day morning.
Yes, I spent another day working in Small Town so that Scott and I could check out more potential rentals after work. This time we were lured into a double wide trailer, followed by a house that came complete with teal carpets from 1982, and at least three dozen dead mice.
I swear, I couldn’t make this stuff up if I wanted to. The good news is that we’ve finally settled on a place and will be signing our lease on Tuesday. Stay tuned for more updates on that.
But back to my thunder thighs. After my butt-crack-of-dawn Turbo Fire session, I managed to spend the entire day working at Caribou Coffee without offending anyone or exceeding my allotted calories. Plus, I was wearing my new shoes of love and fabulousness. It was a Valentine’$ Day miracle.
Or so I thought.
We arrived for dinner in our Sunday best. Scott was donning his pricey threads from the most ridiculously metrosexual shopping spree ever, and I was sporting my new Valentine’s dress and heels. All of my “going out” clothes still remain in our storage unit, which forced me to take on the arduous task of going to the mall and picking out something new.
I don’t know how I do it sometimes.
I suggested we have our recently smashed-in Toyota valet parked, but apparently, people at this restaurant don’t know what that term means.
I really don’t know how I do it sometimes.
Scott quickly made up for this by ordering a bottle of Malbec wine while we waited for our table. He worked in fine dining to put himself through graduate school, and consequently has become one of those “fancy” wine snobs.
At times like this, it’s good to have him around. I would have simply resorted to finding the cheapest wine on the menu and then ordering the bottle that cost 2 dollars more. That way people still think I’m “fancy”.
Scott begs to differ on that one.
We were soon escorted to a candlelit table in the center or the restaurant and seated directly in front of the baby grand piano. Melodic music swirled around us as we gazed at a beautiful arrangement of red roses before being served two glasses of champagne.
Champagne was included with everyone’s meal that evening. A nice touch, although it would have been nice to be made aware of this before ordering an entire bottle of Malbec.
Scott doesn’t care for champagne, so I drank his for him while he ate all of the bread.
When our appetizer of grilled wild mushrooms was presented, I noticed it look more like a bowl of canola oil with some Portobellos swimming in it.
I opted for a glass of the Malbec instead. Canola oil and bikinis don’t get along.
When Scott asked why I only tried a few small bites, I smugly replied with “Oh, you know. I’ve been eating clean for the last few weeks. All that oil…if I eat too much of it I’m afraid my stomach will get upset. I’m just not used to anything that greasy.”
He rolled his eyes and sopped up the remainder of the oil with the last slice of bread.
Our waiter strolled by and poured me another glass of Malbec.
What? Red wine is healthy. Especially in comparison to greasy Minnesota mushrooms.
Finally, our entrees were served. I was disappointed to discover my halibut was overcooked. Painfully overcooked. It was one of the few moments in life where I would rather be eating lutefisk.
I took a few bites before giving up hope. There’s no point in wasting my calories on something that tastes like a broiled fillet of squirrel meat. Not that I would know what that tastes like or anything. Although Jolie’s informed me it’s not half bad.
I have to say that our food really didn’t matter all that much. The ambiance was fantastic; Scott and I had a beautiful evening reminiscing, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company. Before we knew it, it was time to leave.
I stood up, and felt very funny.
I’m assuming I also looked very funny, as Scott immediately noticed something was awry.
“Katrina…are you okay?”
“Umm…I’m don’t know. I think I may have drunk that entire bottle of wine on accident.”
“Yeah, I’d say you did. And you had the two glasses of champagne. And barely touched your food.”
Let me just say that I am not a drinker. I rarely have more than one or two beverages and never allow myself to overindulge. This was all just one big weight-loss attempt gone horribly, horribly amiss.
By the time Scott had picked me up from the front of the restaurant, I was already halfway through the Snickers bar I had packed in my clutch.
Why on earth would someone on a diet have a Snickers bar packed in her clutch?
I was concerned Scott may want to order dessert, which would definitely not be apart of my meal plan. If this were to happen, I would simply say, “Oh, we don’t need dessert…I have a Snickers bar in my purse!” to avert being tempted by a giant slice of peanut butter cheesecake complete with two forks. It’s called planning ahead.
Yeah, that plan definitely backfired.
But I knew I was doing the right thing. I didn’t want to be sick, and was ready to abort my diet if it meant avoiding a killer headache the next morning.
Things started to get particularly ugly on the drive home, when I
requested demanded Scott take me to the Culver’s drive-thru window.
What is Culver’s, you ask? A midwestern fast-food chain that serves butter burgers and frozen custard. It is disgustingly decadent. In a good way.
I lost count after about ten minutes, but would say Scott told me “no” approximately seven times before giving in. Upon ordering my Caramel Cashew Custard, the girl at the drive through asked me if I wanted one, two, or three scoops.
I desperately wanted three, but settled for two. You know, so I could look at myself in the mirror the next morning.
It may have been the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten with plastic silverware. Or regular silverware, for that matter. Funny how a $4 custard can blow a $100 dinner out of the water.
I think this was the point where Scott, oozing with sarcasm, asked, “Are you sure that’s going to sit okay with your stomach? I mean, I know you’ve been eating clean and everything.”
I just hate it when he’s right.
Twenty minutes later, we were home. I proceeded to conquer a variety of off-limits treats that I’m not going to publicly divulge. Partially because I don’t want you to think any less of me, but mostly because nauseating my readers is not the goal of this blog.
But don’t get me wrong…I knew exactly what I was eating. Think of it as strategy with trans fat and high fructose corn syrup.
I crawled into bed feeling much better, and woke up feeling fresh as a daisy the following morning.
The moral of this story?
Don’t, under any circumstances, attempt a diet on Valentine’s Day.
You will you embarrass yourself in front of your husband, ingest 960 calories of fast-food dairy products and have to tolerate a week’s worth of teasing from your father-in-law.
But all these struggles will be eclipsed when you wake the following morning and reach the ultimate low point: realizing you’re beautiful, brand-new dress is ruined; covered in melted custard and caramel.
Heh. So much for that 4:30am workout.
Will I reach my goal in time for Puerto Vallarta, or be foiled again by fermented grapes and high-calorie dairy products?
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