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I have rebellious hormones. In fact, I suspect all women do.

The plan is for nature to protect mothers when a famine sets it, never mind that a woman hasn't died in the United States from starvation in quite some time.

That's all well and good, but it seems that all I have to do is think about going on a diet, and my hormones start organizing. They elect community leaders, set up public protests and hire luxury buses to bring in experienced reinforcements.

On this particular morning, I think my hormones are under control as I join several friends for a breakfast meeting at a local eatery. I arrive late to find most are already seated just beyond a long line of patrons waiting to place their orders. I pause at the doorway and scan the windowed displays filled with tempting foods.

This is a big mistake. My hormones notice the temptation. How else do I explain the sudden grumblings in my stomach, the panic signals to my brain and the woozy feeling I've so long associated with low blood sugar?

"You must eat, or you might die!" My hormones yell. I think they've amassed for a last-minute rally.

I take a long look at an icing-topped cinnamon roll that is big enough to feed a family of eight. It's been a long time since I've sunk my teeth into a fresh cinnamon roll.

I crane my neck to see around the people blocking some of the glass displays. Pies. They are my weakness, and I find myself walking toward the line of customers. Fresh apple, pumpkin and a decadent chocolate silk pie are followed by towering cakes - some sprinkled with coconut, chocolate filigrees or nuts. Then come the cheesecakes, eclairs and even handmade truffles.

"Just a little one," I hear inside my brain. It's only a whisper, but it's insistent. "You have 1,100 calories left for today. Who cares if it's only 9:30 in the morning. You can just eat salad for the rest of the day. Think about it. You've been so good. You deserve this treat. What'll it be? The roll? How about the cheesecake? That pie sure looks good."

I resist the whispers and step out of line. I've already eaten breakfast this morning, and I'm not blowing my diet now. I recall the two slices of toast and the poached egg whites. My toast was a little dry without butter, and the eggs were kind of rubbery.

My hormones chime in again; this is their chance to protect that fat still solidified around my middle. "You can't join the table empty-handed. That's rude. You need to have something so the other ladies don't feel bad. How about this? You can just eat a little bit and throw the rest away. Or save it. Yeah, you can save part of it in a box to take home. If you hide it way in the back of the fridge, no one else will find it and eat it first."

I shake my head vigorously in refusal and walk past the display and long line of customers. I hope none of the patrons notice this inward battle, but I'm past caring. I'm not going to acquiesce without a fight.

I find an empty chair at my friends' table and sit down. Within a few minutes, food arrives. A steaming breakfast burrito smothered in hot red chile is placed next to me while the steam from an egg-filled croissant wafts across the table in my direction. As they dive in, one of my friends looks up and notices that I have nothing in front of me. Not even a glass of water.

"Want some of mine? I won't eat all of this," she says. Then all of them begin to proffer up portions of their own meals. That's what good friends do: they share. But now the refusal is easy. I've already been through the worst of it, and I can handle this.

"No thanks," I say. "I'm on a diet."

Laughter fills the table. "So are we," they reply in unison.

It seems I'm not the only one with rebellious hormones.