My name is Martha. I'm thirty years old and I'm a recovering breadaholic -- yes, visions of sourdough epis and rye boules are dancing my head, but I've decided to resist, resist, and resist. In years past I tricked myself into thinking my addiction was healthy. All those whole grains! And organic flaxseeds and pumpkin seeds! How could they possibly make me fat? People centuries past lived off of bread alone and managed to keep slim and trim (or so I imagined, forgetting about Rubens's rubenesque beauties). But, alas, I gained thirty pounds and found myself cranky and dejected when I could no longer fit into my favorite jeans without looking like one of my beloved pumpkin muffins.
So here I am, munching carrots and chicken breasts. I've already lost ten pounds, and feel fantastic, but I've been growing a bit disappointed lately because I've hit a plateau (though, so far the scale has only been stuck for two days). I know a lower carb diet is the way to go for me -- it's worked in the past swimmingly, but I never wanted to acknowledge that fact; I just loved my home-baked carbs too much. It's mind over stomach, I suppose, and this time I'm going to stick with my diet. My boyfriend has expressed alarm, claiming he loves a puffier Martha, but I'm going to persist, because I don't like that Martha (because she frequently feels like crap). Besides, no loaf of walnut cranberry bread or imported Italian rotini tastes as good as being fit and healthy feels.
So here's to the new year and, hopefully, a new waistline!





