Tuesday, April 1, 2014

I can’t remember the taste of pizza, nor the crunch of nachos, nor the texture of cheesecake. There are flashes of recollection, sure–flitting, sometimes oblique glimpses of foods I once enjoyed without a second thought. I recall how pizza crust occasionally coats your fingers in a fine powder, for instance, or the slight resistance you feel when you put fork to cheesecake. And then there’s the paradoxical “master” nacho, whose fundamental nature of crispiness is compromised by the sheer tonnage of toppings it bears.

That’s how I remember things, at least. These days, very little is memorable. Food is merely the conveyance of calories–1,500 max per day, to be exact–and weekdays are always the same. Two eggs in the morning. Banana. Chipotle bowl. Soup. Maybe some popcorn or clementines. Water. Carbonated water, if I want to get really crazy. Dining experiences are devoid of texture and joy, and there is only the regimen.

But the tide is turning. The gnawing hunger is gone, and after comparing notes with the Professor, this reduced stomach capacity is perhaps the most significant milestone. Six weeks into my routine, I’m 10 pounds thinner, afflicted by food amnesia, but buoyed by the strength of momentum and conviction. I find myself asking the impossible questions, too: if 10, why not 20? And if 20, then why not 30? Can man truly live without nachos?