My First Atkins Saturday

by Lauren Hirt

It’s always the last ten pounds. I know it’s just a matter of cutting back on lattes, Krispy Kremes, and my afternoon cookie, but when my old boyfriend mentioned he’d lost 25 pounds in two months for a bet, I was intrigued.

Tim went on the Atkins diet and he said he felt great the whole time he was on it. It seemed like a sure thing for me to quickly lose those 10 pounds. I hurried out and bought the basic Atkins book. I sanitized my kitchen of all its flours, breads, and sugars and in their place, I installed bacon, eggs, cheese, and Splenda. I consulted with Tim as I gained Atkins momentum; he was full of great tips, including many that he crafted on his own.

During "Induction" alcohol is prohibited, but Tim assured me, he drank and still lost weight—the secret was gin and diet tonic. I’m a "couple of glasses of wine" kind of girl, but I was willing to switch to Tim’s cocktail for the cause.

Friday night rolled around and I had plans with friends to go to Typhoon! restaurant. I had been following Atkins all week and felt great. I thought I’d just make a little drink while I waited for my friends, tall glass, gin, diet tonic, ice, why yes, that was refreshing. I felt quite relaxed by the time we got to the restaurant.

I climbed up onto the tall barstool at the bar; my feet dangled well above the floor. Bad news. No diet tonic. Well then, I thought, vodka has no carbs, and I ordered a dirty martini. And another. My last thought was: I’m not going to make it, get me home.

I’m very hung over. Gin and vodka. I lie in bed, carefully waiting to see my fate. I want to take aspirins for my headache, but I am afraid aspirins would only make me sick to my stomach and so I wait.

Finally the sun comes up, and it looks like I won’t get sick after all. I get up and take my aspirin; then weave my way back to bed, to wait for relief. The only thing that is going to settle my stomach is sugar. What I really want is a pack of comforting Pop Tarts.

I have not visited the candy vending machine on the seventh floor of my apartment building for months, but I know exactly which slot the Pop Tarts are in. Today they will be first aid. I run through the process in my mind first; I need sugar, but the risk is high that I will run into someone in the elevator, or, on the seventh floor. I’ll put on the clothes I had on last night...a little lipstick.

I slowly get up, take more aspirin, and pull my clothes on. I run my fingers through my hair, and put on my lipstick. I check my purse; a ten and $1.20 in dimes. Close enough.

I take the elevator alone to the seventh floor, and round the corner to the vending machine. There they are: strawberry Pop Tarts, with their happy sprinkled frosting.

The trip back to my apartment is uneventful. I fill the tea kettle with water, curl up in my oversized chair, and ply the Pop Tart package open. I take in the sweet sugary scent. The pastries made it through the big drop in the vending machine without a break or chip. I break off a large piece.

I slowly eat the first Pop Tart, pausing only to locate my stainless steel mug. I drop in an Earl Grey Extra Burgamot tea bag, hot water, and a thick splash of cream. I feel better already. Only after eating the second Pop Tart do I look at the carbohydrate count on the package. Seventy-five grams and I don’t care.

Lauren is collecting stories for her book about Seattle's emerging dog culture; she would love to hear your story about you and your Biscuit-Eater. You're welcome to drop her a line.