Me Me Me

When I was young, I ate anything I pleased — and a lot of it was what is now called junk food. I don’t remember that term being used in the 60s and 70s, I really don’t. I should try to trace the origin of placing the adjective “junk” before the noun “food,” because it’s perfect in its descriptiveness and its ability to produce guilt.

Anyway, let’s start the day with a list of delicious things that are bad for you. McDonald’s french fries. Kentucky Fried Chicken original recipe flavor. Real Coke (which I plan to resume drinking on my deathbed). Fettuccine alfredo. Cannolis from Rocco’s on Bleecker Street. Haagen Dazs chocolate-coated ice cream bars. An enormous Absolute Bagel, the best in New York, from Broadway and 108th Street. Okay, that one isn’t technically bad for you, but it goes straight to your waistline and makes you starving two hours later, which is the same thing.

What broke me of consuming (most) of these bad, bad things? My two weeks on the South Beach Diet (strict version!) a couple of years ago. Oh man, that Dr. Agatston deserves all the millions he’s made off that book. He is some kind of genius. If you can spend two weeks eliminating sugar and carbs (especially my weakness, pasta), learning to love salmon and asparagus and salad, it truly changes your view of eating forever. (You also can’t drink during those two weeks, but let’s not go there this early in the morning.)

So, here I am — with the willpower to enter the Dunkin’ Donuts shop in the 50th Street subway station every morning and order a small coffee with skim milk and NOTHING to eat. (Thank you, Mayor Bloomberg, for posting the calorie counts next to those delicious looking glazed doughnuts.) My “prison breakfast” of a boiled egg and a hunk of cheese is in my purse. And thank YOU, Dr. Agatston — I guess!