Day 8:  Weigh-in.  Down 9.4lbs, says the scale.  I need to remind myself that it’s a month-long marathon, not a week-long sprint.  Or some shit like that.  God, I am hungry ALL THE TIME – I realize that this may be closest I ever get to knowing what it’s like to be a skinny, hot chick.  Mid-afternoon, someone breaks out cupcakes.  Sabotage!  I indulge in half a cupcake (hey, I’m down 9lbs!) – 10 minutes after that, I feel like a fat turd.

Day 9:  Perpetual hunger is leading to crankiness.  On everyone’s part, not just mine.  I got into a huge fight at the office today, and called a friend a “skinny bitch” (not sure what she’s all worked up about, I thought it was a pretty flattering compliment).

Day 10:  My second place in the weekly weigh-in is causing me to feel complacent.  For a second night in a row I had delicious spaghetti bolognaise for dinner.  I rationalize the poor decision by telling myself that I’ll work off the calories in the morning at the gym.  Speaking of which, it turns out that when you weigh less, your daily permissible calories drop as well.  WTF.  I now have to eat 200 calories less than when I started this stupid contest.

Day 11:  Curry is catered for lunch today.  Diet = BLOWN.  The saving grace is that every other competitor seems to have indulged the way I have: everyone’s ravaging the food like they’ve been stuck on a desert island for 6 years.  After work, I go to a party and have far too much red wine.  I can’t even angle a positive for the wine.  Week 2 is looking bleak.

Day 12:  A scavenger hunt with the kids in the West Village is cut short by freezing conditions (minus the blinding snow – where the hell are you, snow?).  We’re limping around in sub-zero winds, which is just retarded.  So we ducked into some NYU-area bar for some brunch.   I crush an order of huevos rancheros and it in return crushes my already-faltering diet.  These huevos rancheros are ridiculous – the tortillas are FRIED, three layers of them.  It’s a bed of refried beans, fried tortilla, layer of chorizo, fried tortilla again, layer of cheese, one more fried tortilla, topped with two sunny side eggs.  It is the Schrödinger’s cat of breakfasts: it is both so terrible and so wonderful at the same time.

To make myself feel better, I buy a new pair of sneakers I really don’t need.  I tell myself it’s for my gym workouts.  I come home to watch football.  I can’t afford any more indulgences so I hold out on the booze.  Football without beer is terrible.