Posted on: Monday, June 20, 2005

ABOUT MEN

By Michael Tsai
Advertiser Staff Writer

Hi, my name is Mike and I'm a carboholic.

Hi, Mike!

They say admitting your addiction is the hardest and most important step, but I'll swear on a mashed-potato-and-stuffing sandwich that they're lying. Weaning yourself off all that fat-building goodness is the real hardship.

I wobble before you, three weeks into my South Beach Diet, to solemnly testify: Low-carb eating may be good for you but trust me, it sucks, sucks, sucks.

All this nonsense started a month ago when my big bro, noting he wasn't so much bigger, got me on a scale.

Boing! Squeeeak! Sprong!

182. Disgusting.

Believe it was Carl Jung who said there's no coming into consciousness without pain, but this was an Andrew Golota low-blow and an "Everwood" marathon all in one. In musical terms, I'd gone from high school

Skinny Puppy to badly aging Blimp-182.

And so I set out trying to find the right diet to deliver me from Rick Majerus-hood. Atkins was tempting, but I worried that an exploding heart might hurt my overall health. Had to cross off the R.J. Reynolds and J&B diets for similar concerns.

Eventually I settled on South Beach, which at the time appealed to my male proclivity for stupid challenges. In particular, the rigidly austere Phase I, with its strict prohibition on sugar, starches and other dietary don'ts, seemed like a good way to test my iron resolve.

That first day felt like a week. No rice. No pasta. No bread, potatoes, fruit, sugar in my coffee, skip in my step, joy in my life. I went to bed at 7 p.m. rather than face the sad carbless night ahead.

At first I kept my spirits up with the thought that I could still eat meat. But local guy that I am, cow without carb is like TV without sound. You might get the gist, but why bother?

I soon found myself in a persistent vegetarian state, too demoralized to bother with meat, my jaw too tired from gnawing raw veggies to consume enough calories for proper brain function.

By day, I'd stand at the fridge looking at those poor bottles of beer, no doubt deteriorating by the second. At night I fell asleep to salacious thoughts of rosti potatoes, penne pasta, gnocci, orzo, Thai sticky rice and crusty batards.

The result? After one week I'd lost just 2 pounds. I lay on my bed surveying the rising arc of my stomach and feeling like a whale. A big, dumb South Beached whale.

But then something magical happened. Just as I was about to end it all in a blaze of baguettes, my body got with the program. In Week 2 alone I lost 9 pounds. My pants got looser. I could do crunches without turning my navel inside out.

Now I'm left with a dilemma. Stick with a diet that, dang it, seems to work? Or fall off the wagon and embrace my inner musubi?

I'll let you know after I rescue those beers.

Reach Michael Tsai at mtsai@honoluluadvertiser.com or 535-2461.