I have this fantasy. In my fantasy, I’m at some >daytime< social function with beautifully motivated people. While most munch on fancy hor’fevours, I abstain, filling food’s absence with words. Then this beautiful human being approaches me, blending the cold brilliance of Spock with the ethereal agility of Legolas, and the God-like physique of Adonis. (Yes, I’m a slight nerd.)
“Why aren’t you eating?” he says.
Immediately filled with the usual dread, I mumble small quiet words about not being hungry or already having eaten or something. But he pressures me more, with a piercing keen interest. Finally I break down and admit the intermittent fasting thing, cushioning it with sciency words of metabolism, waiting with baited breath for accusations of starvation mode and (Goodness, please no) eating disorder.
But then, with a slight smile and a twinkle in his eye, he says, as casually as if it were breathing, “Oh yes, I do that too.”
And it’s a magical, wondrous happily ever after. Days filled with craving-less hours of activity, culminating in evenings of wine-filled feasts. And we never blink an eye at not being hungry, and we don’t get hAngry, and all is right in the world.
Yep, it’s official. I think I need to date an intermitent faster.
The Social Woes Of The Intermittent Faster
A main reason my upcoming revamp of The What When Wine Diet will focus more on Intermittent Fasting (the “When” part of the first book’s title), is because if there’s ONE thing I’ve realized in 6 years of Intermittent Fasting (yes, 6) it’s this: The easier IF becomes physically, the trickier it becomes socially.
When you first start IF, it’s like this cool thing you’re “trying.” People can put up with people “trying” things becuase they assume they’re just “trying.” Like… it’s a phase. I belive that’s why my friends and family were ok when I was doing a million different (ineffective and utterly pointless) diets (calorie counting, cookie diet, etc.), because each was a phase which would pass in time. But then I started IF… and didn’t stop. I said I would do it a week, and now 6 years laters I can probably count on one hand the times I broke my fast.
And then it becomes thing.
Because now you’re not the person trying a new diet, you’re the person who has a strict diet. And even though you might try your very hardest to NOT bother other people, you will bother people. You’ll politely decline a piece of food, and it becomes this terrible, insulting thing. I’ve spent a good deal amount of time contemplating how to not offend people by what I’m not eating. You’ll also flee from brunches and flock to dinner, not because you can’t stand being around people eating, but rather people people can’t stand being around you not eating. It is so very odd indeed.
Which brings us back to the dating thing.
With all the wear and tear of social accusations and raised eyebrows, I now believe it might be thrilling to be with someone who doesn’t find meal skipping offensive, weird, and unhealthy, and who actually {gasp} partakes in similar activities. It’d be so refreshing to be on the same clockwork for the communal entertainment that is mealtime, the one necessary activity people consistently do together. While going to the gym or sleeping or meditation can be performed alone (and are perhaps enhanced by solitude), eating welcomes company. It’s just a thing.
So yes, that is my fantasy. In the more real-life-this-might-actually-happen version, I find myself in a stimulating conversation with some gentleman, colored by blushing and heart flutters, and it somehow comes up in passing that we both intermittently fast. And it’s a #moment. That could happen, right?
Or maybe I should wear a shirt that says something to the effect of “What’s Your Eating Window?”, and then when a guy comes up and is randomly like “2-8!”… well, you get the picture.
