The temptation of forbidden fruit: Why I can’t Dukan
Like many Australians, I spent the Christmas holidays growing as a person.
Unfortunately, I’m talking literally.
Over the summer months, I fed liberally from the five festive food groups: the rum ball group; the mayonnaise group; the house-made-of-stale-gingerbread group; the looks-like-the-placenta-scene-out-of-Poltergeist trifle group; and, of course, the furtive-third-helping-of-pavlova group.
As a result, I’ve put on weight and all my non-elasticised work wardrobe waistbands have been transformed into tourniquets.
If I were a better and more balanced person, I would have adopted some sensible CSIRO-style eating plan rather than signing up for the first celebrity-endorsed slim fest I found on the internet.
Then again, if I were a better and more balanced person, I wouldn’t have consumed the equivalent of a Sydney mortgage in chocolate money over Chrimbo in the first place.
Anyway: that’s how I ended up on the Dukan Diet.
This popular yet controversial weight loss scheme was invented by a bossy French carnivore whose strict, meat-heavy prescription bans all fruit and vegies for up to 10 days.
In short, you say farewell to fibre and a big hello there to constipation (no doubt one of the reasons the official Dukan web site sells a special supplement designed to, ahem, increase “intestinal transit time”).
My difficulties with the DD started early. Very early.
“If I have to eat one more broiled meat-with-more-meat dish, I’m going to hurl,” I told a friend last Wednesday.
“How long have you been at it?” she replied.
“I’m not starting until Saturday, so minus three days,” I explained. “But the anticipated deprivation is just so visceral.”
As things turned out, I managed to Dukan for only 11 hours and 14 minutes (though given I was asleep for much of this time, the tally gives an inflated version of my success).
What did me in was attempting to prepare Dukan’s breakfast staple, a “galette” made of oat bran, egg white, fat-free yoghurt and artificial sweetener.
The evil scramble I produced looked like something you’d feed a horse. A horse you wanted to put down. Inhumanely.
“What’s the point of being able to eat as much as you want if the only stuff you’re allowed to eat is revolting?” I moaned to my friend, so hungry for something that wasn’t a galette, I had begun salivating at the sight of my own straining muffin top.
And that’s when I abandoned the garden of weight loss Eden and ate a forbidden apple.
Like so many extreme weight reduction regimes, a far more accurate descriptor of this one had turned out to be “Ducan’t”.
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