Diary

Lynn Harris

Wednesday, 11 p.m. I have just survived my very own Temptation Island. Five-minutes-ago reference, I know—so sue me, I am weak with hunger. I mean, I was proud of myself Monday night when I ventured to a local lounge and (career first) ate exactly zero of my companion’s sweet potato fries. But tonight? I just attended—briefly—a dinner party. Thrown by Italians. And ate nothing. Not a sip of Prosecco, not a smidge of prosciutto. Niente.

Lest these sound like the perverse ascetic ramblings of a disordered eater … actually, they kind of do, don’t they? But if you’d ever seen me eat in “real life,” you wouldn’t worry for a second. I have no more food/body issues than the average girl who takes pretty good care of herself, is equally comfortable with soybeans and pork rinds, “knows better” than to have food/body issues, and has a few nonetheless. I eat—and enjoy it—plenty.

This week, of course, this hard-core training diet is all just part of my let’s-play-bodybuilder game. I made my bed, now I have to lie in it, which is about all I have the strength to do right now. Again: How “real” bodybuilders do it, especially if they have Italian friends, I do not know.

Here are the rules of said game (the food round). I start the week at around 1,800 calories, then cut about 300 a day down to 1,000 on Day 4 (tomorrow; hell’s bells). Then back to 1,800 for the last two days. Far as feeding your cells, the idea is to pack ‘em up, drain ‘em out, and pack ‘em up again.

Those calories are divided into seven, yes seven, meals a day. Every two hours starting at 7 a.m., interspersed among the four workouts. Last meal is 7 p.m., before Workout 4 (light cardio). (Tonight, according to executive decision, Workout 4 was swing-dance class. I gripped my partner Oliver’s arm with such force, evidently, that he asked, “Have you been to the gym lately?”)

The eating—protein and complex carbs, limited fat, no sugar—keeps a steady supply of nutrients in my bloodstream; they’re the pit guys who jump in to rebuild the muscle tissue I break down. The whole deal revs up my metabolism, which—as I feed it less—starts gnawing on my fat stores to survive. 

My trainer warned me that eating would be the hardest part of this week. Are you kidding? Required grazing? Dream come true, I thought.

Wrong. Uncomfortable Thanksgivings notwithstanding, I have never dreaded a meal in my life. This week I do, and here’s why.

Eating every two hours is a pain in the ass. This is not aimless noshing. This stuff—chicken, fish, meat, rice, vegetables—you have to cook and weigh out in grams (which, if I’d ever dealt drugs, would remind me of that). (Today’s Meal 7, for example: 35 grams of steak, 15 grams asparagus, 15 grams lentils.) “Real” bodybuilders prepare and Tupperware their weekly meals in one marathon session, say, Sunday afternoon—right about when my boyfriend and I were still canoeing in the Adirondacks. So I’m behind; my bad.

1) I’m not hungry. During the day, I—even I— feel stuffed like a force-fed goose. (Right now, my liver would be superb.) 

2) Except when I am. My last meal is at 7. New York City’s last meal is not. By 7:30, I’m ravenous.

3) This vanilla stuff is vile. Meal 2 is a drink made with this protein/carb powder developed by guru John Parrillo. He knows what he’s doing in terms of fitness, but he’s no Mario Batali. You’d think it might be this yummy Kozy Shack-y comfort food, but frankly, it—much like smooth jazz—has the opposite of the desired effect, setting my teeth on gritty, silty edge.

4) “Food as fuel”—not evil temptation—is a healthy attitude, but that may mean that it tastes like wood. Sure, I garnish my halibut with a basil chiffonade (a term found in any bodybuilding handbook), but it’s no match for olive oil withdrawal. I want butter on my yam. I could really use a drink. While you’re at it, give me back my half-and-half. And geez, it’s summer—let me eat fruit! Every morning, when I separate my 150 grams of egg whites for Meal 1, I save the yolks, dreaming of all the home-baked treats I will someday glaze. I’m thinking Sunday, actually.