After a birthday weekend (and adulthood) full of food indulgences, today I started a diet. Er, lifestyle change. Whatever. Anytime you cut out chocolate cake for breakfast and eating peanut butter out of the jar for dinner, it’s a diet.

Fight me.

No, seriously, fight me. Whenever I cut out carbs, all I want to do is slap people. Of course, I don’t. After a few days of–let’s face it–starving, my body adjusts and I calm down. But until then, look out.

I’m hungry right now.

Earlier my mom asked me what diet I’m following, and I said, “I don’t know. Mostly paleo.” Really, I’m just trying to cut down/cut out bread, alcohol, and refined sugars. Surely this will help my pants fit. This is my major motivation in doing this whole thing. Getting into my own pants–since I apparently can’t get into anyone else’s. (That’s a sex joke, Mom.) But seriously, I’m turning forty in a year (woowho), and I don’t plan on celebrating by going up a pant size. This morning I stepped on my parents’ digital scale and saw a number I’ve never seen before. Y’all, I nearly passed out.

Thankfully, when I tried again (and again), the number was lower, something I have seen before.

“That’s the number I’ll take,” I said.

Whenever I do something like this (a diet), my tendency is to be drastic, to go balls-to-the-wall and CHANGE EVERYTHING overnight. I understand this isn’t a sensible approach, but it’s my approach nonetheless. So far I already have plans to adjust my eating, up my water intake, get back to the gym, and “heal everything.” I tell myself, You’re being ridiculous, Marcus, but that doesn’t seem to stop me.

Since starting this blog I’ve hopped on the paleo bandwagon more than once, at times strictly for health, at times strictly for vanity. Ugh, even when it’s a short-term “cleanse,” it usually comes down to vanity. And whereas part of me is like, You know you’re going to peter out after six weeks, another part is like, We can do this. We can set and obtain reasonable goals. For example, losing ten pounds is a reasonable goal.

This means I want to lose fifteen. In a month.

As one of my friends says, “Sign me up for the advanced course.”

This is the story of me life. Let’s overachieve–well–everything. Let’s be the best dieter there ever was, the best comeback kid the gym ever saw. Please, somebody stop me from overachieving. It’s exhausting. Tonight’s blog is number 900 in a row, and I know as well as you do that in 900 blogs there have been some great posts and some not-so-great posts. What makes 900 posts a big deal is–largely–consistency. Showing up every day and doing one thing every day–writing. Before I had my estate sale, I downsized my possessions by throwing (or giving away) one thing every day–a pair of socks, a paperclip, a knickknack.

The point–little things add up.

This idea of doing one thing every day, I’m convinced, could be applied to one’s health, my health, as well. That is, I could make this process much simpler. Like, I could cut out bread–for breakfast. Instead of going for a beer, I could go for a walk. If I kept this up every day (or even most days) for a year, I’d see results. I wouldn’t have to change everything at once. My perfectionist doesn’t like this, but it’s true.

The intermediate course will do.