Lately, I’ve been deep in the weird little rabbit hole of weight-loss influencers—people sipping tiny kale smoothies, filming themselves from flattering overhead angles, and declaring victory thanks to GLP-1s, intermittent fasting, and calorie deficits. You’d think they’d cracked some kind of metabolic Da Vinci Code.

But here’s what I’m actually noticing: they’re not changing what they eat. Just how much. It’s the same burger, just sadder and cut in half.

I see a lot of “I’ve lost 100 pounds!” paired with a 545-calorie meal from Chick-fil-A or McDonald’s or some other fluorescent-lit temple of convenience food. And sure, math says that if you eat fewer calories than you burn, the scale will inch downward. But let’s not pretend that just because we halved the garbage, it’s suddenly nourishing. It’s still garbage. It’s just… daintier.

Meanwhile, my personal Mount Everest is soda. All soda. Sugary, sugar-free, fizzy, flat, cold, warm—I love it like a toxic ex who always shows up in my fridge when I’m vulnerable.

Then there’s fast food. And processed sugar. And snacks that crunch like shame.

So I’m trying—truly trying—to pivot. Back to basics. Back to something my body might actually like. My partners former doctor was a fan of the Mediterranean lifestyle, which, to be honest, sounds pretty charming when you imagine it as sun-drenched patios and fresh herbs.

What it really means?

No processed food.

Half your plate in vegetables.

Protein that didn’t come from a clown or cartoon mascot.

Carbs that behave themselves—like brown rice or maybe half a cup of pasta (which is so disrespectfully small I’m personally offended).

And this is hard because I have food feelings. Big ones.

Let’s break them down.

I love avocados. LOVE. I’d marry one if the state of Oregon would allow it. I hate chicken. Don’t come near me with it. It tastes like obligation. I adore roasted cauliflower and broccoli with olive oil and balsamic, especially when it makes the whole house smell like something fancy is happening. I am wildly in love with fresh fruit, especially berries and watermelon, which I eat over the sink like the wild creature I am. I could absolutely drown myself in pasta and die happy. And don’t even get me started on fresh Italian bread dipped in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. I will drink it. But olives? No. Nope. Never. Don’t you dare. If I find an olive in my food, I will cut someone. Lovingly. But I will cut them.

Now let’s talk about artificial sweeteners. Because those shiny little devils are starting to lose their sparkle for me.

They look like hope. They taste like a promise. But what are they really? Science projects dressed in low-carb clothing. I’ve been trying to cut back on them too, because apparently my body doesn’t appreciate being tricked by fake sugar any more than it appreciates being betrayed by gluten or ghosted by dairy.

Some days I feel like I need a food Ouija board just to figure out what won’t make me bloated, itchy, or emotionally regretful.

Doctors keep telling me: “It’s not too late.”

That I can still feel better.

That I can still do this.

And I want to believe them. But I’m 62 now. I’ve had a head injury, my activity is limited, and this journey toward “height and weight appropriate” feels like it’s on a separate continent.

Every specialist I see—from the neurologist to the rheumatologist to the endocrinologist—sings the same song:

“You need something sustainable.”

And I get it. I really do. But I also want food that doesn’t make me want to cry or commit petty crimes.

So I made my own dream menu.

✨ Scribblers Fantasy Mediterranean-ish Menu (Olive-Free Edition) ✨

BREAKFAST

One whole avocado, spooned directly into my mouth like it’s a love language. Watermelon—dripping, juicy, consumed over the sink like a feral queen. Maybe Greek yogurt. If my gut says yes. Which it usually doesn’t. Herbal iced tea with attitude.

LUNCH

Roasted broccoli and cauliflower, sizzling with olive oil and balsamic vinegar like a vegetable soap opera. A side of warm, crusty Italian bread for dipping in more oil and vinegar because I am living my best life. Fresh cherry tomatoes, artfully stabbed with a fork and salted like I’m doing improv in Tuscany. A handful of berries for dessert because I’m classy like that.

DINNER

Grilled halibut or cod, because I may be picky but I still have taste. A suspiciously tiny scoop of brown rice, just so I can say I’m being “responsible.” Artichoke hearts with lemon zest and smugness. Steamed green beans I may or may not actually eat. Let’s be honest.

DESSERT

Frozen fruit blended into “sorbet” while I pretend I don’t miss real ice cream. One piece of dark chocolate. Maybe. If I’m feeling like a French film character. And absolutely no olives. If you even suggest olives, I’m filing a restraining order.

So that’s where I’m at.

Trying to live better. Eat better. Feel better.

Still weird. Still hungry. Still slightly unhinged about olives.

If you see me in public staring at a salad like it owes me money, just know I’m doing my best.

And please—for the love of everything holy—keep your olives to yourself.