I’m on the floor, eyes closed, trying to focus inward and relax. I recite the instructions: “Imagine yourself with your new trim figure… doing something exciting and new. (Playing tennis? Dancing in Swan Lake? Kissing the most exciting man you know?)” I choose tennis, in a Tory Burch tennis dress. Now I imagine sitting at a dining table: “Everything is allowed, including cheese fondue, beef stroganoff and strawberry shortcake. In your imagination, eat all you want, including three desserts.” I don’t like dessert, but I love fondue. “Imagine yourself completely satiated… and push yourself away from the table.” Am I still in my tennis dress? “Project yourself into a different setting—a restaurant, a different dining room or a kitchen. Now project, in your imagination, only the foods that you should eat: lean meats, salads, fruits, etc. Picture yourself eating those, and turning down seconds.” I’m still lying on the floor when my five-year-old finds me and yells “Mama is crazy” to the other room.
I’m not crazy. I’m practising the ‘No Diet Diet’ published by Vogue in 1972. I’ll explain. This year for Christmas, my Vogue editor gave me a login and password to the complete Vogue archive. It was a thoughtful present—the year before last he got me beard cream for my husband. Last year he forgot me entirely. The password did come with strings attached. Would I dive in and analyse the diet-writing published in from 1892 through the present? Would I assess if had been hostile to readers’ bodies, or if there existed any inclusive or uplifting dietary advice?
