Summer's over. Actually, as I write this, summer is going full blast, drying out what passes for my lawn and I awake from my sleep after dreaming all night that I am trapped in a whale's stomach.
Speaking of whale stomachs, I am on a diet. No, really.
My doctor, a surly type, with a specially built scale that registers 10 pounds over the one we keep under the vanity, has once again looked over the top of his reading glasses, my most recent lab reports in hand, and pronounced me "unhealthy."
The reality of it all is, no matter how you weighed me, on earth’s gravity, I was out of control.
My labs are all askew and the doctor has assured me, once again, that I can drastically improve both the numbers and my chances of seeing 60, if I lose 50 pounds.
As a medical professional, I cannot dispute him. And it just so happened that through his office, I recently enrolled in a wonderful, easy and painless program intended to help me slim down, become fit and live long enough to attend my own retirement party.
This wasn’t the first time I’d been told about the program. Until now, I did what every other self-respecting tub-o-lard does, I took the phone number, and then I put it off for as along as I could.
But this time, since I was completely out of excuses, I made the call and within a week I was getting large boxes of food sent to me by
The way this diet plan works is instead of eating bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches three meals a day, I actually have five mini-meals supplied by the diet company and a sixth meal consisting of a small slab of meat and a large handful of approved vegetables that I am required to prepare in my own kitchen. All six meals are eaten at three hour intervals along with copious amounts of water, all the time, all day.
The mini-meals consist of milkshake-like concoctions, granola-ish bars, watery soups and gummy oatmeal.
It's sort of like being an alcoholic, wherein you've done your damage with the booze and now it's time to give it up. Except, everyone needs to eat so it's not like I can take the pledge or anything.
What I have done, as I began to see the tips of my toes emerging from the edge of my gut as I looked at the floor, is decide that "real" food can wait. Until I started this thing, I would eat just about anything and everything I could maneuver close to my mouth (except lima beans): nothing was taboo. This is in spite of the fact that I have several underlying medical conditions that would be less scary if I could steer clear of sugar, fat and everything else delicious.
So, as I type this, I have shed close to 20 pounds. My clothes fit, as opposed to “sort of” fit. I get a bit more tired as I work all my night shifts, but I sleep like a rock when my head hits the pillow.
Like an alcoholic who needs to steer clear of bars, I have to watch my step and keep driving past the pizzerias. I now leave the bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches to those skinny skunks who can eat just about anything and still take off their shirts at the beach.
Here at the hospital, the great tech, Anthony, has just finished a philly cheese steak with all the seductive aromas and satisfied gustatorial grunts that properly accompany such a feast. I have just downed eight ounces of a strawberry Crème "milkshake” that contains essential minerals, vitamins and fiber.
This diet has sharpened my senses and now I am much more acutely tuned in to the world around me. Even the food we feed our wonderful new kittens makes me slobber in Pavlovian ecstasy. A trip to the grocery store is like an adventure into the
I am sure, if I stick to it, all my pain and suffering will be well worth it. I'll get to see how my feet are doing. I can buy new clothes! And one day, if I am good, and I mind my P’s and Q’s, I just might eat a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich again one day.
On whole wheat bread?
Why do we remove the corn husks at the store now? What do modern children do while waiting for barbecues?
