It’s been an awful month of cravings, and for me, weight loss is not a laughing matter. It’s a life and death struggle between the death of chocolate cake and the life of lentils.
After seven years of marriage, I never got that proverbial itch because I couldn’t bend over to scratch it. My size 8 wardrobe had been cryogenically preserved in the basement for five years, and size 12s sprouted in my closet with alarming regularity. Out went the tight little denim vest and in came the tunics. I gave up belts in favor of a decorative scarf tied around my shoulders (camouflage). My shoes got tighter, and if I couldn't appear in public in bedroom slippers I just didn’t go.
If you ever want unbiased feedback about your weight, just ask a kid. I finally realized how fat I was when I was dressing in front of my 4-year-old niece. Out of the blue she quipped, “Mommy’s fat, Grammy's fat, Auntie Lisa’s fat, and you’re fat. My daddy’s skinny.”
My friend never really knew how much weight she had piled on since the birth of child 2 until she and her husband escaped for a one-nighter at some atmospheric hotel. The bathroom had a wall of mirrors. Not having owned a full-length mirror in six years, she stepped from the shower, took one look, and collapsed on the floor.
Her hubby, upon hearing a tormented “Oh my gosh,” rushed in. Wrapped in a towel, she lay on the floor sobbing. Hasta la vista, mini honeymoon.
My youngest sister’s one brush with dieting turned out to be a very short stint. She attempted the Atkins Diet: the diet with no sugar or carbs. You live on all the meat, cheese, and mayonnaise that you can stuff in your face. It may sound like fun, but after day 5 of no fruit, cereal, pasta, or bread, you fantasize about hijacking a Pepperidge Farm delivery truck.
This sister, who consumes more chocolate and Tostitos than the state of Rhode Island, bought a whole chicken and a six-pack of diet Jell-O. Three hours later, the picked-over chicken carcass lay in the garbage, and all six minis had been devoured when the clock read noon. By 3 p.m. it was who cares? (She ate her way through a family-size box of Hostess cupcakes.) She almost set a new world record for the most corn popped within one hour, when the hot-air machine overheated.
One of my sisters has never had to think twice about her weight. Who wants to go shopping with someone who browses in the “petite” section and actually tucks her blouses inside her waistband? She’s got the appetite of a teamster and starts her day with two buttered croissants.
I’ve now joined the ranks of 10 million Americans: I lost 15 pounds on the Atkins diet, but had to try something else after I got kicked out of the supermarket for trying to nap on a shelf in the bread aisle.
Forget dieting. I now play tennis, but my knee feels arthritic. Gee Mother Nature, give me a break!
Humorist and freelance scribe Joyce Faiola is a consultant/designer for the hospitality industry and lives in New England. Her e-mail is JLFaiola@Juno.com.
