Jack Spratt could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean,
And so between the two of them they licked the platter clean.
Those of us who have had the fortune to spend the better portion of our lives on the upside of the height/weight percentiles know about diets. Scarsdale, Grapefruit, Weight Watchers, Free Soup, Adkins, South Beach, Zone, Blood Type, Fat Flush, 6 Week Body Makeover, Full Fiber Low Carb, High Carb, No Fat, Low Fat, You on a Diet and Slimfast are just of few of the titles in my repertoire. My own ability to accurately estimate the calorie count on all things filled with chocolatey wonder or brimming with gooey goodness is almost uncanny. My research began when I attended my first Weight Watchers meeting in the 2nd grade – true story- and it has continued for the 32 year since. My husband, on the other hand, up until he wooed me and wed me 6 years ago, was a bean pole. Now he’s a bean pole with a little love around the middle. One thing I do understand is that assimilation and acceptance is far easier for those of us with a life-time of chub than for those stricken down later in life. A fallen bean pole is an unhappy bean pole.
To start the new year off right, The Turk declared that it was time for him to shed his mid-torso love. And as we nerdy types are wont to do, he began that task by checking out a stack of books on the subject. It didn’t dawn on him that his curvaious bride might know a thing or two about how to shed the tonnage. Thought I will admit, I don’t know if I’d make that same leap gauging by my less than taut lower half. Regardless, each time he’s tried to regale me with a new tidbit of nutritional advice he’s garnered from his library stack, I beat him to the punch, elaborate on the idea and then quote opposing viewpoints from my library of weight reduction gurus. I’d really dislike me if I were him.
All of this dieting madness got me thinking – perhaps I should set a grand self- improvement goal to achieve before the big one hits in less than 66 short days. Logically I thought 40 pounds before I turn 40 but that would leave me looking like Karen Carpenter and it’s a known fact that a bit of extra pudge keeps crow’s-feet at bay. I thought about 40 days of no sugar but then I flashed back to Lent - 1981 and Sister Nora informing me that “Giving up sugar will not bring you closer to Jesus.” I assume the same is true for sugar and the acceptance of aging. I settled on aiming to lose 20 pounds before I turn 40 but that may be a tough job as my commitment to the matter seems a bit low and on day two I already toyed with the idea of trading my only child for a fun-sized Butterfinger. My butt might need it but my heart’s not in it. If the Mayans are right and the big bang is coming this year, I’m going to be sitting in Purgatory after all is ended, supremely pissed off that I spent the last months of existence void of carbohydrates.
At the end of the day, I kind of feel that a big feat for 40 should be something about turning over a new leaf, not flipping and re-flipping the same damn leaf I’ve had my entire life. If I’ve spend the last 30 odd years battling the bulge, maybe turning 40 is the time in life when I finally cast aside Drs Adkins, Oz, Arnot, Scarsdale, Agatston and all the rest. Maybe it’s time to Stop The Insanity and cultivate my look as either the excentric larger gal or the adorable hip yet chubby mom instead. Then again, that could just be the sugar deprived chubby girl inside me talking. She can be a real pain the ass sometimes.