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Toward A Svelte Waltie

Walt C. Snedeker


Well, it happened. My special, most comfortable pair of shorts aren't comfortable anymore. I knew that to accuse the Fabled PC of washing them in some sort of shrinking solution would probably get me nothing but snickers in response, so I got on our dusty scale.
YIKES! Perhaps I should explain our seldom-used scale. It cost several hundred bucks, and it has those slidy weight things on it. Just like the one in the doctor's office. It measures to one eighth of a pound. But we seldom refer to it, even though we have bequeathed it a rather prominent place in our kitchen. As a matter of fact, I hadn't stepped on it for nearly a year.
After all, who wants to ask for bad news? I could tell by my rotunditude in the mirror that somehow, I was getting larger all over. The good side was that most wrinkles had disappeared. Perhaps it was somehow related to my favorite meal of Twinky salad with Bosco dressing.
But let it be known, Gentle Reader, that Your Humble Obedient &tc. does not want to be plunked down into that category of frivolous folks who partake heavily during the Yuletide season, and suddenly realize that they have picked up an extra six to ten pounds. Oh, no. My exclamation of "YIKES" was due to the fact that the Scale From Hell announced proudly that the fool standing on it weighed in at an astonishing 238 pounds.
This was clearly not a seasonal hangover. This was epic. My dainty bride happened to be looking over my shoulder. She too, gasped.
"It is Time To Do Something," she announced. Those words always give me a small clutch of fear, since they are capitalized as she speaks them. I don't know how she does that.
So my weight loss target is anything under 200 pounds.
The impressive coincidence of My-Son-The-Doctor calling me and telling me that it was time to look into shedding a ton or two sort of drove home the message. It wasn't that I didn't have it, but more like I ought to give some of it away.
Of course, all this was revealed on the afternoon of the day we were going to My-Son-The-Electronics-Genius' house for dinner. And of course, dinner was yummy fried chicken with grease-gravy mashed potatoes and heavily buttered cornbread. (*sigh*)
So the diet start was put off one more day. Fortunately, my weight stayed at 238 pounds during that period. Small blessings count.
The Fabled PC prepared my breakfast. Skim milk over a quarter-cup of cornflakes, no sugar. Lunch was a tweeny weeny thingy of yogurt. I knew I was not going to survive until dinner, which was probably a handful of parched corn and a glass of distilled water. I needed help.
So I went to see Dr. Jim. This wonderful person happens to be terribly thin and fit. While I find that offensive, I figured that by approaching him on bended knee, he might grant me access to some secrets.
Alas, it was not to be.
"Walt, the only way to lose weight is to eat less, exercise more, and behave yourself at parties." Dr. Jim had just given me three impossible tasks.
"Can I hire someone to do this for me?" I asked.
"I can help you," Dr. Jim reached into his cabinet of goodies, and handed me a jar of pills. "Every time you get hungry - really hungry - take one of these pills."
A week later I was back in Dr. Jim's office. I had gained 2 pounds. Probably because I had taken 9000 pills. I kept getting hungry.
"Hm. Apparently a placebo won't work in your case," Dr. Jim was sighing. "We'll have to put you on genuine diet pills."
Of course, these pills cost $100.00 for a month's supply at two per day. That made me think they might be more efficacious than the previous ones that were all brightly colored with little M's on them. But the thought that fat weighs a little over six pounds per gallon, and that I therefore have the equivalent of six gallon milk jugs hung around my neck filled with yuk has given me a new determination.
Nevertheless, it is very hard to starve on an empty stomach. And now the Fabled PC is casting Meaningful Looks at the rowing bicycle-machine thing that has sat unused this last year. Why is it that I have to be afflicted with a body that is both lazy and fat? It ain't even cheatin' fair. Look at Sharon Stone. OK, when you can break away, look at Arnie Schwartzenegger. Boy, are they lucky. Well, look out, Arnie… I am on my way.
Now all I have to do is hire someone to use the exercise machine.

 
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