When I was a teenager I'd inhale entire pizzas, dozens of donuts and countless Hershey bars as though each day
presented my last chance to chow down. Middle-aged women would smile knowingly and warn, "That pizza/donut/candy bar will come back to haunt you one day." I laughed at their pronouncement. I knew I would not
only live forever, but remain slender the entire time. But alas, the dreaded prophecy came to pass. Not only did I gain weight, but I also started dreaming of my gastronomic indiscretions.
Last night as I slept, I
found myself chased through the halls of my home by the Ghost of Pizzas Past. Towering over me like some delicatessen version of Michael Jordan, the ghost was covered with pepperoni, mushrooms, black olives, Italian
sausage and a sprinkling of green peppers, with extra cheese, no anchovies.
The Ghost of Pizzas Past roared behind me, up and down the stairs, through the rooms and into the kitchen, where it held me down and
crammed pizza in my mouth. (I kind of liked that part.) Then, what was left of it cleverly melded itself to my thighs and stomach and before I knew it, I'd gained an extra 20 pounds. Or so.
Yes, much to my
dismay, real life mimics my dreams and I went from size nine slacks to "one-size-fits-all" without so much as a burp. Sadly, as I discovered, all those wafer-thin pepperonis really do add up over time.
Now, like
many other women in the Not-Older-But-Better phase of life, I find myself facing a metabolic crises. Or, putting it another way, I now have elastic waistbands where I once had a metabolism.
I've been trying to
get this weight off for years. I joined an exercise club and faithfully worked out for a month, only to discover that A) I hate exercise and B) Spandex can only stretch just so far before it gives. Besides, when my
month was over, I had actually gained weight. A friend who works out regularly tried to convince me I'd simply developed muscle, but I know better. Muscle is firm. There is nothing on me that's firm, except my resolve
to stay out of the path of people who intentionally do walking lunges.
In my quest to become less fluffy, I've enlisted just about every diet ever devised, from grapefruit to Dolly Parton to Atkins. But all these left
me was full of grapefruit juice, cabbage and bacon. Not thinner, but a heck of a lot wiser.
And still in need of skinnier new me. Why? It's not because I dislike the Raphaelesque woman I've become. Being built like
an armchair isn't that terrible. For one thing, I haven't had to tuck in a shirt in years, which means I also don't have to suck in my stomach. And that's nice, especially when you're the type of person who happens to
like wearing sweatpants. Nope, I can live with a little extra weight most of the time. But not now. Not when another high school reunion looms on the horizon.
Yes, once more, I'm getting together with the people from
my past, most of whom can still tuck in their shirts. I'd like to be able to duplicate that feat by the time the reunion rolls around. So I'm on another diet. I figure that maybe, just maybe, I can lose that troublesome
roll of fat around my middle.
And, since I had to give up pizza, donuts and Hershey bars years ago in order to avoid becoming the size of a UPS truck, this time around I'll have to cut back on all the other luscious
treats my dead-as-a-doornail metabolism lets me consume. It's going to be tough doing without all that nonfat, unsweetened vanilla yogurt, sugar-free Jell® and diet root beer.
But nothing worth having comes without a little sacrifice
