Diet tips.

I had to renew my driver's license recently, which had expired. A fact I might never have known (since the MTA is my chauffeur round these parts, and I'm so hell-old I never get carded for anything anymore) had I not pulled it out of my wallet to one-up someone in a contest of horrible photo ID's. Which I won, of course.

In the photo I'm fifty pounds heavier than I am now, and sport a botched at-home attempt at that purposely messy, jaw-length Meg Ryan haircut au currant in '95 (replete with freshly cut PMS bangs). I have my head pulled back to augment and highlight the exquisite fold of my chins, and am either just about toor close my eyes, I can't tell. Either way the effect is that of someone who is stoned and not very happy about it. Picture a mug shot of the redheaded love-child of Henry Kissinger and Ruth Buzzy, hauled in for prostitution and hash trafficking. Trust me, it'd beat your cowlick or out-of-style glasses hands down.

Every time I show that picture to anyone, the second question after "Where you drunk when you decided on that haircut?" [answer: yes] is almost always "Wow...how did you lose so much weight?"

Now, I don't know how to express how absurd the idea of being fat is to me, let alone the notion of dieting. Before a metabolism shift in my late-twenties I had never dieted or exercised a damn day in my life. I was naturally what some --outside of New York City, in the lands where people have a layer of flesh on their bones, where sizes '1' and '3' only exist, as they should, on the racks in the children's department--might describe as painfully thin. The kind of thin where perfect strangers, either out of jealously or genuine concern, felt obliged to make unsolicited comments like, "Jesus Christ you're skinny! Do you even EAT?" or "Look at you! You're wasting away!"

In those days if I felt like ordering something healthy at a restaurant, or happened to include leafy greens or fish or yogurt in my grocery store purchases, it would inevitably cause the server or check-out girl to go into shock. "Don't tell me you're on a DIET!?" they'd snap, wide-eyed, followed by a quick glance at my ring finger and the suggestion that I grab a box of Twinkies if I ever planned to land a man. Sage advice, I guess, since the people hurling the hurtful comments were usually fat and married.

And despite what those of you who fight with their weight may think (a group I am now a member of, thanks), it is hurtful. Twenty some-odd years of having my extremities compared to matchsticks, listening to groans of disgust when disengaging from a hug ("You're just skin and bones!"), or the litany of jokes about how I may slip down the drain in the shower, could be hidden by a broomstick, how shapelier legs can be found on a table, how I might blow away in a strong wind, "Hey! Olive Oyl, Olive Oyl !" or ... anyway, it gets old fast.

Which leads me to how I got fat. I got older as I said, and then I got married. To a former fry-cook that loved to be in the kitchen as much as I did and felt every worthwhile dish had to include cheese, butter, creme, pasta or potatoes, all in some roux or gravy of course. Every night of the week we made humongous piles of calorie-rich food that would rival the combined daily intake of several small nation-states. We bought a house, and a car, in which I drove to a job where I sat in front of a computer for eight hours. The 'big three' fast food joints were my only choices for a quick lunch in my work neighborhood, and everything was beyond walking distance. So the formula went like: aging, sitting, driving, eating, sitting more, eating crap, aging, driving, sitting.

But even then I only gained about ten pounds. I liked ten pounds. My (now ex) husband liked ten pounds. And I stopped getting the knowing wink and nod from women with figures like Holocaust survivors when I spied them buying the family pack of Oreos and a whole ham at midnight.

It wasn't until I quit smoking that I made the transition to Rubenesque. My doctor said my metabolism would even out after being smoke-free for awhile, but a year later and forty pounds heavier, I doubted her 'science'. But since my motto had become You can lose weight, but you can't lose cancer, I figured the only way to slim was if I changed my lifestyle completely. No more chicken parmesan, at least a one mile power-walk each night with the dog, more water, healthy bag lunches, aerobics on the days it was too shitty to head outside. Within a year I was the healthiest I had ever been in life...and still 40 pounds overweight. No, really. Hadn't shed a single fucking pound. So, with the support of my husband --who had to support me really, since hadn't exactly kept up his boyish figure--I decided to resign myself to being a healthy fat lady. And I was, happily, for years.

But I did lose most of it, eventually. I got back to the ten pounds above gaunt where I started. However when people see the pictures of the big me, and inevitably ask "So how'd you lose the weight?" I'm always reticent to answer. It's not a diet regimen I'd recommend. To an enemy.

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First, get a divorce. A nasty, heart-crushing, soul-killing divorce in which you lose the home you completely restored, the antiques you've collected, and are left with the responsibility for all of the marital debt. Be forced to move to the only apartment you can find, one without a kitchen, because it's a fix-er-uper you've agreed to rehab in exchange for rent (since you can't pay rent. see: marital debt). Help the landlord do hard labor nearly every night after work; work you must now walk to because the ex made off with both cars. Feel truly alone and hopeless, take your alcohol intake up a notch, and resume chain smoking after having quit for nearly two years. Lose all that excess water by weeping frequently, from supper-time till bed, which eventually makes it impossible to eat meals at all. Lose two, count em', two family members to the grave. Desperate for human contact, start having a meaningless affair with someone you are ashamed to be seen with in public. Get seen with them in public. Have one of your best friends ask you what the fuck is going on--if you've lost your mind. Don't talk to that person for a year. Actually, pack everything up and move to New York City.

Now it may not be Atkins approved, and I'm not saying I'd back this approach...but I dropped about forty pounds in like two months.

Posted by Antigeist at November 30, 2004 02:42 PM