Monday, December 13, 2010

A four-letter word

You want to know what is worse than gaining ten pounds after the holidays? Finding out your ten pounds over weight before they begin.


This past weekend I took my wife to a Christmas Ball with a 1940s theme. They had a big band, costumes contest, WWII memorabilia, and Andrew Sisters impersonators. Everything to make you feel you were back in the 40s, except the prices. For what I shelled out I could have bought myself a Nash. But let me get back to my story…


Since I work for myself I don’t get the opportunity to wear a suit too often, unless I feel like calling a meeting, which I never plan to attend. So in my absence the Pants Gnomes got into my closet and shrunk all my clothes. They seem to get particular delight in watching me twist and shout my way into a pair of tailored trousers that fit like a glove only a year ago. Pair after pair I tried on, all with the same results, testing the tensile strength of thread and patience along the way. Now I’m not a huge guy, and maybe I’m making a bigger deal out of this then I should, but when your clothes make your internal organs feel like they are riding the number 7 train from Hunterspoint Avenue to Grand Central Station at rush hour it’s time for a change.


As I let out a lion size moan my eleven-year-old walked in. “What’s the matter dad?” “I have to go on a diet.” “It’s about time,” she said. And with those words of encouragement I began my descent into a basket of carrot sticks.


Now, if you are familiar at all with my past rantings you may be thinking, “Jamie, you’re always touting your bike rides, and your long walks, and the great outdoors, how could you have gained weight?” Apparently, walking a half mile won’t compensate for the half dozen Quadruple Stuffed Oreos I shove down my gullet when I return home. (Do the math on the Double Stuffed. When are they going to wise up down at Nabisco and just put three cookies in the entire bag?)


I should have known something was wrong when I went to get a massage this past week. I wanted The Outdoorsman, which was described as the following: “Whether you just climbed a fourteener (That’s when some daring fool hikes up to the top of a 14,000 foot peak. A peak is all you have time for as your lungs give out.), spent a day on the ski slopes or played a round of golf, this rejuvenating package is just for you.” Instead the woman automatically gave me The Potato. That’s where they spend 45 minutes working on your sorry ass and the last 15 on the arm that holds the remote control. Between you and me, it was the best massage I ever had.


So now I’m on this alternating diet. It’s when one day you limit your intake to 800 calories and the next day you can eat whatever you want, then back again. It’s suppose to trick your skinny genes so you eat less and eventually you can get back into your skinny jeans. My wife explained it to me but I was so fatigued with skipping a snack today I didn’t have the strength to listen. If this diet doesn’t work I’ll try my version of the alternating diet. That’s when I alternate between not giving a shit and buying bigger pants.