If you’re like me when you sit down for a cup of coffee and a donut you look over your shoulder to see if anyone is watching. For sure your doctor knows you are being sinful, a glutton, a weak and lazy soul. You can hear him tsk-tsking you as you lick the frosting off the donut. Heck, even the media is now saying all meat causes cancer, articles online espouse a diet of no dairy, gluten-free, fat-free, sugar-free, taste free. Have you seen the picture on Facebook of the new diet food? It’s a plate filled with ice cubes. Yup. That about sums up how I feel; I live in a world of guilt compounded by not exercising “enough” added with a dose of “for your age”. At least in my part of the world I must not be alone in my guilt. I never see Granny peddling her bike up and down the road. “My age” is for celebrating that we made it this far and if guilt is the car I’m driving then so be it. I might need a bigger seat belt though.
Diets meant nothing to me until I hit the big five-oh. I had always been naturally skinny until my body’s odometer hit that magic number. Then I discovered Atkins (low carb), excessive exercise (walking everywhere, treadmill, stationary bike, all things Jorge Cruise) and presto-chango forty-two pounds were gone. Dieting is easy, I gloated. You just need will power. Somebody should have slapped me. I’m sure my coworkers hated my skinny little butt.
When I turned sixty-four I discovered Atkins is dead in more ways than one. My body says eat, then my blood sugar drops so I eat again. My body now converts everything and anything edible that I see on TV, at the grocery store, online or even dreamed about to FAT. Life isn’t fair. I want to sue life.
My Physician’s Assistant suggested that I see a Dietician but I told her that I’ve been there, done that. The female Dietician I saw back in the late 90’s eventually said she had no clue why I wasn’t losing weight. So we would meet anyhow and talk and laugh and then I’d go back to work, ‘cause at least seeing the Dietician was considered sick time and I got paid to meet the nice but clueless Dietician. Then I’d go home and have a carrot and a glass of wine and gain weight.
At one time I worried that maybe I had a weird ovarian tumor growing in my Buddha belly. A now-former friend looked at me and said, “You can’t be fat and have cancer!” Presto-chango, Friend-B-Gone.
Today I’m going to buy some expensive grass-fed liver. Yum, yum. Liver is filled with vitamins like iron and B12, minerals and proteins. It also tastes (to me) like the stuff that falls onto the barnyard floor. Except in highfalutin restaurants where some God-like chef makes it not only palatable but delicious. Cooking tasty liver has never worked for me but has made several of my dogs happy as they ate my culinary failures. But now armed with Pinterest I’m determined to love liver, along with oodles of vegetables and a side of ice cubes. How many carbohydrates are in liver? Because I think my quota for the day for carbs is like two or three grams.
But just you wait. One of these days I’m gonna beat back that four-letter word (diet, not the other four letter word), gain strength and energy, rip off my size ten jeans for the size seven’s still hanging forlornly in my closet. And kick that donut to the curb…okay so maybe I’ll exchange it for a Musketeer. I love Musketeer candy bars, of all sizes. I don’t discriminate. Cheating occasionally is allowed on a diet. I read that on the Internet so it must be true.
Guilt is a five letter word, also profane. I am a sinner, for sure. I can only hope that there are Musketeers in Heaven, and cars with expanding seatbelts.