Gaining a Broader Perspective
by Karen Williams | July 08, 2005
Seminole Chronicle
I haven't dieted for years - not since I tried a high-protein regimen and gained 15 pounds on bologna, cheese and pistachio nuts.
But recently my older son, Smitty, commented, "You're packing on pounds, Mom." Not "I think you might be gaining a little weight, but I could be wrong." No, he blurted it out, and thereby dramatically reduced any chance I'll help pay off his college loans.
I don't know if Smitty's assessment is accurate, as my bathroom scale hasn't worked right since I hit it with a sledgehammer. And when I asked my boyfriend for his feedback, he mumbled something about the Fifth Amendment. But I do know that just by hanging in my closet, my clothes have shrunk two sizes, though I can't find a hidden heat source to hold accountable.
If I am packing on poundage, perhaps my metabolism is slowing down. I really don't care, as long as it doesn't come to a grinding halt. Or perhaps it stems from my childhood when, at every meal, I was admonished to "clean up your plate." My parents had toughed out the Depression and considered wasting food a crime akin to pillage and plunder. Thus I was often stuck at the supper table eating every last sorry pea until my pet dog, ironically named Teeny, and I were bursting at the seams. To this day, I can't bear to send a sprig of parsley or scrap of meat gristle down the snarling garbage disposal.
Another culprit behind my alleged weight-gain could be chocolate, but not just any old chocolate. Snickers? Forget it. Hershey's? Not gonna happen. I have a furtive fascination with Baker's semi-sweet chocolate squares - the kind used by run-of-the-mill people in cookies, fudge and cakes. I, on the other hand, eat the squares directly from the box, feeling no need to mess up the kitchen in order to get my daily chocolate allotment. It has nearly become an addiction, as I carry the squares in my purse and tuck a few under my mattress and in my drawers for safekeeping.
Buying an armload of the red Baker's boxes each week at the grocery store could look odd, so I go to a different checkout person each time, ever praying, "Please let them think I'm a professional baker!" The chocolate stains on my teeth might say otherwise, though. Oh well, dark chocolate has more antioxidants than blueberries and offers more heart health than red wine. I would actually do myself a grave disservice by not gorging.
I read up on diets and concluded the Zone Diet would cause me to zone out, and the South Beach Diet would render me a beached whale - a hungry one, at that. So I'll disregard Smitty's accusation. No carb counting. No celery-gnawing. Just me and the chocolate and the meat gristle - one big happy family. Whatever my weight, I'll accept myself as I am.
Then again, of the women in the world, that places me in a tiny group of three people - me, myself and I. It could be lonely. I could feel isolated. People might become bored if I never criticize or complain about my body or discuss how I'm punishing it into perfection. Come to think of it, maybe I should try the Atkins diet.
But I won't trash my stash of chocolate just quite yet.
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Copyright 2005 - Karen Williams
