EXIT STRATEGY: Weightloss Springs Eternal

You realize, of course, that fat people are the most optimistic folks on Earth.

Not all of us, I guess. But you can put money on the fact that the bulk of us with excess bulk are confident that one day, usually starting tomorrow, we will finally shun glazed cashews and apple fritters and be down to swimming-suit weight by the next vacation/birthday/class reunion/doctor appointment, etc. Who else but those big in butt and tight in jeans would have the audacity, nay, the temerity, nay, the raw courage to say, “I can eat all of these chocolate covered caramels with sea salt, all these Christmas knishes, and drink all these festive ales and stouts. I can even pound an occasional hot buttered rum made with melted ice cream and still be confident that I will be able to maintain my weight over the holidays. And I will then drop 30 pounds or so by the end of January. It will be done.”

If wishing were weight control, I’d be baggy in 27-inch waist dad-jeans pulled up to my real waist.

I’m much more realistic about my weight problem now that I’ve gotten older. Until I was 40, or so, I would plow through the holiday pecan pies and believe I could lose 30-40 pounds during a three-day fast that always began the Monday after the weekend after New Year’s Day. It was a fast that usually lasted for about 45 minutes and ended because I’m a responsible person who’s not about to see perfectly good 13-day old paella and last week’s éclair filling go to waste. A diet can start any Monday, and one more week isn’t going make that big of a difference. And éclair filling between two graham crackers rocks.

On the re-targeted Tuesday after the weekend that culminates the annual period of serial hedonism, my optimism goes to a whole new level. I’m a smart person. I went to college longer than most people own a Japanese-made car. About two hours into my renewed new year’s fast, I remember the sage science about fasting slowing down your metabolism. To a metabolic researcher, it means a marginal percentage of calories conserved over a period of time. To a starving fatty, it means you that if you quit eating completely, you’ll gain eight pounds by the weekend.

So, by lunch on Tuesday, you’re in line at Good Times. Why? To save your diet. It’s OK. I know that starvation results in weight gain. So I walk to the burger shop knowing that the exercise will actually stimulate a metabolism so slow that it would save my life if there were another ice age.

“No mayo or sauce, please,” you say to the skinny kid who works the counter, head lowered to match your voice in case any of the 438 people on FaceBook you told you were starting a fast might recognize you. “No, no fries. No, I don’t want a frozen custard shake today, Tyler. Have we met? Oh, that’s your mom? No, the fasting thing on FaceBook was an old post. Tell your mom to call me about why I’m unfriending her when I get back to the office.”

Of course walking stimulates my metabolism, and my appetite, which needs so little inspiration to begin with. To reward myself for my new, three-hours-old emaciation proclamation and the caloric inferno I set off by walking six blocks, I swing by the convenience store for a healthy snack of trail mix. Don’t look at the caloric content on the back of the package, just the skinny people on the front. The snacks are two for $1, so I get the M&Ms, too, because I’m frugal, and my wife will be pleased I got her something, even though she only like brown M&Ms. She’s very slender and very weird.

Truly inspired now, I take the stairs when I get back to the office, all four of them. Stairs mean huffing, puffing and sweat. Sweat means body heat. Body heat means burnt calories. All this means I can justify eating eight root-beer flavored candy canes rescued from the office Christmas tree because they’re fat-free. Fat free means calories that don’t count and easy weight loss. About now, I realize I don’t like candy canes or anything root-beer flavored, so I dive into the stale doughnuts rejected by my office mates yesterday. Or maybe it was the day before. “If I’m going to eat something, I want it to count,” I say to myself, underscoring the wise advice of a beloved TV diet guru. I’m into my fourth doughnut that required a bath in coffee before I realize old half-eaten doughnuts really aren’t doing it for me.

“Hey there,” I say to my wife, who’s already suspicious because I only call her in the afternoon when I want something.

“I don’t want anything. I just thought you might want to go get some French tonight since you’ve had to cook so much over the holidays.”

“No, that fasting thing was an old post on FaceBook. I don’t why it keeps doing that.”

“How did you know I unfriended her? Her son is kind of weird. I don’t think that was today.”

“No, I was going to start my diet Wednesday, but I thought I’d start exercising again for a few days first. So it’ll probably be Monday.”

“No, don’t take the pants back. I’m not worried, I know they’ll fit by then. In fact, I’m positive.”

And rewarding my optimism with only the primary colored peanut M&Ms, I’m outta here.