I love my doctor. We have a great relationship. He is a few years older than me and has walked a similar path. Wise with a witty style, he takes time to sit, visit and ask how things are in my life. His interest appears to be genuine.
I especially love my doctor when he brings me good news. “Your blood pressure is outstanding. Excellent work. And your cholesterol numbers have fallen. I am proud of you.”
My chest sticks out like a banty rooster and I want to reach out and hug this wonderful friend.
UH OH! Not the “But” word! But is not a word I ever want to hear coming out of my Doc’s mouth.
“But… we need to discuss the dreaded “D” word,” as Doc looks directly into my eyes, with a semi-serious look.
“Death? I’m dying? I’m prepared to die, Doc. But I feel fine. What’s wrong with me?” I ask, as aches and pains, both real and imagined descend upon my dying body.
“No, no. Don’t be silly. You are not dying. We need to discuss the other ‘D” word,” he states with a smile.
“Nooooooooooo. Not a diet. I don’t want to talk about it, Doc!”
“Well, you have gained considerable weight this year. It is time for you to pay the price for your past. I suggest you lose twenty pounds,” says that terrible man.
Just who does he think he is, talking blasphemy to me. Why am I even coming to this doctor?
“Twenty pounds!” I exclaim. “No way!”
Suddenly, I don’t appreciate him so much, as I notice he could lose a pound or twenty himself.
“And just how do you suggest I lose twenty pounds?” I ask snarky.
“Quit eating so much,” he says with a grin, hoping I don’t swing at him.
My mind started wandering as I tried to digest this terrible news. No more cookies! The BBQ ribs? They have to go! And forget about my beloved bacon and eggs for breakfast. How can my life continue?
I am certainly familiar with diets. I’ve always been on the husky side. As a kid, mom had to take me to Carpenter’s or Harrison’s on the square in my hometown, hoping their husky jeans were fully stocked. I usually left happy with plenty of room to spare in my derriere. Lately though, I must admit, I noticed my rear trunk filling up, affecting my mobility.
Which diet should I choose, I ask myself? I have been on all of them. The Atkins Diet? Done it. Lean Cuisine? Yuk and yes. Nutrisystem. Yep.
Once I tried the Cabbage Boil Diet. Man, that was great stuff; for about the first three bites!
How about the Mediterranean Diet? Or the only eat between 7 a.m. and 7 p.m. diet. I’ve tried them all and yet, here I am, an uncool twenty over.
“What if we assign you an eating coach?” my Doc asks, snapping me back to reality.
“An eating coach? Are you kidding me? Now Doc, I’ve had many coaches in my lifetime, but never an eating coach.”
So now, guess what I have? Yep. An eating coach. Isn’t that a sad statement?
Even I am embarrassed to admit this!
“Well, la ti da,” I can hear my late mom say.
In fairness to my coach, she is outstanding. She listens to my concerns and has a pleasant way to settle the bald one’s concerns.
“I’m not eating tofu, so don’t even start with that. And I eat real meat; not fake stuff. And breakfast must not be yogurt; that just makes me angry!” I proclaim, as my demands go in one of her ears and out the other.
She sends me a recommended food plan based loosely on our discussion. The total calorie count for the day is a mere 2000. Now, I’m a big ole boy; always have been. I have been known to consume 2000 calories in one sitting; thus, the need for a weight loss plan.
Gosh, I don’t want to do this!
2000 calories! That’s just five cookies, thirty Cheez-It crackers with pimento cheese spread and one scoop of ice cream. Heck, my mom’s sweet tea or Karo-nut pie had 2000 calories. How did my life come to this?
I remember in college when my coaches wanted me to GAIN 20 pounds. They had me eating double everything for the three main meals. In addition, I ate two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with milk at 10 p.m. before lights out. They weighed me after each practice and I promise you, I never gained weight! Today, I gained two pounds just thinking about that time in my life!
My eating coach must have a camera that follows me. Just when I’m about to sink my teeth into a scrumptious bite of pizza, I feel the buzz of my phone.
“Hey there. Just checking in to see how the diet is going.”
“It’s going,” I say, failing to include “it’s going right out the window.”
Now my scales aren’t doing me right. After a full day of eating under 2000 calories and also walking three miles, they must tell me I’ve lost weight. But three days in, and they don’t budge.
“You are outta here,” I exclaim, until I see the price of new ones. So, I have a reasonable talk with my scales. I believe it worked because slowly, that cellulite is dissolving.
My step app has the same philosophy as my scales.
“4000 steps!” I shout. I know I walked twice that many steps, as I try to sooth my aching muscles. “Twice around the neighborhood is 10,000 steps,” I proclaim to my app, as if it had ears.
“You see, I love cookies. And cheese. And crackers. At 9 p.m.,” I say to my coach, as she chokes.
My eating coach suggests I eat bread that costs $6 a loaf and has the dietary fiber of a broom. It tastes like a mop.
Yes, my coach has me eating yogurt now. I can add walnuts, but heck, one quarter of a cup of walnuts has 240 calories, or over ten percent of my daily goal.
Apps have made dieting no fun. On past diets, if I did not know how many calories were in something, it just didn’t count. Now, there is an app for that. I know right down to the milla whatever how many calories I consumed. And I don’t like it!
Today, after much challenging work, I only have six more pounds to lose to meet the twenty-pound target. How do I plan to celebrate when I reach that goal? I’m not sure, but right now I’m about to gnaw off my hand. I may go shake my groove thang in front of my Doc!
Now, I’m not one to advocate telling lies. But the next time you see me, even if I don’t look so thin, I’d appreciate a tiny fib about how good I look. Just something encouraging! A cat call would suffice.
“Honey, can you bring me some tofu and a meatless burger? And if you don’t mind, please put it on that expensive bread that tastes like a mop.”
I gotta go. My eating coach is calling.