For those of you who read Montana Roue'
regularly, you're fully aware of my battle
with the bulge. Hence I'm prone to at least
one annual attempt to reduce the residue
of a life well spent during the prior year.
I can't explain what motivates such feeble
attempts to stem the tide of ill gotten gain.
Beyond the added pressure of a tightening
waistband nobody forcing me to take the
next step. Yet once again I feel it's time
to chastely chase the skinny man I once
was. And hopefully reveal the inner stud
that awaits beneath my veil of shame.
There are so many reasons to lighten up.
Yet between us, a recent visit to the scale
convinced me it was finally time to truly
do something about it. Sadly it isn't my
weight that bothered me. Rather it was
the poundage of my precious life partner.
You see, a few days ago I found out that
Frank weighs slightly under one hundred
pounds LESS than I do. And while I've
always been the beefier of the two, it's no
bull when I say that I had no intention of
weighing the equivalent of a side of beef.
Guest it's time to get moooving on a diet!
Then theres my continued personal
climactic challenges. For years I've
chalked up my inability to never be
comfortable to "man-o-pause." This
year during my annual physical (and
tongue lashing) I asked to be tested
for male hormonal issues. The good
news is I'm perfectly fine. The bad
news is the doctor prescribed an easy
remedy for my hot flash fluctuations -
lose sixty to eighty pounds. Why do
skinny guys in white coats always
ask you to do something impossible?!
I've got plenty of motivation ready and
waiting in closets throughout the house.
To date downsizing has been limited to
selling bric-a-brac via eBay. All while
a fortune of fabulous frocks lie hidden
in some sort of fashion purgatory. With
such a vast resource, I should have no
need to purchase togs ever again. All I
have to do is lose one hundred pounds
and the equivalent of the Men's Store at
Bergdorf Goodman will be ready and
waiting on our second floor. My only
challenge is can I shed all that I dread?
Moderation has never been part of my
vocabulary. Thus cutting back on my
portions isn't going to get me out of
this mess. First of all I absolutely don't
have the patience. Secondarily, I must
admit that I don't have that sort of long
term resolve to limiting my intake. Like
most men I want what I want now. In
today's world there are no quick fixes.
Therefore no doctor can or will prescribe
amphetamines to speed up the process.
Hence my only choice is to figure a way
out of my self-maintained fat factory.
One could try Jenny Craig or one of those
pricey pre-portioned plans. However I've
never understood why ingesting bad food
could in any way be motivation to resist
eating a bowl of ice cream. Another option
is Weight Watchers. Yet nothing irks me
more than counting my calories. While in
theory one has many choices within said
context, I doubt a T-Bone, triple stuffed
potato, creme brûlée, or lovely bottle of
Amarone fall within it's parameters. Thus
it's best to count me out give that math
is not my forte - especially subtraction!
So what to do? For most of my yo-yo
existence liquids have been the answer.
I've guzzled everything from Slim Fast
to lemon water mixed with maple syrup
and cayenne. Usually said slurp fests
last twenty four hours at most. But this
time is different. I'm sick and tired of
being winded when walking up a flight
of stairs. So, I hope to lighten my load
by taking stock of the situation. For the
next month all I'm going to consume is
beef and chicken stock - nothing more.
I call it the concentration camp cleanse.
Will it work? Doubtful. Will it last?
Highly improbable. So why bother
wasting time attempting to waste
away to nothing? Part of me knows
that added girth is God's gift to the
elderly. My theory is that someday
I'm going to get really sick and will
need all of those additional pounds
to survive. However my reality is
that I can't abide shopping in the
Big and Tall or Husky departments
at Barneys. Somethings got to give.
The question is when will I give up?