Metabolism, my worst enemy


My wife is the versatile cook. She makes a lo-cal meal as easily as one ladened in calories. I don’t know how she decides. My theory is that when she feels anxious I may stray, she whips up a high calorie cuisine to fatten me up to look like I couldn’t get laid in an assistant living facility. When she’s secure in the relationship, we’re dining on kale and cardboard.

In my latest attempt to conquer the battle of the bulge, I started yet another new diet. These diets kill me. Did you ever notice the first three letters in diet spell “die”? I’ve been losing this war. Weight is winning by 250-to-1.

Of course, as you get older, your metabolism slows. I think mine has shifted into Park. We have one of those talking scales, so before it tells me my weight I feel the need to shut the windows so the neighbors don’t think the lottery numbers are being read. And I once had a dream our refrigerator spoke to me. When I open the door it said, “We missed you. Where were you for the past hour?”

My wife convinced me to see a nutritionist (she was apparently feeling secure in the marriage that week). That was an interesting experience. She told me my diet was terrible. I told her all 300 of my diets were terrible. Wow. Ten minutes into the session and she already diagnosed my problem! This is money well spent. Next she’s going to tell me I should lose weight. This is turning out to be one hundred well-spent dollars.

I could be a nutritionist. No one has had more on-the-job training in dieting than me. And it’s easier than being a doctor. A doctor has to do an exam, send you for tests, and sometimes operate. A nutritionist just has to look at you for 20 seconds: “Let’s see…Symptoms: Fat—Diagnosis: Fat—Cure: eat stuff that tastes like shit and join a gym— Long term prognosis—will lose weight and gain it back. And then, the holy grail, repeat business! Ca-ching!! $$$$

None of this is a win-win for me. I could go to the gym, a nutritionist, a health food store, or even to Overeaters Anonymous. But being away from home for that long makes my wife suspicious. And that can only mean one thing: at least a week of pound packing meals. Then I have to start the diet cycle all over again.

So, I’ve been thinking. Maybe it’s not worth all the trouble. Perhaps I should re-think the whole weight thing. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll think about it some more.

Right after dessert…

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