If you are like me, ladies, you hate to throw away several pair of jeans that no longer fit. Most women I know get stubborn about these things. Ladies want to believe that they are going to wake up next Tuesday and go on a serious diet. This time, they will not fail. This time, they will find the inner strength to eat rice cakes for every meal for the next nine years.
They dream at night of dieting success. They imagine themselves walking down a model’s runway in front of flashing cameras and wide-eyed celebrities watching every step they take.
In the dream, their bodies are thin, but not too thin. They finally are back in shape. Success! People are smiling and pointing and nodding their heads in approval.
But with the morning light comes reality. It was a dream. Nothing will take the excess pounds off except hard work. Most of us don’t want to think about that.
I’m on a treadmill several times per week hoping to see pounds and inches melt away. Fat chance. God only knows how many miles I already have racked up on that machine from hell that goes nowhere. I’m losing inches but not pounds.
My doctor tells me this is normal. It’s depressing to see the scale stay on the same number when I see my doctor. He and his staff are not worried about this. I am.
At night, I dream of warm Crispy Crème doughnuts. I was in a Crispy Creme store in the south, where customers can watch newborn doughnuts coming down a doughnut escalator. In my dream, these doughnuts are falling into a bottomless sack with my name on it.
My friend, Molly, has a dress in her closet that she wore to a party 11 years ago. She has gained a lot of weight, and it no longer fits. She adores the color of this dress and has fond memories of the men who flirted with her at that party. So, the dress will remain in her closet forever.
I’ve had three pair of jeans in a closet for many years. I can almost zip them up now. But it has taken five months on a treadmill to get to this goal.
The pounds sure pile up easily. All those delicious cakes, pies and roasts linger in my memory. The calories linger on my hips.
It’s almost 3 p.m. I should head for the gym soon and listen to the magic, moving belt on the treadmill squeak and grind. I could have prevented all of this by eating smaller portions starting in 1977. But the call of the caloric Gods was too powerful for me, and now I must suffer.
Summer is coming, and I am doomed for sure. I have promised to pace myself at family gatherings and not re-gain the weight I have lost. I hear a small voice inside me saying, “You lack willpower.” That small voice usually is right.
Gerri Hunter is a freelance writer from Mooreville, Iowa.
