I'm dying to lose weight. I just want to lose 30 pounds.
I would feel so good, I know it. I could get in and
out of the bathtub without grunting. I could bend over
without feeling as though these accordion folds of fat
were hanging around my midriff like a tire swing in
summer. The joy of getting up from the bed without having
to summon a crane is but a dream. I feel so fat.
My jeans are the wrong size, I'm sure, because I know
that I really must wear a size 5. I must. I forego the
Tofutti Chocolate Supreme sundae and eat a banana. I
skip past the mashed potatoes and soy sour cream and
Spectrum Spread, and eat a plain baked potato with Spike.
I eat raw veggie salads and limit the Nasoya dressing
to one tablespoon, instead of the two that equals one
serving. I watch everything on my plate like it was
an enemy invasion and do my best to disarm it before
it attacks me with nuclear fat. Aaagh. Then, as I feel
somewhat victorious over the plate, I attempt to put
on that pair of jeans again. Forget about it.
I finally take my favorite step to thinness, I get
on the bike. I love to ride ten to fifteen miles through
the state preserve and look at all the plants, flowers,
and animals. Somehow, this soothes my worried mind.
The freshness of the fall air is invigorating, and I
can pedal at 15 mph. I stop only to drink the cool water
in my bottle and to pick some wild ageratum on the roadside.
I decide to slow down and enjoy the ride home. Peace
fills my soul, and the world is alive and inviting.
There's more to this life than living and dying. This
beauteous journey is worth repeating. When I get home,
I toss the jeans into the back of the closet behind
the shoe boxes. What right do they have to control how
I feel about my world, my life, myself? Why sit around
moping? I can think of better things to do. Carpe diem.
e x t e s s a y -
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by Jo Stepaniak All rights reserved.
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