About two months ago it was determined that my darling Perpetual (life partner/fiance/other half/ball & chain/you decide) had high blood sugar. This revelation set a course for a new “lifestyle” and I’m here to tell you about it.
First of all, I’m not fond of this whole “it’s not a diet, it’s a LIFESTYLE change,” malarkey. I just feel that it’s one of those overly used cliches that everyone spouts off when a “diet” is mentioned.
Second of all, well, there really isn’t a second of all but it generally follows “first of all,” so I thought I’d throw it in for good measure and for continuity purposes. (You know I’m a stickler for continuity and for staying focused on ONE topic, right? OK, that was sarcasm for those whose “S Meters” have run dry.)
I leaped into action, much in the manner of the FTD Man, and switched us over to a low to NO carbohydrate situation (this is better than the word diet or lifestyle).
Do you remember that FTD Man? He’d soar across various pages in magazines and on the television screen with the grace of a ballet dancer, as he delivered flowers. I just love that little guy—yes, this is a digression.
I had become rather “bloated” in my tummy too so this whole switch was clearly beneficial for both of us. I just didn’t realize how P would become rather competitive about it; I also didn’t think that he’d become obsessed with it, in a major way.
In terms of my weight gain, I shall illustrate with a story of how I had to call in a team of experts to assist me with maneuvering into a pair of pants for Austin’s (“stepson” who died in April) calling hours.
Years ago when a friend of mine was having her first baby, Mother gave her advice on how to continue to wear her regular clothing as her tummy expanded. She was one of those gals who remained super thin everywhere and simply got large in her stomach region. You know, the kind most of us “regular women” nickname the “B Word.” I, like many of you, did NOT simply carry in the trunk region but expanded in every other imaginable, and some unimaginable, areas when I was pregnant with “The Child.”
Moving along, Mother told Thin Pregnant Woman to use a rubber band around the loop part of her jeans and then kind of put it around the button. Not sure if you can follow this description or not but I think you get the idea. In other words, it would be like leaving your pants undone but removing the possibility of them falling off.
THAT was the method that I had to use in order to wedge myself into the “mourning pants” for that horrid occasion. Ever since I turned fifty (I’m now 55), the fat has congregated mainly in the stomach area, which resulted in my being shaped basically like a bird. The legs were still OK, my arms have always been “wing-like” or “flappy” and then the stomach was big and round. Yes, I had become a robin or a blue jay or a vulture. So, it was clearly time to take off a few—if “a few” is now defined as about 25. (More on this later.)
Perpetual started to drop the weight immediately due to the fact that he works outside in this heat and moves about like a monkey on some sort of speed whilst doing so. I’ve really never seen anything like it. What he lacks in height, he more than makes up for in acrobatic capabilities.
I, on the other hand, was not budging too much for a few WEEKS really, even though I had eliminated all sorts of “bad things” from the refrigerator and cupboards. This was getting depressing but I did not give up. The whole saga was especially maddening when P would come home and gleefully point out how he had to drill more holes in his belt or he’d brag wildly about how the “weight just keeps falling off me now—I’m getting worried I’m losing TOO much weight.” Oh spare me P.
I had to start cooking more than I’d ever imagined, which is not my favorite pastime, by the by. I’m a good cook, according to most who have partaken in my offerings, but I’m just not into it, PERIOD. Also, I noticed that when I’d serve P his dinner, I’d blurt out a number as I gently, yet effectively, placed his plate in front of him. “15!” (Plunk, plate arrives on table). This was to indicate the number of carbohydrates in said helping of dinner.
He, on the other hand, would message me daily with things like, “159,” meaning he had lost about 5 pounds. It has now turned into “148,” for him, just to be clear.
I FINALLY started to see results but I’m telling you, it was a good two to three weeks before it happened. At that point the weight began to hesitantly remove itself from my pudgy frame, in a fairly casual manner. I can now report safely that I have lost around 20 pounds and am close to my goal.
I shall now return you to the “mourning pants” portion of this blather. The other week I attended calling hours for a classmate named Kevin Davis. What a shame that whole thing was but I’m not going to go on about it here so stop clutching pearls.
I seized those pants from the closet and put them on without undoing them at all. They slip down my body as I walk as well. YES! Finally I’m seeing results after suffering miserably for two months. Of course Perpetual will be ordering brand new painting pants as he’s gone down a gazillion inches or some such. He simply MUST outdo me with this jazz. I will probably always weigh more than he because I’m TWO inches TALLER—How’s that, Perpetual? (He never reads this so I’m safe until one of his friends points him in this direction, of course.)
Well, I think that does it for the week. I’m sure I have to rustle up some sustenance, which means shopping ONLY on the perimeter of the market. Yes, even that dumb cliché is really true.
THE END (Interstate Crosscheck, “War is a Racket” by General Smedley Butler, checktheevidence.com)
P.S. - The “mourning pants” aren’t actually pants, necessarily. They are kind of like culottes or long shorts (below the knee and black) but they flare kind of like a skirt?? I have no clue but they fit now.