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Lose 40 Pounds in 80 Days

"Hold onto your hats, boys-here we go again!"

That's what I should have said to myself. There I was, all ready to start dieting again, just like I'd done three times a year ever since I first noticed that I couldn't stand up straight and still see my feet.

Dieting again, just like I'd done dozens of times before. I was an old hand at it now. I knew all the angles.

My wife said nothing. She'd seen me through several "battles of the bulge." She was an old campaigner, too, from the sidelines.

I dug out my old diet books. Brushed up on my calorie charts. Put a digest of what to eat and what not to eat - my Feeder's Digest in my vest pocket, and I was on my merry way.

I never bothered with seeing a doctor or a diet expert. I already had all the answers, so why spend money to have someone else repeat them to me? I was a diet expert myself.

I passed up all the candy vending machines. Whenever a billygoat waggled his whiskers at me from a bock beer sign, I looked the other way.

As usual, too, I proceeded to upset all the wife's cooking plans. I started horning in around the kitchen, giving orders to Lou, the cook. "Boil the eggs. No fat bacon - make it crisp. Plenty of fruits. No bread, no pies, no cake! Keep me out of the frying pan!"

They both got a pained expression on their faces when I started quoting wise sayings from Poor Elmer's Almanac:

A boiled dinner
Will make you thinner,
But run and hide
From one that's fried.

Less on the fork and less on the plate,
That's the secret for losing weight.

Yes, sir, old Elmer's fat was going to start melting away, like snow in a spring thaw!


I BRAG TO MY FRIENDS

There's one group of people that always hates to see a fat boy diet. That's his fat friends.

When they saw me coming now, they knew I was going to bend their ears with remarks such as, "I'm on a diet, Pete - better trim off some of that lard yourself!"

Or, just as the waitress would put Bill's second slab of apple pie in front of him, I'd come out with some helpful information.

"Do you know that diabetes is the fat boy's occupational disease?" I'd ask him, and scare him out of picking up his fork again.

When the fat boys were gathered around their luncheon menus, out would come my calorie chart and they'd find they had a before-dinner speaker in their midst, though not by popular request.

"Sandwiches, 300 calories; milk, 160 calories; pies, 350 calories; beer 200 per bottle," I would read.

Their chubby faces would fall guiltily, and somebody would mutter something about "wet blanket," but I would only laugh with glee. Let a fat boy start dieting, and he becomes a regular calorie devil. He uses a calorie chart on his friends the way Satan uses his pitchfork.

He's a trial to waiters, too.

"Nothing broiled or boiled on the menu today?" he cracks. "Why all this fried stuff? What is this, a restaurant or a gallstone factory? Is the medical association paying you a retainer?"

Yes, sir, a fat boy like me on a diet can be a world problem. I even laid off Joe's spaghetti. Wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot fork.

Just lamb chops and pineapple was all I'd eat, until the wife screamed, "Aren't there other things that take off weight besides lamb chops and pineapple?"

"Do you know that two-thirds of a cup of diced pineapple is only 50 calories?" I countered, but she just looked disgusted.

She was beginning to hate Hawaii!

However, I merely sat back and looked wise. I was on a strict reducing diet. I knew what I was doing.



Next: I Start Exercising to Lose Weight

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