I just got back from the doctor’s office, and it wasn’t good news.
Of course, in the grand scheme of world events, it was great news. I’m not dying. I don’t have any kind of illness. I don’t have to be stuck, probed or bedridden. I’m a lucky guy in that regard.
The only thing wrong with me is I’m fat.
The doctor wants me to lose 10 pounds in 6 months. I realize that’s a small thing, but you have to realize, I’ve spent my life trying to save things. I’m a hoarder. And I’m an eater.
I can eat my weight in donuts and still run around the block — maybe around a wooden block; certainly not around a city block.
I have to go on a low-fat diet and I have to exercise. Exercising is hard. Low fat diet? I need sugar. I need grease. I need salt. Why don’t you just rip out my fingernails? It would be less painful.
I called my wife, who has worked as a nutritionist. She was at the grocery store getting ready to buy pork chops for dinner. She had planned to make gravy with them. Mmmmm. Gra-a-a-a-vy.
She said, “I guess I’ll put these back. Cottage cheese and fruit tonight.”
There is a bowl of apples on our dining room table that are turning black. Fruit gets eaten in our house like snow melts in Alaska. Ice cream, on the other hand, disappears like 10-cent drafts.
There are two exercise gyms within three blocks of my house. I figure after six months of steady exercise, I may be able to jog to one of them.
You know, exercise gyms cost money. Food costs money. Why is it such an easier decision to buy the food than it is to buy the exercise?
And you can even exercise for free. As foreign as that sounds to me, I could do push ups and sit ups without any special equipment and without any membership fees.
But then there’s that nasty business called “sweating.”
And I just bought bigger pants. I can’t just abandon them.
I’m going to have to think about all of this. And nothing helps me think like a fresh, fluffy donut.