Rubber Chicken Toons

DIETING FOR DUMMIES

I’ve decided I’m too heavy. When I want to lose some unwanted weight, I will usually first try prayer. If that doesn’t work I will grudgingly turn to the choice of millions of other overweight Americans: Miracle weight loss pills.

Most of these run about $37 for a bottle of eight pills. If you look at the label, they all say something like “Guaranteed to work when used with a regular program of dieting and exercise.” Really? Call me crazy, but isn’t that like saying “Do not pass snowplow on right?” Do people really have to be told these things?

I’m not so overweight that I look like I should be floating over the Macy’s Day Parade with a string tied to my leg, but I’m about twenty pounds over what the “Ideal weight charts” say I should be. Never mind that these charts were conceived a thousand years ago by Asians whose diet consisted of small rocks once a month. Dessert consisted of a stick. (“Quit hogging stick!”)

I have a real problem believing a healthy six foot man should weigh a hundred and seventy-five pounds. Maybe a week after he has passed away in the desert.

One birthday, my metabolism simply stopped. Took a hike. Walked into the sunset. Vanished. It was replaced by a burning need to say one thing a hundred different ways.

When the doctor tells you that the only way to compensate for a missing metabolism is more exercise, it’s like waking up in a hospital bed and being told everything below your neck is gone. Your life has changed completely (but achieving your “ideal weight” is now a snap.)

Not that I mind exercise, but I’m one of those that have never even touched the knob of the door that leads to the exercise room in a hotel. I have glanced nervously through the window at the dusty equipment lots of times.

My wife and I took a cruise once. Amazingly, the exercise room on the ship had lots of people in it every day. We discovered it was members of the crew. They knew none of the guests would come in there to ask them for umbrella drinks or towels.

When your metabolism skips out the door, it usually takes your energy level with it. I’ve heard normally clear thinking adults say “I wish I had his energy” as they stare at a three year old who looks like he’s just had sugar enhanced jet fuel for lunch. Does that mean that they want to zip around the room crashing into things and then at some point fall onto the dog in a deep sleep?

To boost my morale while dieting, I’ll turn the knob on the scales back a little, but it tends to alarm my wife. (“Honey, the cat doesn’t weigh anything.”)

I once tried jogging but nobody told me you have to warm up before breaking into a run. I almost made it across our lawn before turning blue and flopping around on the ground.

We’ve bought the usual array of exercise equipment. The biggest benefit from any of it comes from carrying it into the house and setting it up. It has been educational. I know now that you can hang more clothes on a Bowflex than a Stairmaster.

I’ve had friends rave about their fad diets (“Well, I lost thirty pounds just by drinking green coffee and mowing the lawn in a parka”) and this led me to come up with my own great fad diet idea. (Come on, if a house-sized Dr. Phil can give diet advice, so can I) It involves hanging a salmon around your neck and then looking for a pack of pit bulls. Of course, it’s a special salmon that you can only buy from me.

This time I’m really serious about losing weight. Please don’t try to give me helpful advice. I already know what works. Just nod encouragingly and pass the rocks.