Hurry Up and Weight

…

I recently enjoyed an uncertain moment on the old bathroom scales. I stepped up and read the results. My weight was down another couple of pounds. Hm. I have watched my diet carefully (sort of) over the past couple of years and returned to what I consider “fighting trim.”

Having achieved my goal, I saw no reason to deny myself the occasional quart of ice cream; bar-b-que sandwiches; cookies and milk; smoked spare ribs; fried chicken; cheeseburgers with fries; beer with extra carbs, spicy Mexican foods of any description and other spiritually desirable goodies.

The readout from the scales suggested I had a problem. I lost two more pounds bringing me significantly below my original target. I calmly analyzed the situation and after a few minutes, I concluded I had contracted some rare but horrible wasting disease. “What else could it possibly be?” I wondered aloud.

I moped about, just waiting for the Reaper for almost a week. At that point, I went to see my doctor for a regularly scheduled checkup. In the course of our conversation, I casually mentioned my weight problem. It took awhile to describe it, what with having to stop frequently to blow my nose and dry my eyes, but I got through it.

“How much to you weigh now?” he asked.

I told him, more or less.

Then he reached into a desk drawer and withdrew a little book. He thumbed through it absently and asked how tall I was.

I told him that, too.

His finger came to rest in the middle of a page. He said, “Your ideal weight is fifteen to twenty-five pounds below your current weight.” He seemed unsympathetic, too.

Nightmarish visions of shopping in the boy’s department or riding around in a wheelchair without legs flooded my mind.

“There is no way that’s going to happen.” I said firmly.

He offered no further advice. Go figure.

I sulked most of the way home. As I drove, I recalled I would attend a joint birthday celebration for my daughter and daughter-in-law. This would be a very big deal. First, we would meet at our favorite Mexican food restaurant for a large feast. Then, the assembled multitude would adjourn to my place for cake, ice cream and presents. That is exactly what we did.

With my life being uncertain, I loaded up on cheese enchiladas, rice, beans and tacos. Once home, I gobbled a large piece of cake. It was not as large as I would have liked, but I did not want to explode during the party like that character in that Monty Python movie.

Eventually, everyone went home. The only remaining trace of the party was four pounds of cake. I popped it in the fridge and in a few hours, I began hearing the delicious dish calling me.

“What the heck. I am fighting for my life. Let’s see a disease waste this!” I went into the kitchen and carved a meal-sized piece. For the next few days, I ate hearty and made regular visits to the birthday cake.

Finally, the cake disappeared. I resolved to weigh myself to see how I fared against the mysterious ailment.

I climbed onto the scale. “Arrgggggh! I’ve gained 5 pounds in three days!”

Apparently, birthday cake is an effective cure for unexplained weight loss disease or UWLD, as I call it. I may publish my findings in a scientific medical journal,

The cake is gone now and I have returned to my small diet. I only hope I can shed my gains before the next birthday party rolls around.