4. Diet, the four letter word

Diet really is a four letter word, literally.  It also belongs on the list that the late and great George Carlin created.  "Words that can't be said on television."  I have been on every diet that has ever hit the book store.  The one that has always (notice the use of the word ALWAYS, indicating again and again) worked is the one where you are Watching your Weight.  They tell me I can't use the name because it is copyrighted.  Anyway, you go to meetings and they weigh you in and clap for you when you lose a pound or two.  I have to be accountable to someone.  Sad, but true.  It helps if I have to pay for the privilege.  That is also sad, but true.

 It all started about six months ago.  I decided AGAIN that something had to be done. My motivation came from a visit to the doctor's office for our annual physicals.  We were greeted by our darling, sweet doctor who put on his angry eyebrows to inform us that our latest blood tests showed us inching up to the "almost need to treat" section of the chart.  Our shoulders slumped and we shuffled out of the office to face a world without brownies and butter and Thrifty's ice cream and...and...and...Woe is us, woe is us.

I'm a dessert freak, too.  I can be good all day on any old diet plan, but when the clock strikes eight, something takes over me.  It's like an out of body experience.  Transfixed and single-mindedly I try to sneak into the kitchen.  With the cunning and stealth of a fox headed for the hen house, I make it to the fridge.  Then I feel a nudge on my leg, it's Maggie, our cocker.  Then I hear a melodious voice from the livingr oom, "What'cha doin', Sharon?"  Caught, ratted on by our puppy.  She has bounded off Bob's lap, certain she is

missing something good in the kitchen.  Rat fink!

So, that's when it began again.  The long, long, long journey  to weight loss.  How on earth were we going to do this and not cry ourselves to sleep at night?  Well, me anyway, Bob just pretends nothing has happened.  I try to analyze everything.  "Why do I eat like that, when am I really hungry, am I bored, what makes me eat, am I depressed?"  The questions swirl around in my brain like dry leaves on a fall wind.  I write down my answers to all these powerful questions, pondering each one with care.  Finally, I ask Bob the same questions, trying to get him to come to grips with his reasons for overeating.

"Sweetie, are you depressed?"
"No."
"When do you think about eating?"
"Only when I'm awake."
"Come on, why do you overeat?"
"Because it tastes sooooo good!"

My man isn't very complicated.  Annoying sometimes, but uncomplicated.  He truly doesn't care.  He calls it the "Contented Cow Syndrome."  He will, however, eat pretty much anything I fix.  But it is up to me to fill his

plate and put only the extra vegetables on the table for seconds.  I also know that if I'm going to make... let's see...vegetarian lasagna, I have to re-name it...say...layered cheese and vegetable noodle bake.  He hears lasagna  and dreams of my recipe with ten pounds of assorted cheeses and meat, etc, etc, and vegetarian lasagna is a huge disappointment to him.  Brain tricks, that's the secret at our house.

We've been married forty-eight years.  I let him think he's in charge, the king in his castle.   But, deep down he knows if I buy 1% milk, he'll drink it.