I’ve finally made it down to my recommended BMI weight. It was only five pounds under the point when people started asking, “How long do you have to live?”
Number one: When you’re trying to lose weight, you’re going to get hungry.
Number Two: Nobody ever died from being hungry.”
I know you’re saying,” Hey Broccoli Brain, what about all those people in Somalia and Ethiopia? They died from being hungry”—and you’re saying it in that smug nasal way that drives everyone up the wall.
Sorry Big Mac Breath, those people died from not eating. A doctor has never looked down at a three hundred pound corpse laying on a gurney and said, “If only he’d had some more pizza, he’d still be alive today.”
Hunger is a symptom, like pain, not a condition. Nobody dies from pain. They die from what’s causing the pain. The pain just makes you wish you were dead—like hunger.
(Let me make it clear, I am not suggesting anyone lose weight. The only negative comment I have ever had on this blog was when I did a post on weight loss. Somebody thought I was making fun of fat people. I am not. My mother was a big woman most of her life until she reached stage four breast cancer. Her weight dropped to under a hundred pounds, and I wished with all my heart that big roly-poly woman I had grown up with would return.)
I believe people should weigh whatever weight they can stay at comfortably. It’s no fun fighting to lose weight. I have a friend, Lucky. His body wants to weigh two thirty, and he wants to weigh two hundred. They are constantly feuding, and his body always wins. Twice a year Lucky will go on a diet for a couple months.
When he hits two hundred five or so, he’ll say, “I can’t wait until I get off this diet so I can start eating again.”
?????? Why did you lose the weight if you’re going to just put it on again? Accept that you’re going to weigh two thirty and you and your body can be friends and go out for ice cream.
I know another guy who is BFF with his body. He never diets. He says he did it once, lost ten pounds in a month and put it back on in less than a week. There is no willpower in him, and he loves to eat. The way he eats is an art form. There is a ritual to the way he eats. He will arrange the food on his plate so everything is in the perfect place on his plate with nothing touching. Then he’ll put on salt and pepper and whatever condiments he needs, arranging them with all the patience, precision and artistry Da Vinci used on the Mona Lisa. When he has his masterpiece arranged just right, he’ll load his fork and slowly ease it into his mouth, savoring it, rolling it on his tongue so each of his taste buds gets to share in the orgy.
That wouldn’t work for me. I’m a fast eater. I always have been. Normally I’m done eating, have the table cleared off and I’m downstairs watching TV before my wife finishes her salad. I grew up in a big, poor family. Meals were not an all-you-can-eat buffet. We’d heard rumors of something called leftovers, but we thought it was a mythical creature that didn’t really exist, like unicorns or honest politicians. At our house if you wanted seconds of gruel, rat casserole or road-kill surprise, you had to beat everyone done with firsts. Usually I got the seconds because I’ve always been good at eating and peeing—now that I’m old, it’s just eating.
I’m not sure how long I’ll stay down here at my perfect BMI. I just wanted to see if I could get there. Now that I have, I’m not sure what’s next. As good as I am at losing weight, I’m just as bad at keeping it off. So be whatever weight you want to be. And let me say again for all you people getting ready to send me irate comments, I am NOT making fun of fat people.