There are times when my wife accuses me of doing, saying — or even plotting — things that are so far above my abilities it is hilarious.
“I’m not that smart,” I tell her. “Don’t give me so much credit.”
I realize she can’t help holding me in such "esteem," so I accept it. Remember, she considers herself the luckiest woman on the face of the earth. (At least that’s what I tell her.)
Anyway, I feel like I am answering one of those types of questions from her today. Somehow I have lost six pounds. Don’t know where it went, don’t know how it got there, but it — or “they,” as in pounds — are gone.
I’m sure they’ll be back someday, and that’s why I never really say I have “lost” weight. I prefer to look at those pounds as simply being on hiatus.
I LIKE TO EAT
If you have been a follower of my plight in this blog, I have been making a serious effort (snicker, snicker) to drop a few pounds before I put on my Speedo for the summer months.
My problem, though, is like to eat — a lot. And I like to eat a lot of things at places like Daylight Doughnuts, Pizza Hut, Gem City Pizzeria, Deters Frozen Custard … you get the picture. And I’m not ashamed of that.
And I don’t try and rationalize my dietary attitude. It is what it is. My favorite place at work is Snackland, a rather impressive array of vending machines near the break room here at The Herald-Whig.
When I was a sports writer in my first life, I would mentally grade sporting events I covered by their concession stands. Fellow scribes would talk about the touchdown pass in Jacksonville, the jumper at the buzzer in Springfield or the home run in Collinsville.
Me? I filed things away like the butterfly pork chops in Mendon, the venison in Pleasant Hill and the “nacho mess” at North Shelby. (By the way, for the life of me, I will never forget that venison stand at the Pleasant Hill football game, circa 1999 on a cold, rainy Saturday night.)
PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE
I am convinced this weight loss has not been a sudden thing. I’m guessing it’s been about a pound a week for about six weeks. That’s about how long ago I gave up — for the most part — drinking regular pop, or “soda” as he natives here like to say.
Instead, I have been drinking diet pop — err, soda — for the exception of an occasional Classic Coke on the rocks. Classic Coke is one of the top 10 pleasures in life, and I’m sorry, but I can’t go completely cold turkey with this thing.
The diet soda has been about my only real concession to a “diet,” other than cutting back on some evening snacks and noon desserts.
You can’t rush into these kind of things.
I figure at my current rate of roughly a pound a week, I should be at the weight prescribed my fitness charts in the year 2099.
(To be continued)