You have to be patient—and determined—but in time, if you do as I did, you’ll see a lot of those pounds miraculously peel off.
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I remember when the thought finally sank in. I was heading off to do errands, one morning, when I passed a food cart parked near my corner. Displayed behind glass were greasy, cream-filled doughnuts that I couldn’t resist. I’d had breakfast, of course, but this would be, well, just a late-morning snack. I pointed to one fat specimen, paid my dollar and indulged my appetite, then moments later was struck with the worst bout of indigestion I’ve ever endured.
“I’m too old for this,” I told myself, aware that my innards had simply rebelled. I knew right then that my eating habits would somehow have to change.
Months earlier, the doctor who’d been treating the gradual deterioration of my left-knee joint had begun urging me to consider losing weight. On his office scale—which for some reason I’d never trusted—I weighed in at 219 pounds. For a man who was once six feet tall, that may not have been truly critical, but it certainly was telling.
“Here’s what you do,” my doctor said, at the end of one of my scheduled visits. “Go to a hardware store and get yourself an ‘S’ hook—know what that is?” Of course I did.
“Right. Then go to your supermarket and buy a five-pound sack of potatoes—got that? Hang the hook on your belt and the sack on the hook. Walk around with that load for at least an hour.” Then what?
“When you take that five-pound sack off the hook and start walking around again, you’ll know how your knee would feel if you could shed just five pounds of body weight.” I laughed—it was a joke, right? Not really. My doctor was not known traditionally as a comic. And I realized, of course, that what he’d just illustrated had at least some medical pertinence.
♦◊♦
Over time, I remembered the joke—more than the advice—and, yes, I somehow managed to drop a few pounds. As always, I was mainly determined to be able to button my pants. Then my wife began making noises about her own weight gain, suggesting that some of our eating habits were contributing to our bodily expansion.
At home, we never had desserts but occasionally did share one when dining out. We drank coffee without sweeteners and kept sugary sodas out of the fridge. We didn’t have a particularly rich diet. What then? Age? Maybe. . .
When my wife’s physician started nudging her toward weight loss, he insisted that daily encounters with a simple bathroom scale could ultimately help her begin scoring some success.
“Drink water, don’t snack.” I don’t recall who advised that, but it certainly has proved to be good counsel for my wife and me.
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So I bought us a new scale, one whose bright green illuminated numbers were easier than ever to read, then decided that both of us should think seriously about shedding body weight and bulk. So every morning, we each carried out a ritual that continues to this day.
Mine involves, first, voiding my bladder, stripping to the skin and mounting the scale before taking a single pill or eating a bite of breakfast. That’s not cheating—but it’s a far cry from being weighed while wearing everything but street shoes in a doctor’s exam room right after having breakfast or lunch.
We’ve also done some fine-tuning of our respective diets. For one thing, we no longer go off to get luscious ice cream cones from our neighborhood vendor—we don’t eat ice cream at all, if we can avoid it. And I no longer grab an occasional chocolate bar on my way to an afternoon appointment.
“Drink water, don’t snack.” I don’t recall who advised that, but it certainly has proved to be good counsel for my wife and me.
Years ago, we both embarked on something then called the Bloomingdale’s Diet, which had a lot of tough and, at the time, ridiculous-seeming strictures. We were on it for, like, five weeks—during which time Nancy lost very little and I miraculously shed 32 pounds. The latter proved costly, however.
As I wore suits and ties to work back then, I had to have my clothes altered twice during the weight-loss process, so that I wouldn’t appear to be swimming in them. At one point, I remember a colleague standing at my open office door shaking her head. “Don’t lose another pound,” she admonished. I knew what she meant. My thinned-out face was making me look wasted.
That diet finally ended and, you guessed it, over the next several weeks and months, the weight gradually piled on again. So did my visits to the tailor. Believe me, that was dispiriting—having to literally undue what I had done so carefully. But it was necessary. I had to be able to get into my pants!
No crash diet this time—I didn’t want to look like a surviving POW. I decided to just maintain a less extreme food regimen. My own.
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So when the subject of weight loss was reintroduced recently, I was skeptical—until I pulled my summer wardrobe out of the back of my closet and realized how difficult it had become to button some of my jeans, slacks and suit pants. I needed no more convincing.
No crash diet this time—I didn’t want to look like a surviving POW. I decided to just maintain a less extreme food regimen. My own. Which meant no more second helpings. As my wife pointed out, in a restaurant you only get what they serve you, no more. Also, no more snacking—other than fruit and, certainly, fluids. I think water is probably key. I’ve never consumed those eight recommended glasses a day, but maybe four or five.
To my surprise, I began seeing results almost immediately. I believe I weighed in at about 204 when the process began, so my confidence was bolstered when I dropped into the 90’s within a few days.
Half pound by half pound, my weight descended—until I decided that my goal should be to cut back to 180. I’d never be a lightweight; I knew that. What I wanted was to look healthy as well as fit. I also wanted that flab around my midsection to disappear or at least to shrink. Yes, I have an exercise regimen and, it certainly does include crunches, but I know that gut flab is probably the hardest body bulk to eliminate or even trim.
When I finally dipped below 190, I knew I was really on track, continuing to shed weight, ounce by ounce. I’m not fanatical; this began as an experiment, after all. That it’s been successful—and certainly more so than I’d ever hoped—has been surprising and deeply satisfying.
My wife has also shed a few pounds, enough to allow her to continue the program and also fit into a swimsuit she’d been eying at a nearby retail shop. Of course, she was never seriously overweight, and her doctor assured her that men have an easier time with weight loss than women. I don’t know why; he never explained. But I’ll take it on faith. The regimen we both embarked on has been in effect for several weeks, but, day by day, I’ve never felt less than encouraged.
Surprisingly, my clothes still fit. Yes, some items could probably use a touch or two of taking in; thus I plan to invest some tailoring money in what I hope is my permanent trimness. I’m also grateful that nobody has looked at my face and asked, “Have you been ill? Are you all right?”
How about my knee? Well, the truth is, despite what my doctor suggested, the knee still hurts when I walk up or down a flight of stairs. I don’t think weight loss has affected the pain factor. But, hey, I’m not complaining; I continue to move ahead.
Once you’re on a track as rewarding as this one, there’s just no getting off.
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Mervyn Kaufman has become an essayist and short-story writer after a long career as a writer and editor in the field of consumer magazine publishing.
Photo credit: Getty Images
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