| Sunny Side Up March 17, 2004 �2004, Kathleen Gibson Banishing the lard buckets Once upon a time, not terribly long ago, forty pounds of fat crept from their lairs in my donuts and chips and second helpings and surreptitiously pasted themselves around my being. The mirror, conspiring with the camera lens, reported them. Lady, they said, you've been assaulted by four ten-pound buckets of lard. We've spied them lurking behind you and jiggling in places no decent calorie should jiggle. The needle on the bathroom scale wobbled in agreement. It happened to be my thirty-eighth birthday. And I gave those lard buckets their notice. Be gone, I demanded. You have two years to clear out. And felt much lighter for saying that aloud. I have a goal, I broadcast all that year. To lose forty pounds before I turn forty. I felt lighter with each declaration. Light enough to indulge in a little anticipatory celebrating. Caloric-ly speaking. On my thirty-ninth birthday I reported to the bathroom scale. Scale, I said. I've done the math. We're half-way to forty, which means two lard-buckets have been evicted. I stepped on to verify. The needle wobbled and dolefully reported that a fifth ten-pound bucket of lard had joined the rest. They're partying somewhere out back, it said. The mirror and camera stayed shrouded, mute. Mortifed. Self, I said, you need to call for backup. My first call was to 463-4357. GOD-HELP. I need a little help, sir, said I. You made me, and I'm ruining me. The warranty doesn't cover abuse, he said. Besides, I've been trying. But lard needs a hands-on approach. More than your mouth needs exercise, if you know what I mean. But I'm here for you. He walked me and my size nines down to the local TOPS meeting. Help, I huffed. A lard factory has set up shop on my personal property, and has recently increased production dramatically. I need reinforcements. And so it happened that I learned one of the most significant lessons of my life. A goal doesn't get met by talking about it alone. A plan doesn't work unless you work it. And lard-buckets don't melt unless you crank up the heat. They protested. We like it back here. We feel at home back here. There's lots of room back here. But I was having none of it. God and TOPS and I-we were merciless. Stern. Disciplined. We fought well-intentioned friends and relatives. We battled tears and late-night cravings and haunting calls for second helpings. We called each other regularly. We educated ourselves on healthy nutrition. We bought a skipping rope-and used it. Ten months later the mirror smiled, the camera lens clicked, and the needle on the scale nodded agreeably. Two months before my fortieth birthday, and the lard-buckets were nowhere in sight. God and TOPS and I celebrated. Non-caloric-ly. That was over seven years ago. The other day I discovered one lard-bucket, camouflaged as insulation, squatting out back. God and I have begun evicting it. If necessary, we're calling in TOPS. You can respond to this column at [email protected] |
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