The Weighting Game

My friend Jim is on a diet.

And not that I am bitter, but it's working. It's working to the point that I have threatened him with my leather punch. As in, "I swear to God if you don't get smaller pants I'm going to put another hole in that damn belt of yours!" Because he is constantly pulling up his pants at work. I mean constantly. Like if you just met him for the first time, you'd think it was some kind of tic for which he'd forgotten his medication. Which means that all day at work I am reminded of the fact that Jim has already lost more weight in two weeks than I have been trying to lose for 5 months.

Part of what bothers me about this is that I know how to lose weight. I've done it before--beer weight after college, baby weight after Lucas. I'm smart about fitness. I know what to eat/lift/run/you-name-it to get back in the game. But this time, for whatever reason, I just haven't been doing it. A conscientious objector, if you will. And I was starting to get comfortable at my new weight until this whole Fat Blast incident arose.

As I understand it, the whole thing was his wife Tracy's idea, and Jim is admirably playing the role of supportive husband. They've had such success that after a couple of weeks, I ask Ron if he'd want to do the Fat Blast Diet with me. "Sure," he says, "I'm feeling pretty flabby lately."
So the next day at work, I glance through the introductory phase of the program. Long story short, for the first 9 days it basically allows you to only eat fruits & vegetables. Sounds brutal to me, but if Jim "Beer & Artificial Fruit Snacks" Kaucher can do it, I'll be damned if it won't work for me. I deliver the diet information to Ron that night at dinner.
"It's supposed to be for the first 9 days," I say, "But I was thinking we could just do that part for like 3 days or something & then start phasing in the next foods."
Ron shakes his head and cuts into his steak. "No," he says, gesturing in my direction with the newly skewered meat, "If we're gonna do it, we're gonna do it. No half-assed crap."
Hmm. I'm thinking. This means no orange mocha frapps at work. No finishing the toddler's food. No cheese. No waffles. No thing. Period. I panic a little. Punt! "I'm not sure I can commit to 9 days," I say, "Let me think about it."

And a few weeks later I am still thinking about it.
Finally, last night, Ron & I visited the diet issue again. At this point, Team Lee seems to be on the same page regarding weight and fitness goals. Our shared plan going forward is--simply put--that we will not get any worse over the course of the next year. Is that a little sad? If we can just not completely go to shit, we reason, there will be plenty of time to deal with the issue next summer. Ron will be done with his MBA in May. The boys will be older. We will have more time to master concepts like "fruit" and "exercise." In the meantime, we will maintain. Main. Tain.

As I typed that last part, the phone rang. It was Ron, on his way home from Glenwood with the boys. He's going to drive-thru McDonald's to get a McFlurry for himself, and do I want one?
Yes indeed, I say. Make mine a double.