Foiled Again

by Jim Freund

January 2021

It’s January once more, this time anchoring a year (2021) that has begun in tumultuous fashion, fresh on the heels of twelve months that were almost unbelievable. My focus today, however, is on nothing so earthshocking. Rather, it’s on what January stands for in so many minds, regardless of how crazy or normal the preceding year has been or the current one threatens to be.

             Let’s face it, January is, first and foremost, the month for many of us to hit or miss on landmines we’ve laid down for ourselves weeks earlier in December – our New Year’s resolutions.

             SPOILER ALERT: If you suspect (and actually desire) that this will be one of those articles where the writer boasts of how he was able to do justice to a formidable resolution and will proudly let you in on his secret, STOP READING IMMEDIATELY!

             I’m not the only writer who is revisiting this subject. The New York Times recently featured an article by Maria Cramer, who noted that “January is a bad month to change habits,” which is especially true “in the dead of January in the Northern Hemisphere, when the days are still short and even warmer regions are cold and dreary” – and, by the way, “it’s tougher this year than ever.”

            Recent headlines hold the clues to this assertion – new variants of the coronavirus pushing up the death toll, the shrinking economy, a mob attacks the U.S. Capitol. In Doctor Sarah Wakeman’s words: “This is an unprecedented time. We all need to allow ourselves a little grace.” To which social worker Asia Wong chimes in with, “The world is on fire. Why are you trying to lose 20 pounds?” And so, says Ms. Cramer, “It is no surprise that late January, long the graveyard of New Year resolutions, is once again full of dead promises.”

             Anyway, I’m not going to dwell on this general subject of resolutions, as to which so much has been written, nor even on the pandemic as a ready excuse for failure. My focus will be on the single resolution I’ve revived each December in recent memory with which to burden the ensuing January – the resolution to lose 15 pounds through dieting.

             There are, I’m sure, other ways to lose weight than through a diet, of which exercise is the one most often mentioned. Look, this may be a fine idea for a marathon runner or daily lap swimmer, but it’s not for me. I exercise regularly, but don’t push myself in a way that would translate to shedding pounds. And at this stage of my life, I know that’s not going to change – so it’s diet or nothing.

             During close to a quarter-century of retirement, one of my real pleasures has been food. I like almost every variety, often in copious quantities. New York restaurants are splendid – even the modest ones in our neighborhood. My wife Barbara cooks a variety of interesting meals when we’re in CT, displaying the same talent in the kitchen as elsewhere. Our housekeeper is also a fine cook, and the East Side takeout is delectable.

            If I were relegated to eating institutional food (such as we had at school or in the Navy), I’m sure I could take off some weight through an absence of temptation. With the tasty morsels that nowadays find their way to my plate, however, how can I send half of it back to the kitchen uneaten? (I know, I know, you can take the other half home in a doggy bag – but the delayed gratification of day-old pasta just doesn’t compare to the initial surge.)

             It’s not that I’m ignorant of what I should be eating, and I don’t gorge myself with sweets and such. But I seem to lack the necessary willpower to pass up tempting slices of Italian bread, reduce consumption of wine, eat smaller portions of meat – those kinds of temptations. I am in the thrall of an “I’m entitled” attitude that became magnified once I passed 80 – namely, at this advanced age, why should I deprive myself?  I find I’m frequently giving myself “a treat” for finishing a project or starting a new one or celebrating some event. Many of the resultant treats find their way into my mouth, from whence they journey south.

             Most of the things in life I’ve wanted to accomplish I’ve been able to do. But what has so far proved too formidable to conquer is losing 15 pounds, the bulk of which is presently located in the familiar rubber tire locale.

            I make all the usual pep talks to myself – thinner is healthier, I’ll look better, be more agile on the tennis court. Those old trousers banished to the rear of the closet will once again fit. But when I’m sitting in a first-class Italian restaurant, waiting impatiently for the appetizer to be served, that basket of fresh bread is simply irresistible.

             I realize what I need to do – persuade myself of the tremendous sense of accomplishment I’d feel having shed the weight and kept it off. So far, this hasn’t happened, and 86 seems a tough age to succeed in substituting deprivation for rewards.

             As it became increasingly clear over the years that I would never be able to handle this by myself, my shapely wife has gotten more and more involved. When her own badgering didn’t do the trick, she proceeded to hook me up with a variety of dieticians.

             The first was a middle-aged woman who took a strict taskmaster approach. Not only did I have to adhere to a strict meal-by-meal diet of not-quite-satisfying foods and miniscule portions, but I had to write everything down that I’d eaten or imbibed at each meal each and in-between-meals sessions. Periodically, the written pages were turned over to her for a close examination in a one-on-one conference, at which I was quizzed in what seemed a cynical tone. I finally rebelled one day after enduring a withering lecture for having eaten a pear instead of the prescribed apple. I bolted from the session, and within days, any weight I’d managed to shed was back in its place.

             I thought that this unpleasant affair might end such meddling, but then for one of my birthdays several years ago, Barbara’s gift was to underwrite my first (expensive) visit to a prominent diet doctor. (This reminded me of the proverbial husband-to-wife anniversary gift of a vacuum cleaner.) Although I bowed to her edict, went to see this guru regularly, and tried to follow his regimen, any advances I made were invariably followed by setbacks.

             The guru was big on prescribing pills of various kinds to improve certain bodily functions, which presumably would lead to good health and accompanying weight loss. He then performed an electronic test each time I came in, which revealed (he said) how much better I was doing. I bought the pills through his office, although it never dawned on me that he might have been profiting from this in addition the healthy fee he charged for each visit.

             During this extended period, I had an annual check-up with my regular doctor. For this visit, I prepared a list of the many pills the guru had me taking, in order to get the doctor’s view of their efficacy or harm. He perused the entire list, before reacting with two scornful words I’ll never forget: “Chicken soup!”

             P.S. I’ve stopped seeing that guru, but I had somehow become attached to the pills – attributing good health efficacy (if not weight loss) to them. After discovering that they could be purchased inexpensively online, I took the bait – and now, years later, I’m still washing them down in lieu of chicken soup (with no apparent effect at all on my weight).

             While on these various diets, I used to periodically check my poundage on a home scale to see how I was doing. Invariably, I did this in the nude following a shower, so as to achieve the lightest possible result.

             But here was the problem – I was asked to weigh myself when I came to the guru’s office. No good – I had on all my clothes, heavy shoes, and lots of stuff in my pockets – how could I back up my claim as to having lost four pounds in the last fortnight? Even after kicking off my shoes, unloading my heavy wallet and other pocket trinkets, I was still pounds above the naked weight. My comments as to this disparity were invariably met with cynical looks.

             At one point, Barbara’s sister Marjorie, who was also in search of a workable  diet, happened upon something that, although seemingly quiet bizarre, we agreed to give a mutual tryout.

             There may or may not have been other aspects attached to this diet – I can’t recall – but the only imperative Marjorie and I remember was its main tenet: namely, you had to complete your entire meal in less than an hour. Now, that might seem simple to some, but in good New York City restaurants – from the cocktails to the desserts and everything in between, and with unpressured service, a meal often went on for an hour and a half.

             So picture Marjorie and me at a notable restaurant with our spouses and others. We pass up the tasty bread placed on the table; we refuse to take even a sip of our cocktails and wine while others are drinking steadily; we wait patiently until the appetizer is finally served – and then we wolf everything down and gulp the booze furiously for the next 59 minutes, regularly consulting our watches. As the hour come to an end, we swallow the last bite of apple pie, breath a big sigh and give each other a ceremonious fist bump for just “making it” within the time limit. Everyone else at the table looks at us like we’re crazy, but we are damn proud of our accomplishment . . . .

             Sadly, however, after a few months into this, we saw no thinning results. With real sorrow, I resigned myself to chewing the early bread, imbibing the pre-meal wine, eating slower, and discarding the many packs of Tums and Rolaids I’d acquired to take me through this tough endeavor.

             Then Barbara – who had been skeptical of the one-hour-diet – came up with a neat follow-up idea. She retained another guru for me, except that this one happened to be an extremely attractive young woman.
            It was a brilliant notion. I checked in with the statuesque guru in person on a regular basis, awash in her beauty, only dimly taking in the cliché-ridden advice she was offering (along with some pleasant surprises such as “fat is good for you”). I even tried to fix her up with my son, but it didn’t take. This went on for many months – completely satisfying to me, but not so fulfilling for my belly, which ended up adding a few pounds during the stretch.

             In fairness to this fair maiden. I admit to taking some liberties with the advice she offered. For instance, when she recommended an occasional hamburger patty for lunch, I remember asking her what size the patty should be. In response, she made a dainty fist with her hand as a measuring device. I took her literally, but substituted my own meaty hand for hers, giving me about twice the meat that had been recommended.

             My confession of diet failure here wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t include some of the rationalizations I’ve used to countervail the discipline needed to make a diet successful. For instance, how about this one: If I suddenly succeeded in taking off a noticeable amount of weight, my wife would probably get suspicious that I was doing it to make myself more attractive to some other woman who was waiting in the wings . . . .

             Or try this: Sometimes when I meet a friend who I haven’t seen for a while, and he looks a lot thinner than I remember him being, my first thought is that he has probably been battling some devastating illness; and I didn’t want people placing me in that category.

             As for the pants I’m currently wearing (and like a lot), they would be constantly sliding off my hips – I’d need dreaded suspenders to hold them up . . . .

             And here’s the daddy of them all. Sure, I know what I have to do to lose some significant pounds, and with a little discipline I could probably manage it in the short run. But to keep those pounds from coming back, I’d have to live that way the rest of my life – and who wants that? So why push myself to do something that won’t have any long-range benefit . . . .

             For a long time now, without any particular diet or binge-eating, my weight has stayed roughly the same. The rubber tire is still there, but it’s neither increasing or decreasing. So, I tell myself, this is where the good lord meant me to be,  and I don’t have to fool around with artificial food choices and amounts.

             I gave up cigarettes many years ago when I learned what damage they could do. I stopped skiing a few years ago (and also riding on my motor scooter) when I assayed the risk of a bad fall. I know how to restrict myself; and if a doctor told me “lose 15 pounds” or you’ll be dead in a year,” I’d lose them. But no one has said that, and I’m really enjoying octogenarian eating. So – for the nth consecutive year – my New Year’s resolution is about to go pfft!