Waisting Away

by worninshoes

I have a closet full of clothes and no use for them. It’s not so much that the suits, sport coats and slacks – I’ve always cringed at the concept of “slax” as a word – are retired now as a required wardrobe having left the sales life behind me, it’s that none of them fit. Except for the belts: I bought a leather punch and added two or three holes ahead of all the buckles.

I used to believe that summer sports jackets, trousers and suits, when left in a closet over winter, shrank by some strange unknown order of the universe. It happened every year, and the winter garments also got smaller in the closet over summer to a slightly lesser extent. Blue jeans were a real problem.

When I went to the gold fields of California in ’98-99 I still had a 32-inch waist. When I returned, those britches – as my slim waistline – were still that youthful size. The denim was stained red with the mountainside, the knees were worn through, but within a year the manufacturer of new ones had evidently changed its standards of dimension because I had to buy 33-inch waist replacements. Then 34, then 35, and belts consistent with the growth of a gaining protuberance. My first pair of 36-inch waist jeans required suspenders – there just was no butt below the belt to hold up the pants.

I found that a decent set of suspenders is not an easy thing to track down. It’s the springy snap things – they don’t hold up, functionally, with repeated use and when they fail they don’t hold up, literally, which can be embarrassing when, for instance, you’re mowing the lawn and one strap lets go. Horns honk when that happens.

When the doctor’s scales tipped over 185 the alarm went off. My lungs were already failing, so she suggested we might want to focus on my heart as the weakest link in the struggle to survive. I hadn’t thought of that until she brought it up. Then I realized my feet had disappeared from view and I couldn’t bring my knees to my chest enough to tie my shoes. Motivation takes odd forms.

I didn’t go on a diet. I’ve heard about hundreds of those, all with fancy names, and nobody seems to lose weight by “going on a diet.” But I did change what, and how much, I eat.

First thing, I stopped my daily run to the Quality Milk, Bread and Bakery store. No more donuts. I lost five pounds in four weeks. I didn’t give up cookies or ice cream, just moderated the intake. You don’t have to go overboard to keep the boat afloat.

Next – and this is the principal reason McDonald’s profits have plunged – I stopped all consumption of fast foods, French fries, fountain drinks, shortening and public television. Red meat all but vanished from my menu save a beef patty or steak or pork pot roast with carrots and parsnips a couple times a month. Parsnips are tastier than potatoes, anyway.

Food staples became fruits, berries, seeds and nuts instead of meat, potatoes and gravy. I was afraid I might morph into a vampire bat, but I didn’t.

Chocolate, being one of the seven basic food groups necessary to a healthy lifestyle and a balanced mind, remains a cornerstone. If you haven’t tried radishes and strawberries with a side of Nestle bar you might be surprised. I learned to listen to my stomach growling as a sign of thanks and just added water. No more of that high fructose corn sweetener, but cane sugar and nicotine remain indispensable, if not essential, to life.

From the start I also added a daily 7500 mcg dose of biotin to my intake. Biotin supposedly increases the ability of the digestive system to metabolize carbohydrates. You don’t want those things hanging around your belly above the belt. Unscientifically speaking, I’m convinced it is an effective supplement when combined with the change of chosen intake. What we swallow is, after all, a choice that has a direct effect on the size of our jeans. I can attest to this notion, now twenty-five pounds lighter and strong enough to go back to the demanding toil of those beckoning gold fields.

I don’t think the pretty widow across the street approves. She’s been offering to have me over and feed me dinners lately, which I courteously decline. Maybe she thinks I need (or want) a woman in my life – which I don’t! – or that I’m wasting away because nobody is cooking big fancy multi-course two-serving dinners with candles and ample desserts for me. Chances are that she mostly misses having someone to cook for, but it might also be that she’s lost the entertainment of watching me, from the shadows behind the curtains of her front room window, mowing the lawn. I don’t wear suspenders anymore and my pants stay up.

Maybe she just wants to butter my parsnip.