Has there ever been a person in the history of mankind who has actually enjoyed being on a diet? If so, I’d like to meet him. And then I’d give him a good whack upside his head. Self-inflicted torture is what it is, and here I am, victimizing myself once again. Alas.

There are a number of things that can inspire you to lose weight. Among them are clothes that seemed to have shrunk while you weren’t looking, not being able to see your toes, fear that you’re digging your own grave with a spoon, bikini season, and having a full-length mirror in the bathroom you shower in. Some of that affected me, but another motivation was being tired of weighing an eighth of a ton. I ain’t good at math, but I know weighing that much was adding up to misery for me.

I follow no established diet to the letter. I’m cutting out starches and sweets and drinking only water and coffee. So far so good—down 30 pounds with at least that much to go. Though I am very grateful to whoever came up with the idea for salads, after basically living off them for months now, I am getting tired of channeling my inner rabbit who must eat them.

I’m gladly saying goodbye to some clothes, and adjusting my wardrobe as I go. No more 2X shirts for me, and now I’m somewhere between large and extra large, and I think there should be a size dedicated to what lies between them—we could call it “fat boy.”

I’ve embarked on many diets in the past and have had great results, but ultimately my love for food gets the upper hand and my taste buds hijack me back to Chunkyville. I know I’m really pushing the limit when I hear my bathroom scales groaning beneath me. I’m scared to get an electronic set of scales that has artificial intelligence, as either it would scream at me to get off it, or threaten to get a restraining order against me!

To me, it’s fruitless to weigh myself every day, because the progress seems nil. I used to weigh every week and that was good, but I’m taking it a step further by weighing only on the first of each month, which really shows some progress, but can make me anxious for four weeks at a time.

This may sound whacked or even creepy, but I am saying that if a guy’s belly is big enough, when he lays on his side to sleep, he’ll feel gravity pull his belly down to the bed, to where he feels like it’s laying there beside him. Crazy, I know, but that makes me feel like us guys can finally relate to a woman who is expecting a child. All you potbellied guys like me, think about that next time you try to sleep on your side, and you’ll know what I mean.

If I was smart, I’d adopt an exercise regime, which would not only hasten the weight loss, but could help tighten up some old muscles that haven’t had any action in a very long time. That may or may not happen, but I wonder if somebody could invent a pill of some sort that would put my taste buds to sleep at mealtime, so I’d be eating only when I had to, rather than stuffing my face with all that is sweet and savory.

I’ve thought about swallowing a tapeworm egg and being its “host” for the rest of my life. I’ve heard that you can eat all you want and never gain weight, so what’s not to like? Well, there’s always the fact that those scary devils can grow up to 80 feet inside you, so that’s out as an option. And then there are the horror stories about not eating enough to satisfy it, so it starts creeping around and finds its way out of your body and raids your refrigerator. That may be an urban legend, but this ol’ boy ain’t won’t be finding out the hard way where it’s so or not!

I know that in order to lose weight, some resort to having their excess sucked out of their body during surgery. Seems easy enough, right? I watched a video of that happening once, and it looked much too violent and painful for me! Besides, what if that surgical vacuum cleaner makes a miss-lick and all of a sudden sucks an innard out of you? No thanks—I’ll just fight my battle of the bulge singlehandedly, thank you.

I did figure out a way to sort of enjoy my diet, thought, and that’s by having a “cheat day.” Every Sunday my family gathers for a bodacious feast of home cooking, and while I don’t gorge myself, I will eat a little more than usual, and maybe even some dessert. That way the diet isn’t endless torture, and I have something to look forward to every seven days. Too bad weeks don’t come with two Sundays, I say.

So the battle rages on, and I hope to be victorious. You know, some look for gold at the end of rainbows. As for me and Sundays, I look for biscuits on the horizon. Or cornbread, pie, or cake, but I digress. I mean, digest.

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