I'm dieting right now. And it's sheer agonizing hell.
Not too long ago, while dressing, I called out to my wife, "Honey, my clothes are shrinking! Did you change the detergent or something?"
All of my life I've had a history of ballooning, then deflating again. I've gone from one extreme to the other more times than I can remember. Once, when I was younger, I lost close to 100 pounds.
That's a lotta weight to carry around and lose. But I did it. In a short span of time, too.
But apparently, I was a lot younger then. Hmph. The pounds don't seem to be shedding as quickly now.
For seven long weeks or so, I've pretty much starved myself. I've forced myself to eat kale salads (does anyone truly like kale? Tastes like cardboard, but not nearly as good.), and other things a rabbit wouldn't touch. Every day I get on the treadmill and walk anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour, kicking into high speeds 'till my bad knee starts squelching and catching in the back. By the time I fall off the treadmill, I'm drenched in sweat, smelling worse than a men's locker room. I can't even make it to the sofa, panting and wheezing like bagpipes.
Worst of all, I've had to give up beer! (Well, at least in the fashion I used to enjoy it.) The horror! Can you imagine? What's next? Giving up oxygen?
All of this hard work and sacrifice for a lousy eleven pounds.
Frustrated, I asked my wife why I'm not dumping weight like I used to.
"Because it's harder to lose weight when you get older."
Huh. Of course. My shelf life for fast weight loss had expired.
The other day my wife asks, "So, when you lose all of your weight, what kind of clothes do you want to get?"
"Well, since I'm an old man now," I snapped, "I may as well start dressing like one. Lessee...I need trousers long enough to reach my armpits, yet crawling up the ankles. Suspenders, maybe. Nice, sensible shirts. Black socks pulled up to the knees, with sandals on top. Ready? Let's go to Sears."