Mar
10

The Curious Incident Of The Rat Terrier And My Waistline.

I seem to have lost some weight. Not a lot, mind you—about seven pounds. Still, seven pounds is as much as a Rat Terrier weighs. I have rid myself of an entire small dog’s worth of extra weight. But how, you ask? Where did the Rat Terrier go? Did I Stairmaster it off? Deprive it of sustenance?
To be honest, it all began with the bewitching Manuela’s entries about the South Beach Diet. She lost so much weight her clothes were slipping off her at work! And it was easy!
It was this last bit, the “easy,” that caught my attention. Also, as someone with PCOS, I know that low carb diets are supposed to help my insulin resistance. Obviously it wouldn’t be as easy as The Wormtini: Weight Loss Sensation, but I didn’t think it would be particularly difficult, as I don’t care for sweets and have already cut down on refined carbohydrates. I shimmied off to Target to buy a paperback copy of the South Beach Diet book.
Right off, I noticed a few problems with “Phase One.” During this phase you are not allowed full-fat cheese. It is suggested instead that you eat cheese that has had its fat cruelly and artificially stripped from it. Now, I have strong feelings about cheese—I do not think it would be overstating the case to say that cheese is my soulmate. I once shed actual tears after being served a heartbreakingly tasty Taleggio. I do not eat “low fat cheese,” unless by “low fat cheese” you mean cheeses that are naturally lower in fat, such as parmesan. So right away I added “full fat cheese” to the list of allowed foods, with the stipulation that I would primarily eat cheeses naturally low in fat.
The next problem I noticed was a reference to “cooking spray.” Again, mock me if you will, but I do not care to cook with “cooking spray,” preferring the timeless taste of butter. So I added “butter” to the list of allowed foods, with the stipulation that it was to be used only in small amounts in cooking when olive oil simply would not do.
The third problem with “Phase One” was one I’m sure we all saw coming: No Alcohol. I vowed not to consume beer or any mixed drink with juice as an ingredient, but considered the insistence that I abandon the health-giving tonics of gin and white wine overly zealous.

Thus my diet was born. I decided to call it The South-by-Southwest Beach Diet.
I lasted four days.

The first day was easy. The second day was fine, except for a disturbing dream during which I was sliding down a towering mound of macaroni and cheese, laughing, my arms in the air. The third day I burst into tears when invited over for my brother’s famous Bacon Pasta. I declined the invitation and went home to sulk, gnawing desultorily on a piece of steak. What is the point of living if you can’t have the occasional helping of Bacon Pasta? I wondered.
The fourth day I woke up ill. I was weak, nauseated, and cranky. My hands were clammy. I felt panicky and preoccupied with thinking of unpleasant ways to end my life using only the materials at my disposal, like a suicidal MacGyver.
It was a familiar feeling. As it turns out, I was suffering from ketotic hypoglycemia—a charming side effect of “Phase One” of the SXSWB Diet.
Body: 1,000,000. Alexa: 0.
Glum and defeated, I went back to my old, insulin resistance diet—which is much like “Phase Two” of South Beach, except that I very occasionally have a small portion of refined carbohydrate, balanced with protein.

And then something unexpected happened. The day of the Nearly’s graduate reading, I bought an outfit. Trying it on at home, I was so startled to see myself looking attractive that I flew into a power-mad frenzy of strutting around the apartment and gazing at mirrors and ultimately enticing the Nearly into an impromptu sexual encounter.
Now, this wasn’t a magic outfit—it was merely a pair of expensive jeans and a structured top. However, it had been months since I viewed my body as anything but a lost cause. My philosophy had become “If You Can’t Beat It, Join It (in an orgy of cheese and makeuplessness and cheap, ill-fitting clothing).” But seeing myself look curvy rather than chubby gave me hope. Perhaps it wasn’t a waste of time to try to look presentable. Perhaps I wasn’t irredeemably schlumpy after all.

That weekend I dug out an old exercise book I used when I weighed 95 pounds and was desperate to make my body look less like kindling, vermicelli, or similar. My mother had used it to lose a little weight and tone her muscles, and at the time—five years ago—I told everyone about this program. It was a miracle, I enthused, the way it helped me to gain weight and my mother to lose it. It was challenging and simple at the same time, varied enough not to become boring, yet something you could do at home with minimal equipment. It was also the only exercise program I managed to maintain for over a month, probably partly because of the rapid results.
The regimen is basically fifteen minutes of weight training with three-pound weights, six days a week. I use five-pound weights now because they are all I have and besides, I weigh 50 pounds more than I did five years ago. There are different exercises each day working different muscles. The book is from the late eighties and the pictures…well, here’s the cover.
I wouldn’t actually recommend reading the book, as it is rather annoying–I merely follow the exercise program as a supplement to my sensible diet. Interestingly, the author, besides being a professional healthy-person, has a PhD in English Literature from NYU. I like a little brains with my brawn. Though I think she might be insane.

So that is how I lost the Rat Terrier. I have been doing the weights for two weeks—after work, in front of the television. The weight loss seems to have stopped for now, presumably because of the whole muscle-weighs-more-than-fat thing, but I am still seeing a noticeable difference in how I look, how clothes fit, and how I feel. It is excellent for one’s posture. And even through I would like to lose another Miniature Schnauzer or so, it has never been the scale that bothers me. It is the mirror I have a problem with. I have started to take more time with my appearance and am able to think about clothes without muttering about silk purses and sow’s ears, which helps.

I am sure you are all bored to helpless tears by now, and I apologize.
The End.

By Alexa | Posted in Ceci N'est Pas Une Ecrivaine |