Thursday morning, 6:00 a.m., and getting ready to leave on our annual vacation trip, this time to the East Coast once again. I've been very undisciplined so it didn't shock me to see the number 263 on the scale this morning. I scream. Those malts!
All these diets are enough to drive one mad. The DR Diet, as I dubbed it some time ago, is probably the best. Eat what you like, in normal, human quantities. Beware of binging. Don't eat after dinner. And "never eat anything that's not delicious" (Calvin Trillin). Add some walking to the mix and how could it fail?
John Lennon wrote about God being the "concept by which we measure our pain." Take it for what it's worth, but even as an "almost-believer" (yeah, I know, "almost" doesn't count except in horseshoes) I find it offensive. A more valid and forceful measure of my pain is my weight. Despite an easy summer physically, the bucks weren't there and it was stressful. A malted a day keeps the doctor away? Not indefinitely, for sure, and perhaps worse, it's what got me where I am today. And now mom with her confidential and "helpful" advice, which my poor daughter will also, no doubt, be the beneficiary of this weekend.
So off we go, but not first after taking a nap to make up for the usual failure to sleep soundly throughout the night (it was five hours this time). Not much for me to do: shave, pack, and some little odds and ends in the apartment--then we're off! Back by next weekend, but who knows?
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