THE BATTLE OF THE BULGE

I would like to take a moment to recall those brave men and women who are constantly fighting the battle of the bulge.

Not to trivialize the real Battle of the Bulge in 1944, this one is also serious business in that we are falling like flies. To be surrounded by fat cells as we sleep, to awaken to the harsh reality of: “Help I’m fat, and I can’t get up!” is indeed horrific.

As I lean over my stomach to find the keys to type, I consider the fact that it isn’t my fault, that indeed the devil is at work! Every Sunday morning, I sit down with a Weight-Watchers cookbook, and plan the menu for the week. I make a list and check it twice just like Santa, only my goal is not to look like him.

It only took a few precious weeks in Los Angeles to blow away a year’s worth of dieting, and although I don’t know if I did gain any weight, I feel like I did. I am losing both the weight and psychological wars at the same time.

I have a good mind to surrender, and march to the nearest donut shop with a white flag in my hand, to be taken prisoner. (Hopefully by a toasted coconut donut and a cup of coffee.)

But I will not despair. Go ahead fat cells, make me fat, see what I care. Come January 1, I take control again. I just need to get by a few dinners, and…uh, oh, make that the middle of January, I have to go on vacation to Arizona, and there is no point trying until after I get back. Obviously.

Tired of hearing a fat-ass moan, send your disgust to:
joedelbroccolo@yahoo.com,
tell him: “Fat chance!”