I scanned through the magazine rack while waiting for the eight million people ahead of me at the store got their full baskets checked through. I thought maybe I might buy one of those bright shiny issues but although, the floral arrangement on the front was pretty, the magazines were filled with articles on diet and exercise.
My fat cells were about to go into acute shock when I just looked at the titles but there were still a dozen people ahead of me and only one check out lane was open. So I picked up one of those gossip tabloids thinking it might entertain me but when I opened it up there was a headline in bright, hot pink: “Outsmart your fat cells.”
Those people have grits for brains if they think a mere mortal can outsmart even one fat cell. Fat cells know there is strength in numbers so they invade our bodies in astronomical hordes or maybe it’s flocks or herds—I’ve never heard just what more than one is called other than cellulite.
Their brain power is greater than Einstein’s IQ and R2-D2 combined. They have ESP and know the exact minute the word “diet” filters through my brain. And two seconds later they turn everything from rice cakes to carrot sticks into pure, unadulterated fat.
I’ve been in the business of outsmarting my fat cells since the editor of that magazine was crawling around in the newest Birdseye fashion. I have complete conversations with my fat cells. They have names and personalities. Those on my thighs are more temperamental than the ones on my derriere and the ones on the inside of my knees are sassier than a teenage daughter on a bad hair day.
I put the book back on the rack and picked up one with a skinny lady in red sequined dress. The biggest headline was “Lose ten pounds in one week and wear a purple bikini to an island beach.”
Honey, it would take more than a week to put my body into a bikini and I do not believe manufacturers make bikinis with that many Xs behind the number so that book went right back to the one where I was going to outsmart a fat cell.
The next one sported a chocolate cake with the promise of a recipe inside so I could make that lovely dessert. But when I opened it, the whole thing was devoted to exercise. “Joy Ride Across the
. Start training today.” It even had a
picture of a lady in cute little cycling shorts on a bicycle. My fat cells
laughed so loud that a couple of women turned to stare, then nod their heads in
agreement when they realized what I was reading. United
Finally, I got a hold of one with a lady on the front who was smiling—women do not smile when they think about dieting or exercising so maybe I’d found the perfect magazine. The first headline inside said, “Drop a size without dieting.” This could be my magazine for sure.
Excitement built up while I thumbed through the pages in search of the magic thing that would let me drop a size without that dread “D” word coming into play.
Beware of anything with a graph! Especially one that begins with week one and does not finish until week thirteen. It had blue and purple lines about walking a mile the first day and building up to ten miles by week thirteen. It’s hard to un-see something that evil but before it burned a hole in my brain forever, I slammed it back onto the rack, made a fast trip to the frozen food aisle and bought a gallon of rocky road ice cream. That should help erase the horrible picture.
For all y’all who believe that you can outsmart your fat cells, drop a size in a week or without dieting, there’s plenty of encouragement down at the local food store. I wish you luck.
Me? I’m going to sit here in air conditioned comfort with my fat cells and eat rocky road ice cream.