Ann Ipock
            Humorist, author, speaker

It's Time to Get Going
with Dr. Phil, George Foreman and 'Pat & Charlie'

by Ann Ipock

So, it's like I'm caught up, once again, in this vicious cycle of poor food choices. I'm downing greasy burgers, malt vinegar-soaked French fries and rich Tiramisu for starters. I'm also hooked on those positively yummy Red Bird soft peppermint puffs – “since 1890,” they advertise – from CVS. Need a breath mint? Grab one. Want a little sugar fix? That's the answer. Crave candy while driving? It'll fit the bill. Y'all, I'm out of control! Instead of “got milk,” I've “got sugar, fat and carbs.”

I'm ashamed to say I've also gained back most of the thirty pounds I lost five years ago. I can't decide whether to start the Slim-Fast diet (do they even make that stuff anymore?), the old cabbage soup curse or the enticing dark chocolate and red wine reward. For years, my own personal four-way food test was this: Does it taste good? Is it fast? Is it reasonable? Is it convenient? The criterion of four is about all my frontal lobe can handle. But, I realize that now, after gaining this weight, what I really need to do is add a fifth element – is it healthy? Now, it becomes the five-way food test.

If I had a dollar for every diet book I've ever bought, I could afford Jimmy Choo shoes and a weekly pedicure to show off my tootsies. I have books from the American Heart Association, Weight Watchers, Dr. Atkins and Suzanne Somers. I even have special sections in my recipe box for low-fat, low-carb, low-sugar and low-cholesterol.

My stale, ignored stash of incentives doesn't stop there. I have ignored appliances that bear testament to a new way (weigh) of life. I used the food dehydrator for craft projects, not edible food – my bad: an orange slice tied around a bag of spiced tea mix; apple slices with raffia bows for Christmas tree ornaments. That special blender for shakes, slushes and frappes, I've used once. Are Margaritas considered diet food? The George Foreman grill is still in its original box. That is, the second George Foreman grill. The first one was a Christmas gift for Russell. After six months of non-use, in a garage-cleaning-frenzy, Russell returned it to the store. I fussed at him when I discovered this. Sheepishly, he handed over the money for me to buy another one. The replacement has sat there unused longer than the original one – three years, to be exact.

In the past, I've lost weight not only through healthy eating, but also exercise and group therapy (that being Weight Watchers and Weigh Down). I've joined health clubs, spas and recreation centers. Years ago I sold (and ate) those diet cookies that came in bran, whole grain and carob flavors, but were tasteless. I've taken classes in Pilates and yoga, dance classes (tap) and I've jumped around like a crazy woman following a Tae Bo demonstration. I've power walked on the beach and I've run on a treadmill at the gym.

When I lost thirty pounds a few years back, everyone begged me to tell them my secret. Sorry, but there's no such thing. I did it the old-fashioned way, eliminating one calorie and burning off one pound at a time. It wasn't easy. I ate half of my normal portions and began a serious walking program. I've yet to meet anyone who's lost a significant amount of weight any other way, with the exception of surgical intervention.

But for now, the only choice I have in losing weight is a smart food regimen. That's because I've had a stress fracture of my right foot for nearly ten weeks and can't exercise. Since the fracture happened at the peak of summer, i.e., visiting friends and family often; vacationing on a cruise; and attending picnics, parties and performances, it's been almost impossible to eat right. And though this is hard to admit, I think the main reason I pretty much ate whatever I wanted was due to my own private pity party. “So what if I've got a fracture and it took eight weeks, two x-rays and a bone scan for the fracture to show up? I'll feel better after I eat this Snickers ice cream bar!” I consoled myself and at the same time, worried less about the pain-free, but terribly swollen foot by ingesting rich, formerly forbidden food. I gave myself carte blanche.

When the diagnosis was finally made, my podiatrist put me in a surgical shoe. The only good news about that is it's a great distraction from my now-absent waist and very-present hips. Mostly I hear folks say, “Ann, something's different. Oh! Your shoes don't match.” Hey, that's better than hearing, “Ann, something's different. Oh! I see, there is simply more of you!” See, this way, my injured foot snags folk's attention. At least the shoe is cool – it looks kind of like Tevas. It's black rubber with Velcro fasteners and has this cute little insignia, Darco. Hubby Russell called it vanity, but I eventually bought one for the left foot to even out my walk. I'm considering adding some feathers, fur or jewels since folks are becoming desensitized to the plain matching pair.

Hopefully, I can toss those shoes out when I see the doctor in two weeks and trade them in for my standard shoe du jour, flip-flops. In fact, I find it a little ironic that the day my new book of humor columns was released with a flip-flop icon between chapters (which the book designer and I selected months ago); I was placed in a surgical shoe. I know I'll look better and feel happier when the Darco's come off. That, in turn, should give me the needed oomph to stop this out of control eating frenzy. I might even try reading The Ultimate Weight Solution by Dr. Phil McGraw, consider plugging in George Foreman and get going with ‘Pat & Charlie.'

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