Chicken Soup for the Dieter's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  For what seemed like forever, I thumbed through wallets—now and then lifting my head with a smile, trying to make eye contact, to get his attention. It wasn’t happening. Only when the “normal” girl was gone did he realize I needed his help.

  And then he called me “ma’am.” It was the first time that ever happened to me. When I left the shop and got to the safe place inside my car, where the windows steamed in the winter night, hot, embarrassed tears stung my cheeks.

  And yet I did nothing about it. Except to maybe eat some more and gain an increasing amount of weight.

  Decades passed, and layers and layers of fat enfolded me. I was far beyond even “ma’am” now. I was nearly asexual. I made fewer and fewer trips to shops—to public places in general. I was no longer hefty. I was huge. Walking around the block caught me out of breath and sent my knees into agonizing aches and spasms.

  I knew if it kept on, I was going to die. A real, tangible, physical death. For a while, even with that reality in place, I shrugged off my destiny. It had been years since I looked into a mirror. People had stopped looking at me years ago, and I’d given it up for myself as well.

  It was a dark, dark place.

  I know exactly when the light came on. It was about a year ago, when sleeping at night was now no longer an option. Every time I lay down, it was difficult to breathe. Day and night, I walked the floors, exhausted, and now, finally, thoroughly afraid.

  And then, it happened. In one on-a-whim, entirely outof-character moment, I ventured out into a public place for the first time in a very long time—to the animal shelter. That’s where Max found me. He was so very small for a shepherd/golden mix, and so very sick. I saw his face and forgot about my knees.

  Max had no time for excuses. He needed medication every few hours, and because of the medicine, he needed more walks than a “normal” puppy. Because he also came with allergies, he needed to eat natural and healthy food And so, on another fine day, I found myself in the produce department instead of the ice cream aisle.

  He grew strong and began to thrive, and so did I. More than a year passed, and I was down ten sizes. Max was home, I was sure, comfortably snoozing on the couch where he wasn’t supposed to be, and I was at the mall, running errands and thinking about my past.

  The shopping bags needed to be shifted, and again I stopped. Once more I felt the sensation that a pair of eyes was watching. This time, I held my head up and looked back.

  What I saw jolted me. It was a woman, just about my age, short but easy on the eye, tanned and fit. I smiled, and she was smiling back.

  I had stopped in front of a full-length mirror.

  These days, the anguish is gone, along with the self-loathing and embarrassment, and I no longer fear my own reflection. Max has no problem looking into my eyes. Why, then, should I?

  Candy Killion

  Ricotta-Stuffed Bell Peppers

  MAKES 4 SERVINGS EACH SERVING: 24 GRAMS PROTEIN, 11 GRAMS CARBOHYDRATE

  4 bell peppers, cut in half lengthwise

  1½ pounds whole ricotta cheese

  2 eggs

  ½ cup chopped Kalamata olives

  1 cup chopped raw walnuts

  ½ cup minced fresh parsley

  2 tablespoons slivered fresh basil or 2 teaspoons dried basil

  1 tablespoon grated lemon zest

  freshly ground black pepper to taste

  ⅔ cup Parmesan cheese

  Preheat oven to 350°. Cut bell peppers in half and remove seeds. In a large skillet, bring 2 cups water to a boil. Add bell peppers, reduce heat to low and simmer until just tender, about 8 to 10 minutes. Remove from pan, drain and set aside.

  In a medium bowl, combine ricotta cheese, eggs, olives, walnuts, parsley, basil, lemon zest and black pepper. Mix well with a fork. Mound into pepper halves. Sprinkle with Parmesan cheese. Place in an ovenproof baking dish and add water to 1.4-inch depth in pan to prevent burning. Bake until heated through, about 20 to 30 minutes. Place under broiler briefly to brown top.

  Reprinted from The Schwarzbein Principle Cookbook. ©1999 Diana Schwarzbein, M.D., Nancy Deville and Evelyn Jacob.

  Health Communications, Inc.

  The Thighs Have It

  I was leafing through a magazine where there was a before-and-after picture of a woman who went from a size 5 to a size 3 by liposuction. Was she serious? I’ve cooked bigger turkeys than her “before” picture.

  Erma Bombeck

  After a workout at the health club, my friend and I are in the dressing room, getting ready for work. She gathers together hairbrush and makeup, goes to one of the many large mirrors and instantly frowns. “I hate the way I look,” she mutters. The woman next to her is also frowning, tugging fretfully on what looks to me like enviable, long golden hair. An olive-skinned, raven-haired beauty wearing a black silk pantsuit scowls when she turns sideways to analyze the pooch of her stomach. I’d like to cover all the mirrors, so all these beautiful women who are muttering dark and gloomy mantras of “too fat, too saggy, too flabby, too wrinkly” could have a break.

  Just recently I had a lesson in mirror watching and learned that, like Alice, what I see in the looking glass is often just a reflection of mood and interpretation. Here’s what happened. My husband, Ron, and I were at a California resort, complete with a wonderful swimming pool, lovely, natural hot mineral springs, palm trees, brilliant bougainvillea flowers and lots of chairs for lounging, reading and dreaming. I had never been in such a gorgeous and peaceful spot, and I was thoroughly enjoying myself. I emerged from a glorious swim in the heated pool and went to the bathroom. In the dressing area, a full-length mirror surprised me. Without thinking, I glanced at myself, dripping in my bathing suit. My thighs jiggled and sagged. What? How was that possible?Wasn’t I exercising a lot and eating properly? I could have chocolate as part of a healthy diet, right? I felt a stab of despair; my thighs were abandoning me. I walked out and Ron said, “What’s wrong?”

  “My thighs are jiggly,” I said.

  Ron looked carefully at the offending appendages. “That’s true,” he said. (I have tried to teach him that honesty is not always the best policy, but obviously that concept had not sunk in.) “But I still love you.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I slunk over to a lounge chair, wishing he had said, “Gee honey, your thighs look great to me!” I put a towel over my legs and opened my book to page 103. But the sun was too bright, a bee was too close to me and I couldn’t concentrate. My mind was knotted up in images of ugliness and aging. I decided to get back into the hot pool and let the warmth and wet soothe me. A woman with a lovely silver ponytail and a glowing tan was luxuriating in the water. “You must eat right and work out,” she said as I approached. “You have a wonderful figure.”

  I stopped and stared at her. “Really?” I said.

  “Oh yes, you look great.”

  “Really?” I said. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course,” she said calmly. “I’m very sure.”

  I eased myself into the water and touched my thighs. I noticed how easy it was to hear Ron’s affirmation of my flabby thighs and how hard it was to take in this woman’s compliment. I look great, I said to myself, tasting the words like they were something delicious. In less than an hour, I had seen the subjectivity of physical looks. After all, it’s a lonely business, worrying about your upper legs. It’s a culturally induced trauma, and I didn’t have to embrace it.

  As I sank into the steaming water, I had a radical thought: What if I decided I looked great every day? My spirits would rise, my face would glow, and I would feel strong and happy. Which means I would probably look great. And that is what I am trying to do.

  Deborah H. Shouse

  Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

  Forty-three percent of men and 56 percent of women are unhappy about their overall appearance. They are concerned about flaws in their skin, hair, face and weight.

  However, some people worry so much about their appearance that it leads to serious prob
lems in their relationships with others and makes it impossible to carry on a normal daily routine.

  People suffering with body dysmorphic disorder (BDD), also referred to as body image disorder, are so preoccupied with a distorted idea of what they look like that thoughts about their perceived flaws consume them.

  Often the “flaw” doesn’t even exist or is blown entirely out of proportion, but someone suffering with BDD does not see the same person in the mirror that everyone else sees.

  The American Psychiatric Association estimates that BDD affects one in fifty people,more often girls in their teens or early twenties.

  If you need helpwith BDD, contact a qualified mental health professional. For more information on BDD, read Katharine Phillips’s groundbreaking book, Broken Mirror: Understanding and Treating Body Dysmorphic Disorder.

  Where Money Meets Resolutions

  Money can’t buy you happiness, but it does bring you a more pleasant form of misery.

  Spike Milligan

  The one thing I hate more than exercising is spending money. That explains why my fingers trembled as I signed a one-year contract and then a credit card slip for membership to a women’s fitness center. Although I had resolved to get fit, my “frugal” genes were not happy.

  After a brief tussle, the manager pried the slip away from my unwilling fingers. “You’re going to love it here,” she chirped. “Worth every penny.”

  “It better be,” I muttered. As I debated snatching the slip back and making a run for it, one look at the chiseled muscles on her size 4 body told me I’d be lucky to get halfway out of the chair before she tackled me.

  I consoled myself with the thought that if I gave up my daily coffee, I could afford to work out. On the other hand, caffeine had been a close, personal friend for years. Did I really want to turn my back on it now?

  I was debating the pros and cons when the manager’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

  “We have a fantastic introductory personal trainer package. At just $400 for ten sessions, we’re practically giving it away.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “I shouldn’t tell you, but the price is going up next week.”

  “Four hundred dollars?” my voice came out as a loud croak.

  “I know. Unbelievable. Should I sign you up?” Not waiting for my answer, she took out another credit card slip and wrote in the date.

  My mouth opened but no words came out. I tried to figure out what else I would have to give up to cover the additional costs. Probably food. On the other hand, that would make losing weight a lot faster.

  I was still adding figures in my head when she thrust a pen into my hand. My fingers automatically wrapped around it. Dazed by the kaleidoscope of numbers whirling in my brain, I signed my name for the third time in five minutes.

  With Houdini-like sleight of hand, she whisked the slip from under my hand but couldn’t pry the pen from my death grip. “Why don’t you keep the pen,” she said. “Our gift to you.”

  A few minutes later, still clutching the pen, I was back on the street. Did I really want to do this? Did the contract have an escape clause? Resolutions are one thing. But actually committing myself to a year’s membership and ten personal training sessions, not to mention their locker and towel service, was another.

  I’d spent over $800 and hadn’t lost a pound or gained an ounce of muscle yet. The only thing lighter was my bank account.

  The next two months were hard. When tempted to slack off from my workout routine, I gazed at my bank balance and pushed myself out the front door. By March, as I felt healthier and stronger, I surprised myself by looking forward to my workouts.

  That was last January. Since then, I’ve purchased two more training packages and renewed my membership. And my fingers barely trembled when I signed on the dotted line. I’ve lost weight, dropped two pants sizes and gained muscle. I might not be able to beat the manager at arm wrestling, but at least now I could give her a run for my money.

  As for the pen, I keep it as a reminder that sometimes spending money is a good investment—in yourself.

  Harriet Cooper

  “My first three lives are for eating junk food and being lazy. My last six are for dieting and exercise.”

  Reprinted by permission of Jerry King.

  2

  EATING WELL

  AND

  STAYING FIT

  Trials, temptations, disappointments—all these are helps instead of hindrances, if one uses them rightly. They not only test the fiber of character but strengthen it. Every conquering temptation represents a new fund of moral energy. Every trial endured and weathered in the right spirit makes a soul nobler and stronger than it was before.

  James Buckham

  No Pizza? No Problem!

  Bad habits are like a comfortable bed, easy to get into, but hard to get out of.

  Author Unknown

  About a year ago, I was leaving a tiki hut in the East Village of New York City (bet you didn’t know that NYC had tiki huts!) with two of my good (and very petite) friends when a random stranger shouted out, “Hey Blondie! You have a fat a**!”

  Perhaps it was the two giant margaritas I had just imbibed, or maybe it was because this attack hit on the very core of a lifelong insecurity, but I immediately crumbled into a cocoon of tears.

  My friends, of course, tried to console me, telling me he had meant “phat” not “fat” and that he was only a drunken stranger. But I had hit rock bottom, and I knew things, from that moment forth, had to change.

  I was never “fat” per se, but I had been rather plump since I was a little girl. Blame it on growing up in a Jewish family with a very attentive grandma living across the street. Feeding was medicinal, and every day brought with it bagels, potatoes and an inordinate amount of sugar. After-school snacks of bialys or potato soup with some hot, fresh Jewish rye were the staple for me. I loved that time, and the food was a big part of it. “Eat! Eat!” To not eat would assuredly convince her that something was desperately wrong and cause endless concern. So I ate.

  That night, as I sat there hating the phantom wino, the world and even myself, my friend gave me some good advice: Rather than indulging in yet another cycle of self-pity, do something about it. She had been seeing a nutritionist for years and was herself attempting the South Beach Diet. She recommended I give it a try.

  In my mind, the South Beach Diet and other “low-carb” plans were all the same, and I was one of the masses who called them dangerous fads. I’d sit around with my friends, talking about how low-carb diets were dumb because as soon as you start eating “normal” again, you gain the weight back. I was sure South Beach wouldn’t work, and it would be just another crazy waste of time.

  Being the adventurous soul that I am though, I gave it a try. Phase 1, as we people in the plan call it, is very low-carbohydrate: no bread, no pasta, no sugar, no fruit or starch of any kind. Alcohol is a total no-no as well. Lean meats are your friends, fatty beefs and cheeses aren’t.

  But the overall plan is not low-carb, or even necessarily low-fat or low-calorie. It’s more a modified lifestyle that teaches you to eat the right carbs, the right fats and the right proteins—and make it a part of your permanent life plan rather than a crash course into fitting into those too-tight jeans.

  As a sugar aficionado, those first few days were a bit intense for me. I felt like I was in a state of perpetual PMS. I wasn’t hungry; I ate my fill of egg whites and fresh veggies and grilled chicken—but what I was going through was hardcore sugar withdrawal. I’m a Sagittarius and thus possess a soul that demands instant gratification. And while my egg-white omelet with mozzarella and mushrooms was very satisfying, darn it, I was used to my morning bagel!

  As those initial few days passed, I gradually grew less cranky. I ended up losing ten pounds, and an entire size, in the first two weeks.

  The purpose of Phase 1 is a pseudo-detox; you are ridding your body of its addiction to sugar and simple carbs so that you can “retrain” it with the
right ones later on. Once that hardcore phase is over, Phase 2 begins. During that phase, you gradually reintroduce your body to starches and fruits, very carefully and slowly, paying careful attention to what particular starches make your metabolism freak out. Refined sugars and starches are naughty now and always. Whole grains, oats, brown rice and sweet potatoes are all fine, and actually, pretty darn good for you if you don’t go crazy with them.

  South Beach is meant to be a lifestyle, not a diet, so of course, treats will happen. If it’s your birthday, have the cake (a slice, not the entire sheet!), or indulge in a night of yummy Tex-Mex sometimes, as I do. The idea, though, is to not use those treats as a crutch. “Oh my God! I ate a brownie! It’s all over . . . I might as well give up.”

  Over the course of about eight months, I lost fifty pounds and went from a size XL Misses to XS Juniors. I have more energy than I have ever had before, and I’ve learned to not only crave the good stuff but be repelled by that which is naughty. Do I cheat sometimes? Sure. It’s called living. But I don’t let food control me anymore. I’m too busy enjoying life on the Beach . . . which, every now and then, just might include a fresh, hot slice of seeded Jewish rye.

  Aly Walansky

  Morning Walk

  It doesn’t matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.

  Anne Sexton

  I am my father’s daughter.

  It was 6:30 on a Saturday morning and most sane people were still dreaming dreams, turning over in their warm beds and ignoring alarm clocks. Why was I walking around our neighborhood?

  I am my father’s daughter.

  I thought about taking a shortcut—if I turned right at the next street, I could cut ten minutes off my walk and soon be home, savoring a warm cup of coffee with the morning paper.