I have my mother’s nose and my greatgrandmother’s eyes. I get my height from my father, along with his long legs and big feet. I have my mother’s curly hair, her award-winning smile and an attitude that flares up from time to time with an “Oh no, you just didn’t!”
Although I would happily pass on the arthritis that is coming my way, I don’t mind most of the genetics involved in my makeup. But if there was one thing I could kick to the curb, I would do it in a heartbeat — the ever-repulsive fat gene.
Oh, it’s there, baby. Both sides of my family have battled it for years. We talk about it at family reunions and cousin-filled lunches. We discuss who’s staying on top of it, who’s still sporting a single-digit size, and who appears to have fallen off the proverbial wagon.
That’s crucial information so we know who to put in charge for our next familial gathering. After all, you can’t have someone who is living on the Brussels sprouts diet hosting Easter.
Along with our observations, we talk about diet tricks, healthy food options and the possibility of baking a sugarfree cake that is worth a darn.
There is enough wisdom among us, along with a lifetime of weight losses and gains, that we could start our own rendition of “The Biggest Loser.”
It’s the battle of the bulge — and it ain’t pretty.
I have forgotten more about weight loss than most people will ever know. You name it, and I’ve done it. I have tried South Beach, Nutrisystem and everything in between. I have done Slim Quick, fat burners, and once had the resolve to stick to the cabbage soup diet for a day-and-a-half.
I have lost, and I have gained. In fact, I am the great yo-yo-er of my time. First, I’m up 10 pounds, and then I’m down five. No, wait! See, now I’m back up another seven.
There are those who will argue it is impossible to gain several pounds overnight, but I am here to contend that you absolutely can — and I have a scale to prove it. Poor little sucker sits in the corner of the bathroom and certainly must shake before he lets me know I gained five pounds on one single indulgence.
Take St. Patrick’s Day as an example. Even as friends brought in brownies and shamrock cookies for the clan, I took nary a nibble. Nor did I sample the scrumptious soda bread with its delicious smothering of real butter.
No Irish potatoes either for this gal. After all, we can’t be packing on the carbs.
What I did do was treat myself to corned beef and cabbage, and I tried to limit my serving — as mandated by the fine folks who brought us the food pyramid — to a portion the size of a deck of cards.
Before you praise me for my resolve, read on. It wasn’t until I was transferring the bulk of the leftovers from the pan to an airtight container that I did it — I popped a lovely sampling right into my mouth.
“Another little bite won’t hurt,” I thought to myself. Then I told me, “Hey, it’s St. Patrick’s Day, and that only comes once a year!” I had several thoughts after that, up to and including, “Who’s to say how big a serving should be anyway?”
I’ll tell you this: It truly wasn’t over until the fat lady sang.
What started with an innocent taste quickly turned into that 5-pound weight gain.
“Oh, it’s just water weight,” my good friend consoled me when I complained of it to her. “It’ll come right back off.”
If only it had been so. Despite calorie counting, a plethora of water and the everloving nibbling on a stalk of celery, those five pounds followed me through the remainder of last week and settled on into this one.
I have exercised, did a few stomach crunches and at present am so desperate that I am considering a 5:30 a.m. boot camp.
I have called the relatives and we are rallying for a meeting to complain about our genetics this afternoon. There is probably not much productive that will come of it.
Yet, one thing’s for sure — they are not going to want me to host Easter. Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to loriclinch2010@gmail.com.