Years ago, one of my best friends, Marilynn Leavenworth, and I decided to start a “diet club.” The club was a sincere attempt at doing something worthwhile and constructive about our weight. Marilynn did the inviting; I just couldn’t. (What was I going to say? “Hi. I’m having a meeting for fat people, and, sister, you’re at the top of my list!”)
But Marilynn found it an easy task because she is refreshingly open and honest. She can also keep a confidence, so I could always trust her with my deep, dark secrets… like the secret of Rose’s.
Okay, I admit it. We went to Rose’s Restaurant a few times too many. They make these gargantuan pastries. I don’t mean large, or even huge; I mean, they are gargantuan! Although most of their pastries are rather mediocre, we once had the good (or could it be horrible?) fortune to happen upon their Florentiners. Then their Napoleons. I would be willing to drown in a Florentiner or Napoleon and be thankful for the experience!
One is divinely chocolate, and the other is heavenly cream. My eyes are rolling even as I write. My mouth is watering this very moment. If you value your waistline, never, never order either one of them! Marilynn and I embraced them with all our hearts.
Once we drove to Rose’s Take-Out Deli and ordered a Napoleon and a Florentiner… apiece! Remember, these are no small desserts. Yet I was standing at that counter worried that two huge, rich, calorie-packed desserts might not be enough to satisfy my intense craving of the moment. Afraid of starving to death, I ordered a fifth dessert to split between us. We then stopped at a corner store, bought a quart of milk to share, parked our car, and pigged out.
We both ate till we were sick to our stomachs. But heaven forbid we throw away one bite of those divine/diabolical concoctions. No, we ate every crumb! We licked our fingers. We picked every particle out of the sack and off the car seat. The only evidence we left of our dastardly deed was written all over our bodies.
We laugh about it today, but it was a disgusting display of gluttony. It was that kind of out-of-control eating that led us in desperation to start our famous diet club.
At our first meeting, nine hefty women showed up. We are talking major poundage here. Over one ton of beef (pork?) walked through my front door that night!
We had a plan. We were trying. Collectively, we lost forty-some pounds the first week. We were a roomful of desperate women. We laughed a lot, told on ourselves, and reported on our progress.
Marilynn still cracks up over one particular member’s weekly report. This woman was the most honest, straight-arrow, truthful, trustworthy woman I knew— until it was her turn to give a progress report. She consistently announced either a few pounds lost or a break-even week. Yet Marilynn distinctly remembers the woman getting bigger and bigger, fatter and fatter. Poor thing. I know only too well the terror she felt. Sometimes it is impossible to admit a weight gain. We somehow talk ourselves into believing no one is noticing.
Like most diets, our club eventually fizzled out. But I give us credit for trying. And I do have some funny memories. The first night, moments before the initial meeting, Marilynn and I became panic-stricken. What? Us, diet? Before anyone came, we rushed to the store in a frenzy and bought some pastry. Back home, hiding in the kitchen, with diet-club women right in the next room, we stuffed it into our mouths. We laughed and kept telling each other: “This is it. No more sweets after tonight.” We were laughing at ourselves and choking on the pastry. It was pathetic. It was certainly not funny. But laughter is not just the best medicine, sometimes it is the only medicine! We frantically wiped off any traces of our grievous sin before we marched into that roomful of fat ladies and tried to convert them to dieting. We both faked it well.
The thinner I get, the more I can laugh at that episode. It’s hard to seriously laugh over fat antics while your chin is fluttering like a flag in a windstorm!