It’s simply a matter of something clicking on in my head that finally gives me the courage and motivation to diet. An eminent religious leader of our day, Spencer W. Kimball, has a sign on his desk: DO IT. I can’t think of any more sage advice to the obese person. For heaven’s sake, “Just do it, just di-et”! And I am doing it.
All my fat cells are being refilled with weightless happiness. For every pound of blubber I lose, every greasy pound of disgusting lard I drop, I gain a pound of happiness. Okay, all you fatties out there. ’Fess up. Would you rather be carrying around enough butter to grease the Rose Bowl, or enough happiness to nearly lift you above the crowd? How would you like to be stared at for your broad smile instead of your broad hips? Wouldn’t it be awesome to walk with your head held up by your pride of self, instead of by your triple chins! Dream with me for a moment, my fat friends, of walking with a charming little bounce in your step, instead of that disgusting bounce all over your body!
Something “clicked” in my head two days ago. I had been off my diet, in dark despair, since June first. I quit working my own program for success. My prayers, when they came, were heartfelt cries for help—from deep within: “Please, God, help me. I don’t want to be fat. I’m gaining weight again. I’m terrified.”
A week later: “Dear God, I’m here, don’t leave me. I’m dying inside. I might kill myself. Life is too hard. I could not live at two hundred and fifty-plus pounds again. Stop me. Help me. Please, you’re my only hope.” The tragedy is, this kind of prayer was often uttered on the way to the store to buy candy bars.