Isn’t this invigorating?” Clad in a sweat suit, tennis shoes, and matching wrist and ankle weights, Edith swung her arms like pistons and plowed ahead, her legs pumping to the rhythm of a rhyme she’d invented:
One, two, three, four! You can do a little more!
Five, six, seven, eight! Come on, girl, and lose this weight!
Twenty paces behind, Winslow followed, his bald head gleaming with sweat despite the chilly temperature. “Hold up, Edith.” Puffing, he bent to tie his shoelace.
Not willing to stop moving, Edith doubled back to walk in a circle around him. She was two days into the eighteen-hundred-calorie-a-day-diet-and-exercise plan, and she hadn’t lost a pound. Or a half a pound.
Or an inch.
Which convinced her that if she could maintain her pace, surely tomorrow she’d wake up and find that the fat globules on her hips had decided to melt away in the night.
Winslow straightened and shot her a grin. “Okay. Lead on, woman!”
Edith took off, quickening her pace, but she hadn’t gone twenty steps when she spied a rock. Suddenly weary, she dropped to it, then rested her hands on her bent knees and hung her head.
Something had gone wrong. Her energy globules had decided to melt away; the fat was hanging on.
Waves lapped the shoreline, and the morning sun gleamed silver on the water and streaked the lighthouse with golden rays. On any other day she would have reveled in the sight, but today defeat colored her perceptions.
She stared at the water as Winslow approached. “It’s no use. I’m starving myself and getting nowhere. We’re going home and I’m making pancakes.”
“Now, Edith.” Win dropped to the rock beside her, his eyes dark with compassion. “You know losing weight is not an easy process.”
“Easy for you to say.” She turned envious eyes on him. “How much have you lost in the past couple of days?”
He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “That doesn’t matter, does it? I wasn’t really trying.”
Her eyes pierced him. “How much, Win?”
“Two pounds—but Edith, everyone’s metabolism is different.”
“Ayuh. And mine is out of order.” She raked a hand through her windblown hair. She had religiously stuck to Dr. Marc’s regimen—she’d given up all snacks and desserts and eaten nothing but healthy foods for the last two days. But the new scales she had purchased from the mercantile refused to budge.
Why didn’t she just give up and wear sackcloth to Birdie’s wedding?
Giving in was far easier than suffering. She hadn’t slept last night; experiencing hunger pangs, she had gotten up and roamed the house, finally finding the willpower to munch on carrot sticks instead of Pringles. All this extra exercise had done something to make her hungrier, and low-fat, low-calorie food just didn’t seem to satisfy. . . .
She dropped her face into her hands. “I’m such a wimp about this. I want to be thin, but I can’t seem to find the strength to turn that want into reality.”
Winslow slipped an arm around her shoulder. “You’re making too much of this, Edith. What’s the harm if you can’t wear that peach dress to Birdie’s wedding? You have other dresses.”
“None that are elegant!! None that make me feel pretty!”
As Winslow stared at her in bewilderment, Edith shook her head. Men didn’t understand. A man could be fifty pounds overweight and people would smile and say that his wife must certainly be a good cook. A woman, on the other hand, would be ridiculed if she began to put on a few pounds. Let a movie star begin to look maternal and suddenly she became fodder for the late-night TV shows.
When did society become so fat-phobic? Fashion magazines promoted anorexia and emaciation, television ads featured actresses who boasted about wearing a size zero.
Zero? A zero was nothing but skin, bones, and hair!
Why was life so unfair? She had never worried about her weight until lately. As a young girl she’d been blessed with an active life and a fully functioning metabolism, now she lived at a slower pace and enjoyed a simpler life. Why should her body punish her for taking it easy? And why was it so hard to eat less when half the world went to bed hungry every night?
Until she’d begun this diet, Edith couldn’t remember the last time she’d honestly been hungry. Oh, there were times when she saw a delicious dish and wanted to try a bite, but it had been years since her stomach had actually growled with hunger. Last night, however, it had growled plenty, and the feeling wasn’t pleasant.
Sighing, she reached up and patted her husband’s face. “I think I’m ready to walk home now.”
“Good. We’ll get those pounds off!” Winslow gave her an encouraging squeeze and a brief kiss before he sprang up, punching the air like Rocky Balboa gone amuck. She eyed him with a sour smile and rose slowly. Of course he felt optimistic; he’d lost weight without even trying.
Later, while Winslow showered, Edith called Dr. Marc.
“Dr. Marc? I’m sorry; I hope I didn’t interrupt you.”
“No, Edith. Is something wrong?”
“I’m hungry—starving. I’ve drunk three glasses of water and eaten all my allotted breakfast calories. Since the only calorie-free thing in my kitchen at the moment is my sink, I’m thinking of eating it.”
His chuckle did nothing to ease her frustration. “Have an extra piece of toast, Edith, and deduct the calories at lunch.”
If she did that, she’d be eating the stove by three.
“Remember, slow weight loss is better than fast.”
“But I haven’t dropped an ounce in two days. I’ve walked both mornings, and I’ve stuck to my allotted calories.”
“Well, losing weight isn’t easy.”
“Winslow’s lost two pounds.”
“Good for him! And soon you’ll start to see those numbers drop. Now have another piece of toast, maybe some extra fruit, then find something to do that will keep your mind off food.”
Edith made a face at the phone, then hung up. Something to do? Well—she glanced around the kitchen. She did have to go to the Mecantile to pick up a few things. Thank the Lord, Vernie had stocked up for winter . . . and she had a computer.
Ten minutes later, Edith had walked down to the mercantile and asked Vernie if she could borrow the computer for a moment.
“I just need to look something up on the Internet,” she explained. “I would have gone over to use Charles Graham’s machine, but since I was coming here anyway . . .”
Vernie flapped a hand in her direction. “Go right ahead, hon, and give me that shopping list. Abner and I will get started on your basket.”
Grateful that Vernie wouldn’t be reading over her shoulder, Edith sat at the computer desk, then opened the Internet browser. Moving to www.google.com, she typed “weight loss” as her search term.
The results filled the screen almost instantly, and her eyes crossed when she realized there were thousands of reference pages. “Would you like to narrow the search?” asked Google.
“You bet . . . along with my hips.”
She typed “kinds of diets,” then sat back as a list of diets filled the screen.
After tapping the site for the cabbage soup diet, she read: Eat as much of the soup as you want and you’ll feel full, but be prepared . . . some flatulence could occur.
Cabbage soup? She liked cabbage, and so did Winslow. She liked soup; nothing was better in winter.
She closed her eyes, imagining herself in the peach dress in record time. Cabbage was roughage, so she could fill up on this stuff, never be hungry, and eat practically nothing in the process.
She studied the screen to check the ingredients: cabbage, onions, tomatoes, bouillon, onion soup mix, and tomato juice. Nothing harmful. And hadn’t Dr. Marc recommended lots of vegetables? And the diet wasn’t only soup—each day offered other foods, too: potatoes, fruit juice, and other vegetables. One day a week, she could even eat beef.
Setting her jaw, she clicked the print icon. When the page had printed, she hollered for Abner to make sure he had at least three nice cabbages in her basket.
She had no sooner staggered through the parsonage doorway with her groceries when she spied Winslow in the living room. Grinning, he held out a bouquet of red roses. “Happy Valentine’s Day, honey.”
“Oh!” Dropping her shopping bag by the door, she hurried across the room to give him a hug. “Thank you so much! I’d forgotten what day it was.”
He placed the flowers in her arms, then kissed her lightly. “And in addition,” he picked up a beribboned satin box from the coffee table, “sweets for the sweet.”
Edith’s face fell. He had brought a box of her favorite lemon drops . . . and she had decided to begin the cabbage soup diet tomorrow.
Win must have noticed her lack of enthusiasm. “I know you’re trying to lose weight, but one every now and then wouldn’t hurt, would it?”
Poor, dear Winslow. He had no idea how hard it was for her to give up sweets . . . but his intentions were good. Smiling, she accepted the candy. She’d do something with it later—either roll every last piece in wet salt or offer the box to Tallulah.
“Thank you, Win. And for your Valentine’s Day gift, I’m going to fix the best dinner you’ve had all week— chicken fried steak, candied sweet potatoes, rolls, and gravy.”
When his eyes lit up, she knew she couldn’t have dreamed up a more appreciated gift.