Though I haven't held a real job-job since my high-school days as a Joizey supermarket cashier – just lucky, I guess – I'm seriously tempted to "pack up [my] troubles in an old kit bag and smile, smile, smile," hightailing it down to that Texas county offering free "weight-loss surgery" as an employee fringe benefit.
Hire meeeeeee!
The county commissioners figure they'll save more money over the long term, since fat contributes to many deadly diseases including heart attacks, cancer, diabetes, sleep apnea, hypertension, self-hatred and romantic misery.
Smart!
To qualify for the county's free surgery, first I'd have to be diagnosed as obese. Do wearing muumuus, caftans, and tent-dresses count? Just ask any of my exes; they'll willingly document my – shudder – voluminosity, no endless rhapsodizing about cottage-cheese thighs allowed. Plus I'd need to flunk a year of monitored diet and physical exercise. I can do that.
Er, I think I already have.
Personally speaking, I must own more lapsed, TOTALLY UNUSED gym memberships than some girls have broken engagements. Do they give an Oscar or an Emmy for that? Let me confess at the outset: My sole participation in physical exercise consists of rigorously dating men who work out. I'm codependent to their gym membership. They sweat, I glow.
That's it! Bunky, I'm so there!
Supposedly, the Texas county's free surgery either reduces the size of the stomach, or reroutes the intestines – your choice. Well, speaking for my own intestines, they'd prefer Prague by way of Paris, bypassing airport hassles – could that possibly be arranged?
Apparently, F-A-T is the new pornography in America – replacing smoking, which replaced sex, which replaced death, which replaced, well, pornography. The Associated Press cites some federal statistic claiming 60 percent of all Americans are overweight or obese. That means some 180 million adults, right? A lotta flab. Therefore, it's my patriotic duty to step forward and admit I, too, am one of those Americans.
I feel so included.
For a long time, I was saved from my Inner Fat Girl by using some tricky meditation techniques I learned in a Positive Mental Attitude workshop. They swore we wouldn't gain weight if we avoided thinking how fattening what we are eating is. They tried to get us to reprogram our brains.
That worked for a few minutes, plus Aerobic Worrying burns up TONS of calories – I promise you that. Alas, approaching – or receding – middle age seems to slow the metabolism, and the pounds pile back on. Besides, have you noticed how alluring food is lately? I'm sure we all know food-freaks who can actually reach ultimate pleasure merely by reading a menu. Embarrassing, really.
But now I can see how in denial I was – I didn't even own a scale.
My fond friend, "Freddy from Fresno," not his real name, sometimes seems even more worried about getting f-a-t than I am, Lord love him. He'll buy his dungarees three sizes too small and then starve himself for a month so they fit ... for the next week. Then he falls off the submarine sandwich bandwagon, and the blue-jean cycle begins anew.
Promise you won't say I told you.
So I'd better not let "Freddy" know about this Will-Work-for-Free-Fat-Surgery deal, or he might get envious. But then, he's the one with a job and health insurance coverage. Besides, now that I'm too f-a-t for anything but fond friendship, I like nothing better than tossing jalapeno-cheese fries at his plate. Clearly, this must stop.
Meanwhile, to inject a further note of unreality into this "free" weight-loss surgery offer, no one seems to be mentioning the risksof gastrointestinal bypass for morbid obesity – the potential for severecomplications and even a significant mortality rate.
That's right. People die.
Nevertheless, bariatric surgery has legions of cheerleaders and true believers, mostly in the medical profession, and hordes of opponents, mostly in the legal profession. The sufferers are in the middle, Fat People Like Us (FPUS).
If it seems I'm making light of a serious subject, please forgive me. I'm not. It's just my way. Hey, I was always too thin to be fat and sexy, until I became too fat to be thin and sexy. That stings. I got by on calling myself "curvy and cushiony." But heed my heavy message: Fat is OK in the right places. That is, until it's not.
Here's my, ah, bottom line: Don't weep for me, Texas. Unlike throngs of surgery-happy Americans, I do believe I'd really rather walk it off.
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"Busy People's Low-Carb Cookbook"