Last week, I lost five pounds. FIVE POUNDS. I near
When, before I knew it, it became the weight loss heard around the world:
My father called to congratulate me.
The trainers at the wellness center, some I don’t even know, congratulated me.
The people who work out with me on Thursdays congratulated me–and on Fridays.
I could hear the relief (the “oh-thank-God-maybe-she’ll-stop-asking-me-if-she-looks-thinner-every-five-seconds” kind) in my husband’s voice when I told him.
The people in daily life have been praising my donkey.
And I even got some strange message on my voice mail from somebody I don’t know saying something in a foreign accent about pounds. (Although, I suspect it’s one of those “I live in
I am happy. Delighted to know that I don’t have to buy the farm to effectively shrink. Five pounds this week, coupled with the two pounds I’ve lost over the past 15 years and, well, I’m down SEVEN POUNDS.
Hey, by the time we pay off our mortgage, I’ll be downright smokin’.
————————————————————————————-
Now that I am somewhat of a guru on effective weight loss (shut up, you), I’d like to impart one of my celebrity secrets to losing weight: Pooping.
I visited a friend’s store this past week when another friend came in and before long there were four of us talking about weight loss and then almost immediately the subject of, well, you know: The donkey droppings. (Sorry.) Even though there was nobody in the store but us, I noticed that our lively discourse around the latest designers got suddenly very hushed.
One of my friends practically whispered how she never does it and thinks that’s why she didn’t lose any weight while going through her boot camp program. Another says she takes something for it because not only couldn’t she lose weight, she could barely button her pants. As she spoke, poor thing could barely make eye contact. Another said she did it too much and then ran quickly, shamed, to the bathroom.
It really struck me how secretive we’ve all become about our elimination systems. Because really, no matter where you fall on the spectrum, the effects of their dysfunction can be devastating.
Now, I’m no doctor, still, I’d like to blow the cover off of middle-age pooping because I notice that we women talk about it as if not being able to do it regularly makes us a failure on some level—or confirms the idea that we’re not as good and don’t deserve to be paid as much as men who, as you may know, are highly accomplished in this area.
Why just last week, Dan and I were at Costco when I told him that he needed to get some Beano (he’s a little too long on the “foreplay” aspect of pooping, if you will). To which he replied, “I’ll get Beano if you get this.” Upon which he presented me with the gift of a lifetime: a long tall bottle labeled “Benefiber.” It was resplendent under the fluorescent lights. Literally took my breath away.
Ladies, this bottle of Benefiber is by far the best Valentine’s Day present I think I’ve ever gotten. Better than diamonds. Because really, what does a good diamond do anyway? Just sit there? It surely doesn’t make your stomach feel flatter.
Now don’t worry, I’m not Mehmet Oz. This is not “You: The Poopers Manual.” There will be no diagrams or descriptions of how healthy poop should travel regularly through our lower digestive system like a log that flows on the calm waters of a familiar river (although that does have a nice ring to it).
What I will say is that we really need to come out of the closet with it. Get loud and proud. Otherwise, we’ll never get anywhere in terms of weight loss or, frankly, a good mood in general. Because, my dear readers, everybody poops. Even Marcia Brady took a good dookey every once in a while. I suspect that’s how she managed to get past her mad crush on Greg. (Because who are kidding. It was so obvious.)
Trust.
Until next time.
Share