Over the past year or so – okay, since Toronto pride, where all the gay men take off their shirts and none of them have less than a 6-pack – we've both been inspired to try to drop a few pounds. Not that we're fat, but soft is a good term for it. Pudgy in places (Pip?).
Anyway, mostly things have gone well. The timing was ideal. Our friend Stephen consulted a dietician around this time and started on a new diet that involved cutting carbs and controlling portion size – really sensible stuff that has worked wonders for him. And we've been able to adapt it to our situation. Our progress has been slower than Stephen's, but there has been progress. My six pack is still covered by a protective layer of fat, but that layer is thinner. I even dropped a trouser size.
But something is holding me back from losing those final few pounds. Something evil, yet delicious. Yes, my personal devil is chips. Any kind of chips will do. Potato, corn, um… vegetable. Doesn't matter. They're all wickedly delicious. Okay, maybe not banana.
Now, if I were a religious man, I'd say chips are the devil's way of corrupting me. I'd see them with a pitchfork and horns. But I'm not religious (I personally think faith is a bunch of hooey, but that's for another post). I am, however, a cinephile. I prefer to see them as my personal nemesis. The Ernst Stavro Blofeld to my James Bond.
I can see it now – I walk into a room and they turn on me in a big swivel chair, petting their big fluffy white cat, and sniggering, "You're powerless to resist, Mister Bond." You know, pure evil.
And it really is hopeless. Every time I make a bit of progress in my weight loss, the chips start calling. My only hope is that, by writing this out, I can start to work through these personal demons. Unfortuantely, right now, the only way to stop the chips talking to me is to eat them. I do this so others won't have to. It really is an act of self-sacrifice for you all.
You should be thanking me.