15 - 21 March 2001
Issue No.525
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Al-Ahram Weekly On-line 15 - 21 March 2001 Issue No.525 |
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Bursting at the seams
Losing weight is really not such a difficult endeavour. But how can one keep the kilos shed so enthusiastically off for good? That is the question. Starving oneself can be viewed as fun -- romantic, even. One can conjure up images of a new, improved self and forget about the gnawing hunger at least for a while, until the time comes for another glass of water and a round of lettuce leaves. The numbers on the scales, diminishing daily, usually provide potent incentive to hang in there, pretending to feel satiated by a single apple.
The real problem starts when one reaches the "ideal" weight for one's height, whatever one's dietitian has decided that should be. Most dieters, satisfied with the results attained in just a few weeks, will return to normal eating, albeit in smaller quantities (at first). Soon, however, the portions one allows oneself to ingest with a good conscience will become imperceptibly larger. One feels good, full of energy. An extra small piece of cake can be eliminated by an additional ten minutes on the treadmill; similarly, therefore, a larger helping will require just a little more exercise. Most weight watchers must have noticed that it does not work that way, unfortunately; nor does claiming that one's favourite jeans have shrunk terribly and inexplicably in the wash. Invariably, one day the truth stares them in the face as the numbers on the scale climb to vertiginous heights: they have simply regained their embonpoint, and then some.
Many of my friends have become chronic dieters, putting on weight, losing it and then starting all over. I am personally rather wary of this yo-yo effect on one's system. Having shed a few extra kilos recently, I was very keen on sticking to my diminished figure. This is where the advice of a good dietitian came in handy. His method is rather simple: the diet prescribed is not altered, but he allows for one large meal a week (since he does not specify how long the meal should take, I stretch it over a period of 24 hours), giving one an opportunity to pig out properly.
My "meal" takes place on Saturdays. Preparations start one or two days beforehand, with a visit to various supermarkets where my daughter and I spend an inordinate time selecting the various items which will figure on the Saturday carte du jour. Will we be eating at home, or in a restaurant? And if the latter, which? Shall we have baked potatoes with butter and grilled cheese on the side, a seafood dish with wine and cream, fried vegetables -- or simply treat ourselves to an orgy of fresh French baguette with butter, cheese, honey or jam? Shall we go for sushi, fuul and ta'miya (although my Oriental inclinations were seriously curtailed the day a large cockroach climbed onto our table at a particularly chic restaurant to check the contents of the plates), curry, tortillas, pizza, pasta, or crêpes at that new place? The choices are infinite, the only non-negotiable condition the presence of an extensive list of rich desserts.
My Saturday binges begin at 4.00am (later would prevent me from being able to fit in all my dream foods) with a bar of chocolate washed down by a cup of tea with full-cream milk and lots of sugar. After a few hours' sleep, I wake up fit for the next event, which is strictly devoted to the absorption of junk food in large quantities. Already queasy but unwilling to admit it, I bravely announce towards 5.00pm that I am all set to attack the last item on the programme, namely the huge dinner planned so carefully beforehand. That I have not so far suffered a heart attack or a burst stomach is one of those miracles one does not want to look into too closely. Sunday is by far the most unpleasant day of the week: the mere mention of food makes my skin crawl. By Tuesday, however, I catch myself thinking fondly of that candy bar I did not taste the previous week; of course, by now I am open to suggestions regarding the venue of the weekly feast.
Yesterday, however, as I was slicing tomatoes onto a dainty heap of water-packed tuna, I casually reflected aloud that diet food had become my favourite, really, and that I would not mind simply adding some good olive oil and a piece of crusty bread to my frugal daily fare on Saturday. "All that other junk is finally quite disappointing," I ventured. To my surprise, my daughter agreed wholeheartedly.
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