"You're about ten points shy of a perfect bowling game," the doctor told me. Unfortunately, sitting there in an uncomfortable vinyl armchair in a doctor's office, he was not giving me advice about how to bowl my final frame. He was holding the results of my bloodwork. He was talking about my cholesterol.
"Obesity is one of the contributing factors to elevated cholesterol numbers like yours," he told me, using the flat, toneless voice doctor's use when delivering bad news.
Obesity? I might be carrying a little extra -- it was a long, cold Boston winter, after all -- but "obesity" is one of those words that conjures images of Jerry Springer standing outside a trailer with a saws-all, explaining to the camera how he's about to liberate some gelatinous triple-wide land mammal from three years' captivity in a double-wide trailer. I preferred to think of myself as "powerfully built."
"Given your family history of heart disease, I think you should try to lose thirty pounds to bring those LDL scores down." This is the "chummy voice" doctors use -- "those LDL scores" -- like we were talking about trying to hang a heavy mirror using "some of those drywall screws"... When the doctor turns to the chummy voice, he means business.
And what a business it was: Thirty pounds? I was stunned. Thirty pounds would put me back at 185 pounds -- I hadn't weighed 185 since I played lacrosse in high school. How the hell was I going to turn the clock back thirteen years? How was I going to eliminate 1/7th of my body weight?
And so I found myself at fat camp. Not the sleep-away fat camp that rich executives attend at posh resorts in Palm Springs -- this was fat "day camp" for the blue collar set. It was "night camp", actually -- a series of nutrition classes in a dusty sub-basement of one of the professional buildings adjoining Massachusetts General Hospital. For three nights a week I sat in a semicircle with people who fear gravity the way Toronto tourists fear a coughing Chinaman; people whose passing shadows frequently activate the optical sensors on streetlamps; people for whom consuming food is not just sustenance or a hobby or a refuge, but a full-time occupation.
And those poor fuckers unburdened themselves, sharing their pathetic tales with the "facilitator." One mountainous woman rocked back and forth -- creating an effect not dissimilar to ripples on a wave pool -- as she described her moment of faiblesse in which she found herself unable to resist the allure of a by-the-ounce urban salad bar that featured California rolls and pork ribs. She ate twenty pieces of sushi and two racks of ribs before she ran out of money and had to go to the ATM. Then she got more.
After the lurid confessional preludes, each session focused on some basics of nutrition -- counting calories, measuring portion sizes, balancing proteins and carbohydrates. These were things I had learned to ignore during years of culinary training and work in the restaurant biz. I took notes and paid attention as the facilitator sprayed down a twinkie with bug spray -- I'm not kidding -- so that none of her slobbering Jabbas would make a mad rush for the golden pastry she was using as an example of empty calories.
Ever seen the TV series "Scared Straight?" This was sort of like that. After three nights of fat camp, I could take no more, and I called up my doctor. "Is there another way?" I pleaded. "Can you give me a pill that will accelerate my metabolism or kill my appetite or something besides going to those *classes*?"
"Well, now," he said [chummy voice], "Let's see if we can get you on a liquid diet."
The beauty of a liquid diet, as I was soon to learn, is that you don't have to worry about what you're eating. You simply eat four "shakes" a day. And that's it. It's like a total of 1000 calories, mostly milk proteins and fish oils, or some such, and the weight just drops off.
It's not the only thing that drops off, though.
This is PoopReport.com, folks, and so I thank you for letting me air my psychological dirty laundry with the long buildup to THE PROBLEM; you folks are good listeners [this is the chummy voice].
THE PROBLEM is that drinking liquid proteins for nine days (it's been nine days so far, as I write this) chases the Mastercrap and indeed the whole Von Crapp family out of Sphincter Valley and up into places unknown, well to the north of the lower pipe.
THE PROBLEM is that I have taken two shits -- TWO! -- since I started this regime, and each one has hurt so much that tears filled my eyes and my teeth chattered like I was freezing to death in a Jack London story. It felt like it was leaving me sideways -- it felt like a soup can leaving me sideways! It was longer than the Midgard Serpent. And utterly odorless.
Odorless!
Was it just overflow from my tear ducts blocking my olfactory apparatus? No -- this is the real deal, folks. What's coming out of me -- when it happens at all -- is the most chemically neutral patty I have ever unpacked.
The first one left me in a state of shock and I immediately stumbled downstairs and buried my head under a pillow, hoping for a swift death.
The second time, though, I knew what was coming, and after I unwound all fifteen or so unscented inches, I knelt down to get up close to my inert and crenulated superdoo... still no scent. No inclusions, either -- none of the hairy things or the red things or the corn (oh, yes, the CORN), or the weird sort of fragmentary bits of plankton that used to float off the edge of the whale.
One whole, clean, stinkless log.
It's a weird process, especially for somebody who usually watches the Food Network with picture-in-picture (the other channel is sports). But I have lost nine pounds in as many days. My willpower is strong. I don't want to die young. And I don't think I will make it through any more sessions of fat camp.
I'll keep you posted.
-- The artist formerly known as Mastercrapper
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