A Divinity That Ends Our Shapes : Life is too short never to succumb to desire. How many chances does one person get to go for the truffles?

Did you feel dejected (or worse) when you stepped on your bathroom scale this morning? You’re not alone. Many of us chowed down too much chocolate over the holidays. If you have already forgiven yourself and are returning to your usual sensible eating habits, no need to read further. But if you are one of those (mostly women) beginning yet another wearying siege of dieting, let me offer my story as a warning.

My sister is slender the way a daffodil is yellow. She and my father are naturally thin. They stride through life in narrow jeans and never have to think about their weight. Given the choice of a carrot or a caramel, they instinctively choose the carrot. I love them anyway and harbor hardly any vengeful feelings.

My mother and I have to strive to stay slim. There are days when we know better than even to look at jeans. Many a caramel has escaped undevoured, but not undesired. Whereas my sister and father often forget lunch (“What, 3:30 already? Might as well wait until dinner.”), my mother and I have never unintentionally neglected a meal. Although we might decide to skip lunch, we are aware it’s high noon and, if it were a just universe, we would be eating.

There is, of course, nothing wrong with trying to remain slender. My mother, by watching her diet, has stayed slim without becoming preoccupied with it. I, on the other hand, have at times let the fear of fat tyrannize my life. Ever since my last year of high school--when I realized I was not going to get any taller than 5 feet, 2 inches--I have tried to keep my weight at 98 pounds. For years I managed fairly easily. But in my 30s, it suddenly became almost a full-time job. Somewhere along the way, I had forgotten that 98 was a rather arbitrary number settled on when I was 17. I would have been far less horrified to see my temperature soar to 103 than to see my weight there.

One substitute for eating was reading about not eating. I binged on diet books. Just as Humpty Dumpty (large egg--81 calories) tells Alice that he can explain all the poems that ever were written, I could give the calorie count of all the foods that ever were invented. I used to get upset, moreover, when diet dictionaries disagreed, one claiming that a single shelled cashew contains 8 calories, another listing it at 12.

Then, a few Christmases ago, something happened to turn the scales (so to speak). I went to a party at a friend’s house. Anne, a superb confiseuse, had made pralines, dipped French nougat, tawny butterscotch. (The very names feel smooth and lush on the tongue.) I saw platters of peanut brittle, creamy peppermints, Turkish delights. According to Hamlet, “There’s a divinity that shapes our ends.” Anne had made that, too. I made it through the evening without even tasting a single piece of anything. As I was driving home, with snow blowing against the windshield, the car ahead of me spun on the icy road and came within inches of smashing into my car. My first thought: “I’m going to die--I wish I’d eaten the truffles.” Life is too short (and so am I) never to have any sweetness, always to control desire.

In Marcia Millman’s “Such a Pretty Face: Being Fat in America” she describes Helen, for whom being slim is the most important thing. When Helen turns 60, she reflects, “I haven’t done a damn thing in my life.” But then she thinks, “Well, I’ve stayed thin.” Helen began to haunt me: She never realizes that slenderness is not enough. Sure, it’s nice to be lean, but if that’s the major achievement in life, then existence is meaningless, as void of nutrients as diet cola. Whatever Helen’s poundage, she is, as the Bible says, “weighed in the balances and . . . found wanting.”

I no longer weigh 98 pounds. I have put on a few ounces here, a few ounces there. Mostly there. All in all, I have gained somewhere between 5 and 10 pounds. I can’t tell you the exact number because I no longer obsessively weigh myself. (There used to be days when I climbed on and off the scales so many times that it almost qualified as a step-aerobics class.)

Each of us finally has to ask herself, for the rest of your days, do you want to live or diet? I hope you choose living, which means love, worthwhile work, a realistic weight and, occasionally, some chocolate. The good news is that when you stop excessive dieting, you don’t necessarily become fat, just normal.

Along with the pounds, I have gained perspective. For me, the whole process of reducing had become reductive. Maybe I was not consuming many calories, but I was consuming valuable time struggling to keep my weight unnaturally low. My stomach is not as flat as it used to be; neither is my life. Although the House of Mirrors remains a nice place to visit, I no longer want the stress of living there. At night, I count my blessings rather than my calories and fat grams. I sleep a whole lot better. And I don’t dream about fudge.