Three months ago, I achieved what most women dream of: the metabolism of an athletic 16-year-old male.
I didn’t recognize it at first. I just thought that I had gotten over that bulge in my diet plan. One day I got on the scale and found I had lost those last five pounds. Wow. Wow. As any conscientious dieter knows, once you lose a few pounds, you cut back on the good clean living in case you overdose. You drop those brisk morning walks and instead you reward yourself with a pastry or four. After a couple of weeks of rewards and treats, I checked in again with my scale. This time, instead of finding myself back in the weight crisis zone, I had lost another five pounds. The weight of my teenage self.
Sun parted the clouds and streamed in through my bathroom window.
Now I realized the possibilities were limitless. I felt as if the very hand of the dieting goddess were upon me.
That morning I had two eggs for breakfast, instead of my typical two minus one yolk. With bacon. And toast. After dropping off the kids at school, I stopped into a shop for a mocha. Whipped cream? Yes! Thank you very much!
A number of orders of pastrami, French fries and one creme brulee later, I had another rendezvous with the scale. Result: happiness. The hand of the dieting goddess remained with me.
My heavy friend, being polite, never mentioned my weight loss. My slender friend noticed it immediately, narrowed her eyes and told me to go to the doctor.
Ha! I seethed inwardly. We can be friends as long as I play Fatty to your Skinny? I ordered another pumpkin latte to interrupt my glare in her direction.
At work I pitied my protein-bar-gnawing colleague. She lived in the darkness. She still thought being slender was all about self-deprivation. I watched her attack her bar, then I helped myself to a third cookie.
I know that to those whom much is given, much is expected. I realized that to share my truth I would have to write “The Whipped Cream Diet Book.” In fact, I was circling the names of potential agents to submit my proposal to when my phone rang. It was the doctor.
Yes, I had made that appointment after all. My doctor, calling with the results.
My doctor said hyperthyroidism.
My goddess evaporated. It appears I’m a mortal after all, with the vials of pills to prove it and help return my metabolism back to normal. But, as any 16-year-old on Ritalin will tell you, there’s got to be a way to make this work for me.
Desiree Zamorano’s bathroom scale is in Altadena.