Chewed-Out

Yesterday afternoon a friend took it upon himself to freely berate me for the lack of progress shown in my efforts to approach a normal body mass.  Over the course of ninety minutes I was reminded of the missed opportunities I was avoiding to pack on "easy pounds," suggesting that I take lead from Morgan Spurlock's Super Size Me and consume fast food on a daily basis, capitalizing on the dense calories, relatively small portions, and affordability offered at these ubiquitous patty mills.  My lecturer is a savvy, observant critic of many areas within American culture; he has a particularly keen eye for discriminating between European and domestic inclinations, having spent his college years abroad.  He is quick to acknowledge that prescribing fatty fare universally categorized as "junk" runs counter to basic  tenets of good health --but my situation is unusual and extreme, thus justifying the seemingly absurd.  A proclivity for showmanship also leads him to recognize a compelling story when he sees one, and it was his encouragement that ultimately convinced me to launch this site (although he would prefer fewer written entries in exchange for video updates).  It was difficult to receive his criticisms, as I wanted to defend the positive changes I have been able to implement as more than inconsequential.  That being said, it was the right time to be taken to task, and I was ready to listen.  This was not the first occasion in which we discussed the measures I should be practicing to gain weight, and McDonalds' "Extra Value Menu" had been a topic then as well.  What's more, he is probably the third close acquaintance to suggest, in all seriousness, that I incorporate milkshakes into my diet.  (On this advice I pulled into the local Dairy Queen a week ago to survey its offerings but immediately "froze" --pun intended-- when facing its mélange of chunky ice cream-and-candy blends.)  I have become increasingly aware that a dependence on water-based vegetables in quantity well above the average allotment has been a major roadblock in my ability to also down foods of more substantive fabric.  A year ago I was worse off, knowingly depriving myself by swelling my insides with bowls of iceberg lettuce at each of my two meals.  I justified them by including chicken or fish as an ingredient, but the nutritive value of the final mixture was negligible.  By late-July it took an intervention from a physician for my plate to receive an overhaul; I returned to less pale, more vitamin-rich leafy greens, reserving them only for the evening and dedicating lunch to the sort of choices usually seen at breakfast, which for half my life has been an avoided observance.  Now I am in the position to reduce or --very likely-- eliminate these bulky, burdensome salads altogether.  After my pal's harangue, I pushed greater portions of carbohydrates both afternoon and night, eating beyond my accustomed limit.  I will continue to emphasize selections that play into this category, also devoting more attention to protein where I can.  I have yet to drink a second "supplement beverage" within twenty-four hours of my 3 o'clock fix, and I am aware it is something I cannot negotiate, no matter how much Brewer's Yeast I spare for those extra rounds of primetime popcorn.  In recent months I have sat with the troubling knowledge that, even when pushed to capacity, my system will not see improvement until it receives  substantive spoonfuls from "whole" meals.  Until then, both mind and mouth hunger for what is missing, a taste of despair my ultimate dessert.

When a milkshake might save your life.  (Ad from LIFE Magazine, 4-23-1956.)