If I Was King of the World

Should I be anointed Grand Poobah of all things earthly, I would make significant changes.

As a benevolent leader, I wouldn’t be “mean;” but be confident I’d wield my power to appropriately mete out consequences to society’s ne'er-do-wells.

My first task would be to create a “discomfort pistol.”

Whenever someone did something rude, totally self-absorbed, or incredibly inconsiderate, they would be tagged with an invisible beam by this gun. It wouldn’t cause any damage — but for the next 24 hours, they wouldn’t be able to get physically comfortable, no matter what they did. A good analogy would be a stiff neck or a Charlie Horse. It’s not enough to incapacitate you, certainly not enough of an issue to go to the doctor. Yet, all day, it nags at you and the ache doesn’t quit until you get a night’s sleep.

We would use it on people who talk on cell phones or text in theaters, or aim it at the jerk tail-gating us on the freeway. It would exceptionally appropriate for ignoramuses who park in handicapped parking spaces and don’t need to. Give them — on an extremely minor level — a bit of poetic justice.

Anyone shot with the beam would be all right the next day, but at least for 24 hours, there would be justice. Maybe, eventually, they’d learn.

Of course, since fitness is such an issue for all of us, I’d make getting fit more fun.

Stationary bicycles would actually transport you to your favorite places — only as long as you were exercising.

One of these days

One of these days, I'm going to get back on track with my diet. Really. I'll burst out of bed inspired, invigorated, and enthused. I'll clear the kitchen, throw out the junk food, pull out my motivational books, and start weighing, measuring, and monitoring anything that crosses my lips. No crumb of cuisine will be too trivial to escape my scrutiny. Yep, that's the way you lose weight you know. One of these days, boy am I going to get my eating act together! I'm just so busy right now.

Someday soon I've got to start exercising. I could wake up earlier, strap on some tunes, and stroll around the block. It's just so warm in bed, and I've been waiting for the rain to stop; my raincoat is so old, I'd look silly walking around town in it. I'm looking forward to a patch of blue sky so I can get back out there.

Just as soon as I can get around to it, I need to start a journal. I've been organizing my thoughts - even thinking about jotting down a few notes. I considered using a yellow-lined pad, but I really want to keep my thoughts and feelings for years. Recording something so important on any old bland notebook would be tacky, so I'm toying with buying a deluxe, leather-bound journal - maybe even an expensive pen. When I can put away a few dollars, I'm so there.

In a little while, I think I'll even go again to my meetings. It's just, well, you know how it is: holidays, travel, celebrations... who can control themselves with goodies everywhere? A slip-up here, some sloppiness there - boom - eight pounds! I almost went back last week, except it's so embarrassing to keep putting on the same pounds - so I'll knock them off first, and then head back. In a few weeks, it'll be a better time anyway.

One of these days real soon, I'll get it all together. I've been planning it a long time; I just want to make sure I do it right, no mess-ups allowed. So I'm waiting until life settles down before I get started. Let me tell you though, when the time is perfect, there's no stopping me.

I can feel it coming, one of these days, real soon, right about the corner...

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus, THINspirational speaker and author lost 70 pounds over 14 years ago. He has a free motivational e-zine at www.THINspiration.com. His book, THE SHADE OF TREE IS THE VERY BEST SHADE THERE IS, is available at www.ShadeOfATree.com. He can be reached for presentations or comments at 707.442.6243 or scottq@THINspiration.com.

Drowning at 35,000 feet

A healthy daily amount of water consumption is 48 ounces or more. Lately, I had been neglecting that requirement; the result being I was feeling a scooch "bulky." Therefore, be it resolved that while on my recent travels, I would drink eight glasses of water a day.

Whether in restaurants, at meetings, or on airplanes, I opted for the clear stuff. I am certain coffee and soda companies the country over were feeling a hit in their profits, but I felt proud for taking care of myself.

The downside about drinking so much water is the more one drinks; the more one's body needs to drink. After a short period of hydration, one's innards feel like desert sand if he goes a short time without water. The upshot is I began feeling antsy if I didn't have a water bottle within reach 24/7. Of course, another byproduct of so much water is an excessive need to visit the restroom (or as I refer to it, "The Weight Reduction Cubicle").

With that as back-story, I boarded a three-hour flight to Houston.

Immediately upon reaching cruising altitude, I rose to use the lavatory, traversing the entire plane to get to its aft location. Upon returning, I recognized I was already thirsty and requested a new bottle of water, which did well to quench my thirst... and re-trigger the urge. Being near the front of the plane, each repetition of "the long walk," meant that I passed all the other passengers, leading me to feel self-conscious.

I was convinced they were whispering to seat mates, "What's up with this guy? You think he's got a thing about airplane bathrooms?"

Vanity and negative self-talk overruled by biology, I again unclicked my seat belt and strode back to the lavatory, trying to avoid eye contact with the rows of flyers that had seen me parade the aisle twice moments earlier. The attendant smiled as if we were old friends, and opened the door for me as I approached.

Again, back to my seat, feeling parched. I resisted the urge for more refreshment, thinking if camels could traverse the vast expanses of dunes in North Africa, I could sit in a 737 for a couple of hours.

Sadly, I was mistaken. After repeating my "drink and release" pattern yet again, I was becoming intensely embarrassed and tried to sneak my way into the first class cabin for the next round, assuming upper crust folks would pay no heed to one of the riff-raff using their lavatory. The attendant gently pointed out, "for security purposes, main cabin passengers must use the facilities in the back of the plane," and steered me to this too-familiar landscape.

I wanted to counter her comment by asking how my small bladder could affect the safety of a 72,000-pound aircraft but in light of current airline security measures, decided against it.

As I walked yet again the long aisle, smiling awkwardly at the other passengers, I attempted to console myself with the thought, "at least I'm getting my exercise."

The World's Greatest Newest Super Amazing Diet!

"I lost 18 pounds my first 24 hours while still enjoying chocolate, French fries, and beer! The best thing is it's been a whole day and I haven't gained back a pound!"

Hard to believe, isn't it? Like millions of women, Zelda Smith, always fought the battle of the bulge.

"Since I was young, I was chubby. Other kids made fun of me, teasing me and embarrassing me on the playground. As an adult, it only got worse."

"It didn't matter what I did, weight just kept piling on. I tried everything, switching to low-fat foods, watching what I ate; I even stopped using chocolate syrup as salad dressing. At meals, I tried limiting myself to only what could fit on one plate, never going back for seconds. My sister - who's never been supportive - scoffed. She said, 'Zelda, if you're going to do the one-plate thing, I don't think you should use a platter. It defeats the purpose.' Do you see what I've had to put up with?"

"But I didn't let her deter me; I was determined! So I adjusted my lifestyle. I went to the gym; I even got out of my car and went inside once. At home I exercised regularly - ten minutes once a month, just like clockwork. I found other ways to increase my activity. I started walking to the mailbox instead of driving; my husband really appreciated that because he found it hard to get in the front door when I left the car parked on the porch. Sometimes, when I was really inspired, I even put down the remote control and walked all the way over to the TV to shut it off. It's not easy to change your life, but when something's worth it, you sacrifice."

"Still, I was frustrated by the lack of results. So I went to one of those weight loss support groups. I thought I was going to die the first time I walked in the meeting, listening to that skinny young thing talk about how she lost weight by using some silly fad diet involving eating right and exercising. I thought, 'No way this will work!' But, I took the materials home and bought a food scale and put them right over there - in that drawer - where they've been for six months. You would think after that long, I would have lost something, wouldn't you? See, nothing works."

"Then, I discovered the new Placebo Sham Diet with miracle additive Cleanyouout! Wow! I take one pill every hour with a cup of castor oil, six raw eggs, and their patented ingredient, "laxital," and - Voila! - the weight just drops off you. Of course, it helps to be near the restroom when it takes effect, but 18 hours a day in the bathroom is a small price to pay for a size five body. Someday soon, I'm hoping to get out of here and show it to everyone!"

Fat on the inside

The most recent news from the diet world was too much for me to handle. Should you therefore be strolling the street and find small pieces of gray matter, be not alarmed for they are merely remnants of my brain, which hath exploded.

After decades of considering my ultimate goal to have the number stated on my driver's license be my honest-to-goodness weight - and actually achieving it - I have recently learned that one's weight is NOT the indicator of whether or not he is overweight. In case you didn't catch that, I shall repeat; not being overweight does not mean you are thin. (In fairness, it is my duty to warn you that this is the part that causes healthy brains to explode; tread warily.)

This revelation is based on a study yanked directly from Superman's Bizarro World. Dr. Jimmy Bell, a professor in London who was lead researcher, sums it up as such, "Being thin doesn't automatically mean you're not fat."

To me, one's weight NOT being an indicator of thinness is illogical; similar to, "having a full head of hair does not mean one is not bald." Or how about, "How much money one possesses has no relationship to one's wealth." Regrettably, in this brave new upside down skinny-is-fat world in which we find ourselves, 'tis true.

After conducting nearly 800 MRI scans to create "fat maps," which show where people store internal fat, Dr. Bell discovered people who maintain their weight through diet rather than exercise are likely to have major deposits of internal fat, even if outwardly slim. "The whole concept of being fat needs to be redefined," said Bell, who found that as many as 45 percent of women with normal BMI scores (a standard measurement of obesity) - and as many as 60 percent of men - had excessive levels of internal fat. The study refers to these individuals as "TOFIs": "thin outside, fat inside."

TOFIs existed even among professional models. Bell commented, "The thinner people are, the bigger the surprise." Yeah, I'd say that falls in the understatement department.

I picture a size zero supermodel strolling down the catwalk weighing a waif-like 79 pounds, able to be blown over by a sneeze. In the back room, Dr. Bell and company are making "fatty fatty two by four" jokes. Can you see how confusing this new reality can be?

If the scale is no longer the determinant of a healthy weight, I envision future health-conscious households having a room loaded with extensive equipment. In addition to a scale and exercise bike, I foresee a food scale, pedometer, stopwatch, BMI chart, body fat percentage calculator, portable MRI machine, hydrostatic weighing tank, DEXA machine (dual energy X-ray absorptiometry), calipers (for those emergency quick pinch tests), and a bioelectrical impedance scale.

Of course, after getting one's life in order to this level of detail, he or she will die of exhaustion. But then again, who knows? Maybe a future study will show that being dead isn't necessarily an indicator of failing health.

The voices

A fierce battle rages within me each time unexpected goodies are offered my way.

Let me set up a scenario. I stop by Jim's office to pick up a flyer. Cake, brownies, and pie are strewn about the table in the employee lounge. He says, "We had a party in Brenda's honor today. Help yourself."

We now join the internal conversation, already in progress...

Voice number one: "Wow! Look at all those goodies. Go for it!"

Voice number two (the skinny one): "It's merely food Scott! It's not like you've never had chocolate cake before. Get a grip!"

V1: "But it's free. That makes it better."

V2: "It still has calories. Just because you don't pay for it doesn't mean it won't make you fat."

V1: "Ah, come on. Don't be a stick in the mud. It's just going to go to waste if you don't eat it. Think of all the starving people who would jump at a chance for this much food."

V2: "Just because it could be wasted doesn't make me the garbage disposal. And, as for the starving people, I can donate to Food for People. But, if I eat this, they don't gain weight - I do."

V1: "OK, appealing to your sense of global values isn't going anywhere. Let's try this. How do you feel when you spend a whole lot of time looking for that perfect gift for your wife, and then she opens it, and you can tell by the look in her eyes that she's disappointed?"

V2: "Let down, a little sad I guess."

V1: "Right. And then you get distant from her. And she pulls back. And soon you're having an argument about something that's totally unrelated, like the toothpaste cap or the time you didn't clean the grill when she asked you to."

V1: "What's your point?"

V2: "Well, it's kind of like that, see? Jim and you are good friends as well as business associates, right?"

"Yes, so?"

"So, he's thinking of you by offering a chance to share in the celebration of his workmate. By providing these treats, he's really saying, 'We don't spend enough time together socially. I'm trying to make up for that by giving you these goodies. Please don't turn your back on me. I'm feeling very vulnerable right now.'"

"All that is involved in this? I thought he was just being friendly."

"Don't be naive, men aren't good at discussing emotions so it comes out other ways."

"Well I wouldn't want to hurt his feelings. I guess a little bit is OK."

As I reach for the plate, Jim says, "Oh yeah, I've been meaning to talk to you. You do so well watching your weight. I was hoping for a few tips."

My hand lurches to the right and I pour a cup of coffee instead, only to hear myself reply, "It's simple actually. Just follow your inner voice."

The break up

Relationships come and go but I have been deeply involved with calories for a very long time. We were not smarties, rather a couple of chunky dum-dum nerds on a rocky road: snickering together, exchanging chocolate kisses. Sweet things were left for me each day and I was wooed by those charms. I went goo-goo over the relationship.

Our time was good - and plenty. Periodically, we escaped for extended cross-country excursions, enjoying each other on Fifth Avenue as we traversed that long, licorice highway, viewing the Milky Way, admiring Mars. I remember one particular trip where we spent the night on a farm, treated by a jolly rancher. I have to tell you, he was a lifesaver.

Calories came to my workplace, offering sage advice, spicing up my day. When frustrated and angered by writer's block, I ventured to the kitchen for consultations with chocolates and cookies. When I returned, gone was Mr. Chip from my shoulder, leaving me filled again, dissatisfaction in peeces. But I don't need to explain that, u-know how it is when you're on a roll.

By the glow of a flickering TV screen, after payday, I sat with potato crisps, tortilla chips, and candy. Not a peep would be uttered, I could tell simply by the look that I was wanted and needed, like a big hunk.

However, I am finding that our relationship - although very filling - is causing me heartache (and heartburn). I have been trying to fudge how I feel but I must consider moving on. I am afraid I might be turning into a sucker.

Oh sure, we had great times. I will long for midnight rendezvous in the kitchen, finding passion with leftover mashed potatoes and cold cuts to the soft light of an open refrigerator. Rainy Sundays coupled with croissants and scones made for great times; I won't be able to peruse the morning paper without crying, especially when I read the recipe page.

It is important to understand I have no beef with this relationship and I am not chicken to move forward. I just want to make sure what I do is well done. So it is with heavy heart and heavier waistline that I have come to this fork in the road, indeed an irony, since that utensil has usually been party to more positive moments. I have so many mixed feelings; having to fold-in many thoughts, beating and whipping myself up, egging myself onward, processing and blending all we have been. My concern is how this will pan out.

This decision should be easy as pie, yet it is no cakewalk. What I do know is that it is eating me alive and I better make up my mind, before I waist any more time.

The Pixie Dust Diet

Those sparkling, glittering, glowing flecks I have scattered on you cause no harm; do not be alarmed. It is pixie dust from whence great magic comes.

Immediately great wealth beyond all expectation will befall you! Vary not your customary routine; dollars will gravitate to you. Strangers will bestow upon you copious quantities of currency. A gold vein will be unearthed in your backyard. Congress will declare a new tax with all proceeds delivered to an account of your choosing.

That is merely the beginning.

Not only will these gleaming granules of glorious glitter augment your bottom line, they impart supernatural powers. While holding a few flecks, click together your heels three times, spin twice to the east, sing passionately your favorite show tune, and you will become as the breeze and elevate weightlessly into the sky, able to fly with the birds along the tops of redwoods.

These minuscule specks also possess extraordinary healing power. You will live countless years in perfect health. Nothing unpleasant will befall you; disease is non-existent, accidents a concern of the past.

Live boldly. Live large; for you have been infused with the powder of pixies.

I detect cynicism; how can you doubt? We are exposed to countless similar claims of buffoonery proclaiming equally implausible benefits, all wrapped in the blanket of the "latest secret of weight loss". Why do we believe those, yet scoff at equally implausible payback of pixie powder?

One supplement on line proclaims, "a total body makeover pill for women of all ages," and professes to suppress appetite, enlarge breast tissue, and super charge your sex drive. (Who would have known that bust size is related to weight loss?) I'm sure this miracle of modern medicine even cleans the house, helps students with calculus, and solves geopolitical struggles in the Middle East on weekends. Such claims are similarly believable.

Another product is cloaked in ancient mysteries, declaring to reveal "The Secret" from ancient scrolls containing "many little-known health and weight loss secrets, including a fountain of youth-like philosophy called 'lean-gevity.'" Should we mere mortals have a chance to peruse these scrolls, they probably read, "eat less, move more, and focus on long-term change." However, such details are omitted from the on-line marketing materials - must be an oversight. No worry however; for merely $79, one can share the enlightenment. I cannot get my credit card at the ready quickly enough.

I so often wish I could pop a pill, read a scroll, or swallow a concoction that would magically change the traits I do not like about myself. Alas, I do live in reality; no products will ever accomplish those goals. However, achieving results through self-control, determination, and healthy choices is a magical feeling.

Embracing the Here and Meow

Somebody said, "Dogs have masters, cats have staff."

Being a staff member for two cats, I will testify to the veracity of the statement. Our 12-year-old cat, K.C. (um, short for "kitty cat"), has abruptly made a significant behavioral switch, leaving me in the position of having to adjust to this alteration - as I seem powerless in my attempts to convince her to revert to old behaviors. It appears that the bedroom where she has spent many years sleeping, purring - and shedding - is no longer acceptable to wile away the hours. Rather, she has commandeered our bathroom.

In addition to the fact that she has no need for such facilities, I find it puzzling, as tile and porcelain seem to be rather uncomfortable furnishings (especially compared with the warmth and comfort of a carpeted bedroom).

Yet, undeterred by my urgings to return to a softer habitat, she has taken over, napping in the tub or sleeping on the toilet lid. At first I was unnerved in the wee, dark, quiet hours of the night should I happen to sleepishly stagger into the bathroom and be greeted unexpectedly by a low, rumbling, noisy purr. Now, I have learned to simply lift her from the toilet seat, place her on the edge of the tub, take care of business, return her to the lid, pat her goodnight, and totter unsteadily back to bed. Shaving has become virtually impossible as she jumps onto the vanity and sticks her face in mine. We have developed a dance: I place her on the floor, shave as quickly as possible before she leaps back, replace her on floor, shave, floor, shave, repeat as necessary.

As with most change, I do eventually adjust.

This is just one aspect of life beyond my control. Should they all be as benign as modifying my morning constitutional to accommodate a furry, affectionate feline, life would be delightful. Yet, that is not so. Often, change crashes in, an out-of-control 18-wheeler through a tent, crushing and crunching everything in its wake; proof of the observation, "Life is what happens while we make other plans."

The question is not, "Will life change?" Instead, it is "How will I adjust to its changes?" Rather than dig in my heels to be dragged screamingly into the dark places, I can find some peace in accepting that the only constant is change. Lamenting a changing diet or the aging of my body does nothing more than tear down my attitude, depleting what I joy I could have.

Change is in all things: the blooming of spring flowers, the laugher of an infant, even the wrinkles around my eyes. It is neither "bad" nor "good," it merely "is."

Embrace it. Adjust to it. And, oh yes, take some time to purr.

The Perfect Gift

I have trouble accepting that a "lightweight, high power vacuum cleaner" is really the "perfect gift" for Mom, even if - "But wait, there's more!" - they throw in the "super-compact, handy-dandy spot cleaner" when ordered in the next ten minutes.

"Merry Christmas, Mom. How about cleaning the carpets?"

It doesn't ring "holiday spirit" to me; maybe I'm a Grinch.

I am dubious that a pair of shiny, brushed aluminum, "decision dice" - with no shipping charges if ordered today - is the ultimate present for indecisive family members. With a flick of the wrist, they suggest "never" or "think hard." Yet, it doesn't seem the best idea to show Aunt Martha I was thinking of her during Hanukkah.

Although I dispute the claim that the "Cat Lady Action Figure" is the ideal present for the pet lover on my list, I find it humorous, possibly because my wife is a "cat lover" and that toy would provide me with fodder for playful teasing. Unfortunately, "ideal presents" do not include repercussions causing me to have to sleep on the couch, so I scratch it off my list.

"Perfect" is unattainable. Therefore, I now present a few gifts that LEAST serve dieters' needs:

1) Tins of cookies, nuts, or fudge. I would not give wine to Uncle Al, celebrating his three years of sobriety; why provide similar temptation to one learning to control his eating? I say I'll only "have a taste," but it's an amazing coincidence that the size of that taste exactly matches the amount in the container. Add to that a hangover of guilt and shame and this is not a good present for me.

2) Loose fitting clothes. After a month of excess consumption, what I need most is to regain control, not soft, cushy, expandable-waist sweatpants. In less-controlled days, I was even inclined to don a cheerfully decorated, flowery Hawaiian Mumu come December's end. If it didn't clash so terribly with my tie, I might have taken the leap. A belt is a better idea.

3) Another remote control. It's tough enough to fight the coach potato syndrome when it's warm, let alone when the sky is dreary and the sidewalk is soaked. Place a remote in my hand and a brightly flickering 42-inch plasma screen in front of my face, and the recliner will simply swallow me whole. My first step in my new year's exercise plan could be shutting off the TV.

Reality is that the perfect gift is not purchased via cash or credit card, nor wrapped in shiny red boxes topping with sparkling bows. The perfect gift would be the tranquility of self-confidence, the blessing excellent health, the joy of a happy family, and peace and abundance for each person on Earth.

I assure you no one would return that. Happy Holidays.

No More Potato Salad

Each dieter does it differently. Some eat a lot but look forward to exercise to burn it off. To me, looking forward to exercise is akin to eager anticipation of a root canal. Ain't gonna happen.

My method of staying on track is by removing temptation; i.e., if it's not here, I won't eat it. Should you inspect my refrigerator, you would lay view to a vast amount of empty space. It's a Spartan existence, but - for the most part - it works.

My mother used neither exercise nor my "minimalist" approach. Rather, she simply controlled her portions. Wow! What a novel concept: Eat well and eat the correct amount. Who would have thought?

Yet, therein lies a rub.

Whenever I visited, she would organize some form of get-together "in Scott's honor." Aunts and cousins would converge on Saturday afternoon to see how the Northern California component of the clan was surviving. Hugs. Conversation. Photographs. And of course, food. Lots and lots of food.

Across numerous tables would span a landscape of desserts, rolls, cheese, desserts, cold cuts, desserts, drinks, and - did I say - desserts. If ten people were expected, we had foodstuff for 50. "Food shortage" was not in her vocabulary.

For Mom, being encircled by so much food worked fine; she refused to give in to it. For me, it was difficult; I tried to elicit her support.

"Mom, can we not have so much to eat?"

"No, honey. People expect food at parties."

"I know; but we have enough for a small nation. It's too tempting."

"Don't worry sweetie, it'll get eaten."

"What concerns me is by whom."

Inevitably, there would be "one last thing" that we forgot to put on the table. Surveying the scenery of soups, slaws, and salads, she would exclaim, "We don't have potato salad!"

"Mom, there's plenty. No more, please!"

"Nonsense. Everyone loves potato salad."

"This is a party in my honor, can't we please do it my way?"

"It is for you - but I'm the hostess. We'll do it right."

(The irony is the potato salad was always thrown out later, untouched; a lesson that remained unlearned.)

It annoyed me that she ignored my requests, making it more demanding for me to watch my weight at what was MY party. I know, on the grand scale of things, it's no big deal. But sometimes "little things" get under your skin. It seemed inconsiderate. I resented it.

Ruth Marcus would have turned 82 next week. If she were still alive, I would have ecstatically delivered truckloads of potato salad anywhere she wanted me to.

Some things are simply more significant than a perfect diet.

Easy as Pie

"Are you going to finish eating that?"

"I want to give it a few minutes to see how I feel. I'm not sure I'm full."

"It sure looks tasty."

"Yes, you're right. It does look tasty. As a matter of fact, it is extremely tasty."

"You know, I love that kind of pie."

"Thank you for sharing. Most folks do."

"If you decide you don't want it, I'd be glad to polish it off it for you."

"What a surprise. I'll make a note so I don't forget."

"How long will it take to determine whether you're full or not?"

"What's with all the questions? Are you taking a survey? Do you have a pending appointment and need to take a piece of pie with you?"

"No, it's just that it would be a real shame to throw it away. I don't want it to go to waste."

"It would be more of a shame to waist it - if you catch my drift."

"Yeah, cute. It's just a small piece. It's not like eating the whole thing."

"You're right. Except I already had a slice so I'm trying to focus on the whole picture. When I eat without thinking, I regret it later, so trying to slow down and appreciate my food, not just shove it down. It's kind of a 'quality versus quantity' thing. If I weigh my options, I don't have to weigh myself."

"If you want my opinion, it's not a life-changing decision like buying a house that will cost you hundreds of thousands of dollars. It's a silly sliver of pie for goodness sake."

"And your point is?"

"No need to stress out about it."

"I am not stressing. I'm thinking, analyzing, even pondering. But since you brought up money, this is similar to having a bank account, but instead of dollars, I have calories; I can spend them anyway I want, but if I spend too many, I end up in debt. I used to spend myself into bankruptcy. I don't like that feeling. I'm trying to change."

"Couldn't you take out a calorie advance loan and repay it tomorrow?"

"Been there, done that; I'm in caloric debt for the entire year. I've got to start paying it back soon, stop telling myself, 'you can begin tomorrow;' the hardest thing is getting started. If you could give me some quiet, I'd appreciate it."

"Should I go somewhere else?"

"Is that possible? Can inner voices do that?"

"I'll tell you what, just let me have this one final piece and I promise I'll shut up and never bother you again."

"You say that every time."

Red Wine Diets

People send me things.

After one of my columns which portrayed a middle-aged woman inspecting herself in the bedroom mirror while her husband lovingly observed, I received a card from an 83-year-old woman who said that after 65 years of marriage, her husband still looks at her "that way" and she loves it. You go elderly couple! You inspire me.

I wrote about riding my bike. Someone called me and said she knew Lance Armstrong, and would send him that column. That's kind of cool - to think that Lance Armstrong would read my words. I like to think it was what inspired him to win the last Tour de France. (Of course, I like to think I inspired Michelangelo's statue of David also. The odds are about the same.)

I receive a great deal of email about what I write. Embedded in the bits and bytes of electronic communication that I download to my trusty Macintosh are questions about weight loss, motivational observations about change, poems with a dieting theme, and references to stories on the web.

One such hyperlink terminated in an article on msnbc.com entitled, "Big Fat Doses of Red Wine Extract Help Obese Mice Stay Happy, Healthy, and Live Longer." (On the internet, they are apparently not limited to short headlines.) The gist of the article (which later made national news) was that a study by the Harvard Medical School and the National Institute on Aging showed that an ingredient in red wine, resveratrol, lowers the rate of diabetes, liver problems, and other "fat-related" ill effects in obese mice. Fat-related deaths even dropped 31 percent when mice were given a supplement derived from resveratrol.

The mice did not have to change what they eat, rather they were kept on a high-calorie diet, which one scientist called a "McDonald's Diet." Not only were they about as healthy as normal mice, but they were as agile and active as their lean counterparts when it came to exercise. Said the doctor, "They're chubby but inside they look great."

I ponder future repercussions on humans. Could it be that in upcoming decades the concept of healthy dieting undergoes a complete transformation? In the present, I choose salads, high-fiber unprocessed grains, and lean protein - while making sure I walk or ride my bike regularly. Is it conceivable that years from now - while in a constant haze of red wine-induced inebriation - I find myself gorging on a cholesterol feast of dripping chili cheese burgers on double thick buns, extra cartloads of French fries, gooey chocolate sundaes, and peanut butter chocolate candies?

When approached by a well-intentioned (but uneducated) stranger distressed about my 82-inch waist, I reply, "Thank you for the concern but I'm in training for a marathon."

Beware The After Halloween sale!

Tread wearily fellow dieter; the dark forces have gathered. Faster than a chocolate bat escaping the flames of Hades; quicker than a skeleton-costumed, sugar-crazed seven-year-old can consume a pile of gummi booty; we have arrived at the time of year when calories assail us from every direction.

One of the seemingly benign but more malevolent influences is the post-Halloween candy sale. Enter any store and be immediately accosted with an oversized display filled with foil covered peanut butter chocolate bats, black and orange jelly beans, and "fun size" candy bars. (Personally, I consider one-pound bars to be the "fun size" bars; miniatures are merely appetizers. But, who am I to quibble?) Attached to this colossal cache of calories is a sign proclaiming, "Half Off!"

Despite the activities of the previous evening, no amount of sugar crawling through my veins will cause me to pass up a 50% off sale; after all, I'm overweight, not stupid. Buy one, get one free, is a deal in which any rational person would partake. I therefore purchase four bags of high-fructose pleasure - saving five dollars - rationalizing it to the fact that I can freeze the treats for next year. I plan to use the five bucks for a low-calorie meal; truly, I have achieved a win-win scenario.

Despite noble intentions, too many marshmallow peanut bars have melted my willpower, and the treats do not survive until next October; actually they don't even endure the trip home. As I debate whether or not to curtain the damage after 7,353 calories, the mantra of all disillusioned dieters haunts its way into my caramel-coated consciousness, "As long as I blew it, I might as well really blow it and start dieting tomorrow." Whether 'tis the dark side of candy corn talking or not, this idea makes sense at the moment and from then on, anything slow enough to get a fork into it becomes my prey. Before dawn, I have consumed more calories than there are zombies walking the streets on all Hallow's eve.

This continues well into the week; soon my stomach resembles the familiar shape of oversized jack o' lantern and my belt can no longer traverse my midline. In order to enjoy the simple pleasure of breathing, I am forced to buy three larger pairs of pants ($29 each), a new belt ($10), and a pullover, extra-large shirt to rid me of the danger of buttons popping from my mid-section and putting someone's eye out ($23). Including tax I'm now out $153!

Of course, I did save five dollars on half price candy, making my net expenditure $148 but that's still one scary after-Halloween sale.

If you'd like to read last year's column about Halloween, click here. To download a spreadsheet in excel to calculate your own savings, click here.)

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus, THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds 13 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations on goal setting, attitude, and health throughout the country. He can be reached at 707.442.6243, scottq@THINspiration.com or www.ForeverFightingFat.com

By the numbers

When I was learning to count, yet knowledgeable enough with arithmetic to no longer rely on fingers and toes, I pictured the largest number I could imagine: One Hundred. Nothing could be as immense as One Hundred, the King of the numerical empire. Counting to One Hundred was the pinnacle of accomplishment.

This column is our 100th get-together and, despite my increased counting skills, that number still carries significance. For two years, we have discussed health, diets, setbacks, and successes. (OK, actually I discussed it. But I always think of you when I write so that should count for something.)

To me, this is a milestone, a number with emotional significance. In achieving it, I realized how intricately, inextricably, woven into our lives are numbers.

My age? Number 52. Some get embarrassed about the number of years on the planet; I do not, as getting older beats its alternative. My wife and I have been married 6 years, together more than 12. These integers are a reflection of our commitment to each other. I have 2 sons. They live 700 miles away. I like the first number, not so much the second; I would prefer it to be lower. Nonetheless, numbers are what they are, unemotional reflections of the facts of our lives.

So, what's the deal with weight?

Before losing weight, there was no way I would not put "250" on my drivers license. Instead, I opted for a more ego-friendly number, 149, using the mentality of retailers who list prices ending in "9" to lull us into believing it's less costly. I don't fall for that tactic when I buy a sweater; I'm sure the DMV attendant didn't accept it when she saw my immense size. However, good public servant that she was, she let it pass. When my license arrived in the mailbox, sure enough, it showed me as an acceptable 149. Should occasion arise for me to weigh in somewhere - for example, the doctor's office - and the scale should say "250," I could snap out this legally binding document and have it corrected.

Funny how life works...

After losing my weight, and actually weighing 179, I renewed my license, eagerly listing - for the first time - the correct number of pounds. I proudly walked to the counter, handed in the application, gave her my old license, and waited while she did perused the poundage on my paperwork.

She analyzed my old license; studied my renewal, peered at me over the Ben Franklin spectacles perched on her nose, and stated, "179, huh? Last time, you only weighed 149. Might want to consider a diet."

Of acne and pant sizes

I am reminded of my teen years.

One of the most tortuous events of adolescence is the explosion of pimples on one's facial landscape. Unbeknownst to most, these bulbous, bloated, bulging beacons of embarrassment have an intelligence of their own and connive to materialize at the worst possible moment - and in the most awful location. Therefore, it is guaranteed that the morning of the formal prom, one will be greeted in the mirror by a gargantuan red, inflamed, swollen one-inch zit on the tip of your nose. Take it to the bank.

Most people (yes, teens are people) are too polite to say anything when you appear to all the world like a caricature of W.C. Fields, any sinus commercial, and Bozo the Clown. Your day is spent inventing reasons why you cannot move your hand from the front of your face because even though you've tried to conceal the damage with two pounds of blemish makeup (causing your skin to develop the oh-so-attractive, tomblike cast of a mannequin), Captain Blackhead unflinchingly stands out front taunting, "Don't look him in the eyes; instead gawk intently at his red, puffy, swelling."

Ah, such special memories...

Acne might be a thing of my past, but the feelings of embarrassment are identical to when I feel bloated from excess consumption. My stomach becomes a radio station, broadcasting on all channels: "This is a test of the emergency mortification system; for the next 60 minutes, please don't look anywhere else. Glare unblinkingly at his immense, distended, belly while pointing in a mocking fashion. Should this have been a real emergency, you would have been instructed to add humiliating comments. This is only a test."

To compensate, I suck in my abdomen, causing the tonal range of my voice to increase one octave while adding a slightly breathy quality to my speech. (I rationalize this, believing others find it a sexy addition to my speech pattern.)

Of course, there are problems with this approach, most notably would be sitting or bending; as one can never be sure of the tensile strength of button thread under strain. I would feel terrible should the round fastener explode forth from my midline, fly across the room, and put out somebody's eye. I wager the medical report would make history: "Blindness induced by excessive chocolate intake from out-of-control dieter in nearby restaurant booth."

Oh sure, I try using denial. When asked my pants size, I reply proudly (while loosening my belt), "32 W-L-D." Women have descriptors like "petite" or "junior;" why can't men?

"W-L-D? What's that?"

"While lying down." (Unfortunately, it's still a 36 when I stand up.)

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus, THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds 13 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations on goal setting, attitude, and health throughout the country. He can be reached at 707.442.6243, scottq@THINspiration.com or www.TheEatingCycle.com

Before I begin...

I earn my living speaking. I feel alive when delivering motivational, energetic presentations to enthused audiences. Yet the irony is I spend most of my time isolated, without employees, working from an office in my house while my family is gone. Hour after hour slides by as I tap relentlessly on keyboard, stare at computer monitor, and write - alone.

Leading a solitary life, I have learned to be somewhat organized; I have no staff to assist me. Granted, I periodically curse and rant when I cannot find that which I seek because of poor filing. Gratefully, I am not on the other end of the spectrum bellowing, "Where are my glasses?" only to have my wife call back, "You're wearing them."

As I said, I keep things in their place - mostly.

That does not forgo within me an interest in improving my organizational skills. Therefore I made an appointment with a professional organizer. These dedicated denizens of domestic direction and design are on the front lines in the battle against entropy; expanding our horizons with hanging files, work zones, and paper flow. The results, I'm informed, are increased productivity, less stress, and a "reclaiming of one's space." This I find to be a highly respectable goal because credit card receipts, unsolicited faxes, and projects I'll do "one of these days" too often claim my space and battle to take it back. (As an aside, I found assurance - and humor - in the fact that the Professional Organizer lost my address.)

Yet, I digress.

Before her arrival, I found myself busily straightening my workspace, shredding papers, dusting shelves, and lugging boxes. Somewhere between chronologically ordering my CD collection, and using a ruler to make sure all wall hangings were parallel and equally spaced, the folly of my operation struck me.

I need her help but act as if I don't. I did not want her to realize my flaws. Gasp! She'll think I'm human!

It brought me back to promising I would return to my weight loss meetings AFTER I lost "those five pounds." Huh? How'd that work the last 16 times I did that? Do I truly believe people can't tell I'm having trouble on my diet unless I seek help? I hefted a 44-inch belly, and convinced myself that holding in my stomach would fool others to believe I had six-pack abs. Amazing how we can fool ourselves, isn't it?

Even powerful people have needs. Admit it. Embrace it. Correct it. It's actually surprisingly empowering to "own" who you are.

Oops, gotta go. I just noticed the maid is coming and I have to clean the house before she arrives.

Theoretical versus actual

Today (as planned):

1. Arise early smiling and refreshed; greet world with 45-minute brisk walk while listening to singing birds under sunny blue skies. Stop at coffee shop and read the paper; joyously greeting each person. Eat a healthy, balanced, nutritious breakfast while connecting with my wife. Drink three glasses of filtered water as a treat.
2. Answer all e-mail. Write my column; infused with wit and insight. Send materials to three potential speaking opportunities, confident they'll hire me for twice asking price. Complete assignments for all clients prior to promised deadlines.
3. Reconcile credit card statements, set up automatic banking to pay each and every bill for next three years. Buy groceries. Straighten office.
4. Have lunch with a friend. Sit in the sun on a swing, singing. Watch entertaining, uplifting video. Have a wine cooler. Relax. Count blessings.

Today (actual):

1. Got up late after throwing alarm with annoying buzzer at wall. Dragged my panting, sweaty, dreary, flabby body around the block for 10 minutes. Gagged down chalky instant breakfast while watching exercise infomercial. Waved to wife as she went to work. Decided extra caffeinated coffee is a "need," not a "want."
2. Spent 45 minutes sifting through email about sexual potency, mortgages, and African expatriates offering me money. Stared at blank page while occasionally pounding head on desk to alleviate writer's block. (Took several aspirin.) Made one phone call where I was relegated to "voice mail hell" for 24 minutes. Cursed at automated voice. Slammed down phone; breaking mouthpiece.
3. Shoved bills from one messy pile to another. Decided to scrape green fuzz off last week's leftovers for dinner. Came to terms with the fact that my office will always look like it was designed by tornado.
4. Had three-hour chocolate binge fest; felt guilty (and fat) so I blamed my wife for having snacks in the house. (Learned new definition to "unwise decision.") Weather was cloudy so I zoned out with two martinis in front of TV while watching imbecilic sitcoms (which, in my mood, actually seemed appealing). Fell into restless sleep on couch, with face in drool stain on pillow.

Someone said happy people simply accept life on its own terms. As my Yiddish grandmother Zlate said (in addition to countless repetitions of "Oy Vay"), "Mann plant Gott lach;" translated, "Man plans, God laughs."

I must remember it's not about getting it done. It's about how I feel about what was done. It's not how far I have to travel, it's how far I have come.

Today: not so good. I was frustrated. But tomorrow, I try again. That's excellent.

Real food for real men

A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

And right now, after months of light-weight food with no taste - and even less heft - I've got a heavy hankerin' for a triple-meatball, pepperoni sausage, six-cheese submarine sandwich, oozing over a warm, doughy foot long toasted Mozzarella Parmesan Italian roll, followed by a family-size order of cottage fries (sans family) smothered in chili cheese sauce. The chaser for this gloriously caloric feast will be a chocolate chunk, hyper-sized, milk shake stuffed with peanut butter blobs and overflowing with rich syrup.

I'm a-fixin' to eat me something solid - and once I've got it in my mind, my diet is history.

I suck in my gut, march boldly into the sandwich shop, and swagger to the counter. Feet resolutely planted, I stand my ground in an oh-so-macho fashion and make direct eye contact with the young woman behind the register. Actually, I don't know if young women consider middle-aged, slightly soft, bespectacled, grey-haired men to be manly, but red meat, elevated-cholesterol, saturated-fat meals seem to me a masculine food; I must place myself in the right frame of mind prior to ordering.

She asks, "What would you like?" (I am amazed she is not swooning from the animal magnetism I exude.)

"Forget the calories, Scott; go for it!" I hear in my head.

Clearing my throat, I deepen my voice, and - for causes unbeknownst to me - reply in a crackling, tinny, scratchy sound, "Veggie sandwich. Diet soda."

Sean Connery had entered the restaurant; Woody Allen had ordered.

In my mind, I'm pounding my forehead with the heel of my hand, screaming, "What in Heaven's name are you doing? You passing up the mother lode of meats for sprouts and cucumbers again! Have you no pride?"

Over my internal din, I hear her ask, "Anything else?"

Ah-ha, an opportunity to redeem myself! Go for it Scott! Take the plunge; live on the edge! There's still time.

"No mayo please - and light on the cheese."

Arggh! It's as if I'm channeling elderly English ladies at high tea. Next thing you know, I'm going to tastefully chew ladyfingers while eating with my pinky in the air.

I see myself a ferocious carnivorous lion, chasing prey across the African savannah; yet, what repeatedly materializes is my inner bunny, nibbling carrot tops at the petting zoo.

Other people eat red meat without stress. What's wrong with Me?

The blood pounds loudly in my temples. "Wait!" I blurt out, "I want to change my order."

"Yes?" She looks up, knife poised to cut the bread.

"Give me extra spicy mustard. I can handle it."

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus, THINspirational Speaker, lost 70 pounds in 1994 and is a professional speaker. He can be reached by calling 707.442.6243, emailing scottq@scottqmarcus.com - or by visiting his other blog at scottq.typepad.com

Think about it

"What are you thinking about?"

"Huh?"

"You look so deep in thought. I was just wondering what you're thinking about."

"Oh, um, well... nothing really. Just thinking."

"How can you think about 'nothing?' Do you imagine 'everything' covered by a big red circle with a diagonal slash over it?"

"Don't be cute. You know I hate that. Since you need to know more, I was just thinking about 'stuff.' Is that better?"

"'Stuff.' Hmmm. That covers a wide range. Is it philosophical 'stuff' like the sound of one hand clapping? Is it practical 'stuff?' Paying the bills, cleaning the house? Or do you allow your 'stuff' to fly on flights of fancy and think of tropical islands with open-air huts and warm breezes? 'Stuff' encompasses a lot you know."

"Jeeze, you're nosy. If you must know I was thinking about food."

"Ahh. Now we're getting somewhere. Can you be more specific? You seem to drift toward the vague."

"Sorry, I didn't know I had to run everything by you to make sure the details were hashed out."

"Hashed out? Food again?"

"Fifty thousand comedians are out of work and you're cracking wise! No, that comment was not food related."

"Sounds like we're making progress. So tell me about food. Do you think about food all the time?"

"No, just when I'm awake. When I'm sleeping, I dream about it."

"Now who's being cute?"

"OK, but they're my thoughts, not yours. I can be cute with them if I want to. Seriously, when I'm eating breakfast, I'm thinking about what to have for lunch. At lunch, it's dinner. After dinner, I think about eating anything that's slow enough to stick a fork into it."

"Sleeping cats better be nervous, huh?"

"It's not funny. Food sometimes feels like an obsession. It's hard to stay on my diet when I'm always thinking about what to eat."

"I was wondering -"

"Oh, I hate it when you start sentences like that. You're really trying to put another thought in my head and you think I won't notice it if you start with 'I was wondering.'"

"As I said, I was wondering... How would it feel if instead of saying 'Dieting is hard,' you said, 'Eating healthy is exciting. I feel great when I do it.' That's true too, isn't it?"

"Well, yeah. I just don't know if I can."

"Tell you what. Put me in touch with the guy who controls your thoughts and we'll fix you up and get back to you."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, I can be snarky sometimes. But if you change the way you look at it, you might do better, wouldn't you agree?"

"It's worth a thought."