Smug as a bug in a rug

Lawrence Toppman

The second hardest part about losing weight is not being pleased with myself when someone says, "Man, you look thinner!" (The hardest part is keeping my fingers from reaching for any jelly donut on my radar.) I haven't heard that kind of compliment since Reagan was president, so my head starts to swell like an overinflated bicycle tire.

At times like that, I remember my dad. He dropped about 60 pounds through Weight Watchers after retiring from the military, going from 230 to 170, and actually joined the company as a lecturer and then a regional manager for southern New Jersey. (Worry helped sweat off the pounds, as he covered an area of about 1600 square miles.)

Like a lot of folks who've kicked a bad habit, he became a proselytizer for his newfound faith. I recall him telling me that he'd approach obese strangers in shopping malls with an "As you are now, so once was I" kind of pitch, asking if they hoped to see their children grow to adulthood. (Miraculously, he was never pummeled.)

I don't have any desire to emulate him, partly because I expect to backslide from time to time. When I step on a scale every Monday morning, I'm always prepared for bad news. But when I don't get it, I smile -- quietly, to myself -- for about three days.