The infallible diet, part 1

Lawrence Toppman

This month marks the 30th anniversary of the last successful diet I undertook, where I lost more than 20 pounds and briefly acquainted myself with size 34 pants for the only time since high school. The lone preparation required was a broken heart.

I was in love for the first time with a woman who informed me that she was leaving me for a test pilot nicknamed "Wichita," a rangy hunk she had courted before he moved out of state and was going to seek out again. (I am not making this up.)

My first reaction was to smash my hand into the roof of my Honda Civic hard enough to dent the metal, an act I regret to this day when my knuckles stiffen up on rainy mornings. My second reaction was to stop eating.

Lunch consisted of an apple, dinner of a peanut butter sandwich. My cat, who was taking in more food than I did every day, came around to see if I needed to finish his tuna chunks. I took time off from work for a mope-cation and sat around in my own unwashed funk. But it was a skinny funk. As my tears fell, my waist shrank.

To be continued Monday....