I was about to write “153.5” on my Las Vegas wall calendar for today when I noticed that what I had written on Oct. 24, exactly four weeks ago, was visible in the Nov. 21 square: 154.5. So in 28 days I’ve lost exactly one pound.
That pace isn’t going to win me any contests.
Meanwhile, my family is begging me not to lose weight and is horrified at the thought of my ten-pound goal—despite the fact I’ve been eight to ten pounds lighter for about three of the past four years. Another friend concurred last night, saying I looked fine and had no business losing weight. My concern is the gradual weight gain over time, with metabolism changes and inactivity leading to a retired-athlete physique like Alec Baldwin. I hope I’ll never be as big as he is, but I distinctly remember a friend of my parents who developed quite a spare tire. “Let that be a lesson to us,” my dad solemnly intoned.
I still think I should work my way down to 150—148 to be on the safe side. Then I can report my results to friends and family, and they can express shock, horror or delight. At that point I can decide whether to continue the weight-loss pursuit. But I need to reach that intermediate goal first.