Written by Michael Claxton <\/p>\n\n\n\n
In a classic episode of \u201cEverybody Loves Raymond,\u201d Marie has had enough of her lazy, boorish husband. When he loudly demands a pot-roast sandwich, she says \u2014 for the first time in their marriage \u2014 \u201cMake it yourself.\u201d Frank is stunned, but she\u2019s not finished. \u201cI\u2019m onto you,\u201d she adds. \u201cYou pretend to be stupid so I\u2019ll wait on you hand and foot. Well, it\u2019s over.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ray, fearing that his own wife will follow suit, urges his father to fight back, asking, \u201cDad, are you just gonna take that?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Frank shrugs. \u201c45 years,\u201d he says, \u201cI had a good run.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I thought of that last month when I had a \u201ccome to Jesus\u201d meeting with my doctor. To be clear, I was the one in need of redemption. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
You see, a long time ago, a friend gave me some advice. \u201cYou can eat whatever you want until you\u2019re 50,\u201d he said. While I doubt many nutritionists would endorse this plan, I followed it to the letter. I have had a glorious half-century as a Southern gourmand, eating the food you read about in the Bible: sausage, country ham, cornbread, casseroles, peach cobbler. Though I wouldn\u2019t go as far as comedian James Gregory \u2014 who once said, \u201cI was a teenager before I realized that gravy was not a beverage\u201d \u2014 I seldom saw a saturated fat I did not like. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Life was good. The All-Star Breakfast at the Waffle House could cheer any sorrows, and most problems could be solved by some soulful reflection and a Zebra Cake. And don\u2019t get me started on the all-you-can-eat pizza place. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
But now I am 50. With high cholesterol and a family history of heart disease, I\u2019m afraid the buffet has to close. And it\u2019s time to pay the bill. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I have accepted this. I am grateful that my doctor is trying to save me, and I will adjust in time. But acceptance does not mean I have to like it. In fact, I need at least six months to mourn. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sat in silence as my new diet was explained. It involves nothing fried. No fried chicken, fried pork chops, fried catfish, fried pickles or fried egg rolls. No French fries, waffle fries, curly fries, crinkle-cut fries or sweet potato fries. I must cut way back on pastas, pizzas, breads, potatoes and desserts. No more Super Nachos Fajita or Sweet-and-Sour Chicken. No grease, fat, Crisco or butter. Frankly, I was waiting for the naughty list to include \u201cjoy.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I also must exercise more. When I mentioned that I often enjoy a leisurely morning stroll picking up trash in the neighborhood, the doctor commended my civic spirit but said that I had to quicken the pace. I thought that bending over to gather soda cans would burn a few calories. As it turns out, I need to walk faster to get my heart rate up. It did little good to explain that I am an English teacher, which means that my heart rate is always up. Every run-on sentence raises my beats-per-minute something awful. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
But no dice. Like the lemur king in \u201cMadagascar,\u201d I\u2019ve got to move it, move it. So, if you see me passed out in a cul-de-sac, surrounded by uncollected garbage, please call my doctor. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I am grudgingly making changes in the kitchen. I baked some chicken, roasted some vegetables and ate a sugar-free cookie. I am cooking with olive oil and choking down salads. Last week I had a chickpea. I\u2019ve even cleaned out the pantry. The low point was the day I threw out the Frosted Mini-Wheats. I played \u201cTaps\u201d in my head as all that powdered goodness tumbled into the wastebin. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dozens of well-meaning people have reassured me that soon I won\u2019t crave fatty and sugary foods. Perhaps. I hear that prisoners sent to solitary confinement are told the same thing: \u201cYou\u2019ll get to where you hardly miss other people.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
But I will certainly miss some folks. I\u2019ve said goodbye to Shirley at the Cracker Barrel, to Hazel at the Waffle House and to that guy \u2014 whoever he is \u2014 who keeps the cheese sticks flowing at Mazzio\u2019s. We had some good times, didn\u2019t we?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And so, as I slouch into the twilight, nibbling on almonds and spinach leaves, slowly turning into a gerbil, at least I have poetry. Wordsworth celebrates the power of memory to comfort us during our troubled adulthood as we reflect on a sweeter, more innocent past. For him, it\u2019s rainbows and daffodils. For me, it\u2019s potato salad and sweet iced tea. Even in the throes of yet another lousy bite of cauliflower, my mind goes back to the glory of country fried steak. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
But Michael, aren\u2019t you gonna fight this? <\/p>\n\n\n\n
No, after a month of this new diet, I\u2019m too weak to fight. But it\u2019s OK. I had a good run. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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