488 days. That’s the time I’ve been on a weight loss trip. That’s how long I’ve been on a magical journey keeping my doctor and family members off of my case, man. That’s about 16 months, give or take a century. My daughter says that I’ve hung in so long because I’m stubborn and I have OCD, but I’ll never listen to that crazy talk. Never.
My doctor, whom I’ve previously outed as a “Health Nazi,” put me on that OCD journey. She said “blood pressure, blah, blah, diabetes, blah, death. My beloved, the pie keeper, interpreted for me. “If you don’t lose weight, you’re going to die and never watch Star Trek again. Now I understand, but it’s a real drag, and they’re bringing me down, man. Like you crazy kids say, it’s not groovy.
Because I keep up to date with all of the newest trends, I macraméd a righteous plan. It’s totally tubular. I knew that I wasn’t staring at my phone often enough. I needed to fix that, along with my weight/health issue. I snooped around and found what the kids call “apps” to track food and exercise, whatever that is. Don’t confuse those with the app that tracks everywhere you go and everyone you talk to. That app is called “Crazy Ex-girlfriend” or “Google,” which will lead to Skynet and the end of mankind. This free app isn’t that intrusive. You have to pay extra to be betrayed by techno-nerds and the military-industrial aristocracy.
The app I chose is called “Lose It,” but there are a bunch of others. You enter your weight, how much you want to weigh, and how fast you want to get there. It computes how many calories to eat a day. It even gives you extra calories if you “exercise.” Exercise is a term I’m unfamiliar with, so I skip that part. I’ve heard that exercise is conducted by a group leader called an “exorcist” and it makes you tired. I’m not a fan.
Using microscopic virtual keyboards, I type in everything I eat. If I eat a piece of baked chicken, the app knows how many calories and grams of nutrients that it has. It deducts those calories from your total, and so on. If I dive into a bushel of lettuce and lawn clippings, my calorie counter doesn’t move. If I eat a bacon double lardburger and a proper slice of chocolate pecan pie with whipped trans-fats, the app shows I can’t eat anything else for fourteen days. If cream pie happens, the deluxe version of the app calls the ER. It informs them I’m coming in with clogged arteries. If I eat that way three days in a month, it automatically schedules my funeral with the closest mortuary. I think it does that.
I always get up early so I can gloat about not having to go to work. Gloating puts me in a happy mood, so that I get a good nap. “Lose it” app overlords know that I’ve moved to the coffee pot, so I start getting phone reminders to type in what I’ve eaten. The only way to shut it up is to enter the oatmeal or eggs or Snickers bar frittata that I ate. I don’t dare ignore it. It could be connected to a NSA killer drone or even worse, an employment agency with job openings. At the end of the day, my calorie intake should equal the allotted calories plus or minus a celery stalk. It also keeps track of carbs and scientific stuff for you technohippies.
In the 488 days I’ve been tracking my food, I’ve lost 65 pounds, more or less. More specifically, I lost the weight within 310 days, and have maintained it since then. I’m slim enough now that if I were still in the Air Force I could almost wear the uniform without busting at the seams. My stats have gotten close enough to normal that my Health-Nazi has moved on to other victims.
The app can’t make me younger or more pliable by society. It also won’t make me fit into skinny jeans and crocs because it can’t make me that stupid. Your results may vary.
I know you’re digging this crazy vibe I’m throwing down. If a corpulent pie-swilling omnivore can lose a couple of pounds, you can dig it too. If I can obsessively record every bite I take, so can you. If I can spend every free moment staring at my smart phone, I bet you can too. 488 days is just the beginning.