The Hollando Diet

Results may be mixed on the Hollando Diet, but, hey, at least we’re solvent.

As reported on Drudge, the proprietor of the most famous contemporary fad diet has filed for bankruptcy.

As July draws to a close, my belt does not. I reminded of my father’s allusion to Jackie Gleason, the comic actor who apparently had two wardrobes. One wardrobe was small and the other was large. So the actor could move seamlessly (he, he) from one wardrobe to another.

I must avoid bad puns in the future.

I have met with disaster. Somehow I weighed in at 183 pounds just days after flirting aggressively with the 177 pound mark. My flirtations were met with a dramatic rebuff. [Yes, I am inviting some smart alec comments for posting.]

What to do? Hmmm… well, eat smaller portions at regular intervals, exercise at the start of the day, and drink water rather than soda. Time has run out, and results must begin. Ah, to start over once more…

The pallete expander (or “pawitt ethpandah” as Mr. Hughes suggested I was pronouncing it) has come and gone, but my mouth remains a rest stop for ceaseless convoys of food. Originally I theorized that weight loss was sure to follow having a giant metal box extending below the interior upper jaw in the center of my mouth. Where there is a glutonous will, there is a way. This device did not result in a thinner waste line, despite being the closest non-lethal alternative to a complete obstruction of the path food takes to my stomach.

Hence I remain pleasantly plump. The chick-a-dees around town no doubt would take notice, were I to grace them with my voluminous presence. Yet I have hesitated to jump into the deep end of the Dallas dating pool, based in part on the largely discredited theory of my short-term weight loss. Ah, but now I will convert theory into reality!

I have begun anew. The most important goal is to slim down to where I started one year ago, at 174 lbs, and admit that the last year has not been a final defeat. The current regimen: I arise at 5:30 am (or slightly thereafter…), jog to the YMCA, workout, and jog back home. While I cook myself four eggs, I warm up Oatmeal mixed with organic no-fat milk. I add copious quantities of blueberries so as to minimize the impact of the Oatmeal. I capitalize Oatmeal due to association with that smart-alec Quaker bastard staring at me snidely from the exterior of the Oatmeal cannister. It’s like staring at a fiber warhead.

Lunch and dinner are works in progress. I have some ideas about all this new dieting at a blog I joined in anticipation for… yes, a triathelon. A friend from Baylor introduced me to his friend, who happens to work at the best gym in town (I think), and together we are targeting an October race. This approach may a bit aggressive, but that’s the only way to pressure myself into achieving anything.

The key is to wake up at 5:00am on the nose, and to get this out of the way by 6:00am. My real due date is August 15, for reasons I will explain in a later post. I can hear my mother’s voice gently wafting across the apartment as she leaves a message on my answering service… I must cut this post short. Or long. Whatever–I need to catch that call…