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Is it possible to pass out from neglecting one's minimum daily requirement of Oreos and Coca-Cola?
I'm thinking yes. It's been more than a week since I've started my morning with Coke and cookies and I'm feeling faint.
But I'll stick to it. For now, anyway. Because I have only four weeks left to drop a few pounds or face an unimaginable horror -- a doctor-imposed diet. I mean, a nutritional wellness plan.
This whole unhealthy quest for a life -- well, a month, really -- without Snickers bars began last week when my sweet wife scheduled my annual physical.
"It's only been a year since my last one," I protested.
"I know that you're the professional wordsmith but I'm pretty sure that's what 'annual' means."
"Exactly. I'm the words guy, so I know 'annual' is vague. It's a suggestion, really. It means roughly seven years." I picked up the phone. "Let's cancel the appointment."
She kissed me on the forehead. "No. And I'm getting you a dictionary for your birthday."
I'd been hoping for a supersized pan of lasagna. And chocolate cake with fudge frosting.
Annual check-ups are a lot like trips to see Santa Claus. You wait in a long line. An elf gets you situated. When it's your turn to sit on the stool -- my doctor is rather finicky about his lap -- he smiles. "Have you been a good boy this year?"
I nod vigorously. "Oh yes, I've been very good this year, San... Doctor."
He frowns at the numbers -- the string of the vitals one of his elves took while I crushed the scales. "Hmm, I'm checking my list, checking it twice, and…" He taps the chart with a candy cane pen. "… I don't think so."
"But you told me to lose weight. See, it's right there, I'm down a bit."
There's no twinkle in his eye. "I said a bunch. Or else."
At least Santa only gives you a lump of coal. The doctor schedules me for tests.
In recent years, I've been made to choke down horrible gunk, lie still on hard tables, pass through narrow tubes, and have tiny cameras rammed into rather uncomfortable openings. And all the doctor's elves seem to want to stab me with needles. I hate needles.
When the tests are over, the standard response is, "This is weird -- you're fine. Except for your weight. Unless you lose that, we'll have to run more tests."
"Um, maybe you could prescribe a lump of coal instead. I'll bring you milk and cookies."
So I've dug out the senseless plans for sensible eating. I've steered away from daily doses of McDonald's chocolate chip cookies. Pour me another jug of plain ol' water.
Yes, I've hopped back aboard the fitness treadmill. Figuratively speaking, of course. The literal treadmill adds up to a lot of walking that goes nowhere, especially nowhere near Dunkin' Donuts. Which, of course, is off limits until after Christmas… er, my appointment.
Only 30 more wellness days until my physical. Are you watching, Santa? Because this being good stuff is killing me.
— Go ahead. You know you want to. Send Cole your nutritional advice at burtseyeview@tribtoday.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.