VIDEO ERGO DEVORO (I WATCH, THEREFORE I EAT)

The recent return of NBC's The Biggest Loser has generated some interesting criticism.  Amanda Vogel, a certified fitness professional, has provided a thorough analysis of the show's training methods on the IDEA Health & Fitness Association website.1  Among the concerns of her sources:

“There seems to be no rationale for exercise program design. Clients are pushed to their limits, which places them at risk of injury and overtraining."

“Making a person feel badly about his or her effort, mental/emotional status or progress is not a strong motivator..."

“I believe [the show] sets unrealistic expectations for many people who have a large amount of weight to lose.”

However valid these complaints might be, they ignore one crucial but obvious detail; it's a TV show.  The categorizing of such shows as "reality programming" only confuses the issue.  Jean Shepherd, the late humorist, broadcaster, and social critic, had the most profound answer for those who complained that television didn't reflect reality.  He simply pointed out that it isn't reality, it's television.

Look no further than the show's use of the "cliffhanger" scale.  When you step on your bathroom scale in the morning, does the indicator swing wildly for twenty seconds while dramatic music plays?  I didn't think so.

The fact that weight loss is a serious concern for so many people only adds to the confusion.  I don't imagine viewers of The Bachelor really feel that withholding a rose is the proper way to dump a potential mate or consider the bungee jumping on The Great Race a normal component of foreign travel.  These shows are clearly contrived competitions manipulated for maximum thrills and with no long-range consequences for the contestants beyond winning a prize.  But the very real health risks of the contenders on The Biggest Loser resonate with viewers who then look to the show for personal guidance.  Caveat emptor.

And while you debate the merits of dieting as seen on TV, it's also wise to remember that watching TV itself can be major factor in needing a diet in the first place.

This issue is far more complex than mere couch potato syndrome.  In my case, the conjunction of food and television has not only affected my girth, it has influenced my personality, my cultural tastes, and my choice of profession.  It also explains why I whistle "Howdy Doody Time" when I'm hungry.

There is a strong elemental synergy between the tube and the fridge.  For one thing, they are both purveyors of the limited yet precious freedom afforded modern man.  Your TV may provide you with five hundred channels of absolute swill, but at least you control which swill to watch.  And during commercial breaks, you can run to the fridge and choose which swill to swill.  There's more personal autonomy for the average American in an hour of TV viewing than exists for the entire population of Albania in a year.

My own blurring of show business with chow business began in infancy.  When restless at night, I would be rocked and fed, but not to some old-world lullaby.  No, I was soothed by the gentle sounds of Jerry Lester and Morey Amsterdam on Broadway Open House.  The bottle-and-Borsht Belt combo was my first TV dinner.

During my grade school years, my bond with television and Twinkies grew stronger.  This came about as a byproduct of my early bedtime.  I knew that while I languished in bed, something was going on that was exciting, something denied to me by rigid and autocratic adults.  Through the bedroom door, I could hear the muffled sound of the TV along with my parent's laughter, and I seethed with revolutionary fervor.

My parent's absorption in their program allowed me to sneak downstairs and stock up on goodies.  Since I was a chubby kid, they severely restricted my intake of snacks but inexplicably, kept the house loaded with them.  I'd creep back to my room with enough provisions to last the siege of Leningrad, and except for an occasional telltale crumb, they were none the wiser.  Not much of a rebellion to be sure, but I was ten, and Holyoke wasn't Havana.

Eventually, unable to monitor my hours due to their own fatigue, my folks sensed defeat and eased the restrictions.  During school nights, I could only stay up until 9:30, but on weekends, I had carte blanche.  With this last concession, they opened up Pandora's (and Admiral's) 21" black-and-white box, and out blew the strange cultural winds that shaped my character.

Unencumbered by parental oversight, I watched TV until comatose, and consumed mountains of junk food with impunity.  The link was forever forged.   Happiness is a warm puppy, said Charles Schultz, but for me, you couldn't beat Steve Allen and Cheez Doodles.

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1 http://www.ideafit.com/fitness-library/weighing-in-on-the-biggest-loser

BRUSHES WITH FAME: I BUMMED A CIGARETTE FROM A NOBEL LAUREATE

I've been fortunate in my life to have had several encounters with the rich, famous, and infamous.  I've eaten Chinese food with Joseph Heller, bumped into Abe Vigoda on 3rd Avenue, and was running camera on a late-night Boston TV show when the late Wendy O. Williams of the Plasmatics pulled her top down on air.  None of these, however, has had the lasting impact of my encounters with Professor Allan Cormack.

I was a student at Tufts University School of Engineering in the late sixties, and I use the term "student" in the loosest way possible.  I was convinced that my youthful fascination with tinkering and taking objects apart made me well-suited for the program.  Given my inability to ever reassemble said objects, this was perhaps a bit presumptuous.  The curriculum for all freshman engineering students included an introductory physics course in Newtonian mechanics which was taught by Dr. Cormack in the fall of 1967.

Almost immediately, I ran into problems - linguistic, ophthalmic, and sociological - none of which were the fault of the professor.  I was assigned to a lab group where the instructor had an accent so thick and indecipherable, he might as well have been speaking Romulan.  Maybe he was.  All I know is that it took most of the first session to figure out that an "offapackle" was an alpha particle, and by then, I had already bungled the experiment.

In those halcyon pre-Hewlett-Packard days, all experimental data and statistical evaluation was calculated using a slide rule, an ingenious but complicated device as common today as a chariot on the interstate.  For those of you too young to remember, it was an adjustable ruler with multiple scales and a cursor that you manipulated to perform various math functions.  Given the infinitesimal size of the scale markings and my abysmal eyesight, it was as useful to me for computation as a chainsaw for embroidery.

In spite of my empirical ineptitude, I enjoyed the lectures and had a good grasp of the theory, until the moment a girl with great legs and a penchant for short skirts started sitting next to me.  I spent the rest of the semester in a R-rated reverie while the voice of one of the century's great minds drifted like faint Muzak in the background.  Before Tufts, I had attended an all-male boarding school, and my social graces weren't fit for a Tijuana Bordello.

After three torturous semesters, it was obvious that I wasn't cut out for engineering, but in my clueless egomania, I blamed the subject.  The problem was that I was clearly too abstract a thinker for such a practical field.   Despite mediocre grades, I decided to become a theoretical physicist.  I met with Dr. Cormack who was the department chairman, and switched my major.  In retrospect, that was the task I really excelled at.

I don't remember much from that first meeting, except that he was a kind, down-to-earth man who didn't laugh in my face outright as he might have considering my qualifications.  We talked about the curriculum, and he suggested I enroll in his course on advanced electricity and magnetism for the next semester.  It was at this point that my tobacco jones got the best of me.  I asked for one of his cigarettes which he graciously provided and lit.  For anyone correlating Nobel laureates with their preferred cigarette brands, Dr. Cormack smoked Parliaments.

Advanced E and M turned out to be the most difficult course of my academic career.  It was only through his superhuman patience that I wasn't KO'ed by Maxwell's equations, and could get up off the canvas to earn a respectable B.  But I had stretched my science brain as far as it would go, and I knew I would never make it to my degree that way.  I swallowed my pride and told him I was switching my major to English.  As before, he was understanding and non-judgmental, and he wished me well.  He also let me bum another smoke.

Dr. Allan Cormack was a co-recipient of the Nobel Prize for Medicine in 1979 for the theoretical work behind CT scanning.  He died in 1998.  It was my honor and privilege to know him.

THE UNBALANCED DIET

The principle of moderation has been espoused by nearly every religion and philosophy, but it's most often associated with the ancient Greeks.  The temple at Delphi was adorned with the inscription, "Nothing in Excess," and I doubt many people would disagree with that sentiment today.  It makes sense, right?  Yet in the convoluted world of food and dieting, this simple concept has been overshadowed by theories of fanatical abstinence as well as their polar opposite, the embrace of gross indulgence.

On the "less is more" side is the CRON or Calorie Restriction with Optimal Nutrition diet.  Based on scientific studies, this theory holds that a reduction of caloric intake by as much as 30% from the average western diet can lead to longer life and minimize the effects of aging.  According to various CRON websites, the studies that support this contention were carried out on monkeys, cows, rats, mice, fish, worms, and various insects.  One website (www.cron-web.org/) provides a colorful chart that lists the extended lifespan of various species on restricted intake.  White rats top the list with up to 14 months extra life, guppies get an additional 13 months, bowl and doily spiders pick up 49 days, and protozoa, 12 days.

This is wonderful news for anyone who has ever felt the pain of reduced rat longevity or lamented how badly bowl and doily spiders were aging.  Another article1 gushes about test results showing that mice "retain a youthful appearance much longer."  I'm sure this is a great comfort to my wife whose blood-curdling screams last winter might have been mitigated if only our rodent intruder had looked more youthful.  And remember, all you kids out there:  Withholding a few extra grains from the top of the fish tank might keep your beloved pets a few precious days further from their Viking funeral in the family commode.

Most importantly, we all laud the tremendous strides made in solving the protozoan obesity crisis.  What exactly scientists withheld to keep them svelte remains a mystery.

So much for creatures small and microscopic, what about humans?  The optimal.org website lists the following potential drawbacks to CRON:

- Feeling cold

- Having difficulty sitting comfortably

- Reduced libido

- Hating it

So not only does this diet severely restrict the amount and type of food you can eat, it also makes you cold, uncomfortable, sexless, and angry.  You've got to wonder why it isn't more popular.

On the "more is more" side, one need only consider the oft-reported expansion of the national waistline to realize that the world's largest consumer society is largely consuming too much.  Clues to the blubbering of America are not hard to find.

7-Eleven has done its part with its "Gulp" line of soft drinks.  These are fountain drinks served in cups with straws, not bottles meant for storage and consumption over time.  The Big Gulp holds a mere quart, the Super Big Gulp, 44 oz., and the Double Gulp, a full half-gallon.  A Double Gulp of Coca Cola has 744 calories and 186 grams of sugar - enough, I imagine, to bring on diabetes in a blue whale.  It's only a matter of time before 7-Eleven markets the Super Double Big Gulp, 44 gallons of your favorite soda served in a standard oil barrel.  It'll come with a straw, but you'll have to bring your own forklift.

McDonald's is also in an inflationary mood, moving beyond the Quarter Pounder to the new Angus Third Pounder.  I'm guessing we're about two years away from the Five Pounder which will be packaged in a disposable bowling bag.

Not only are we not ashamed of this excess, we exalt it.  Eating competitions, such as Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest, continue to proliferate and attract media attention.  There is even a governing body for the "sport," the IFOCE (International Federation of Competitive Eating) which supervises and regulates contests, and also awards the coveted Mustard Yellow Belt to the Nathan's winner.  I can think of nothing that would make a parent more proud.

The apotheosis of this trend is the Travel Channel's remarkable show, Man v. Food.  A burly New York food maven, Adam Richman, travels the country and takes on insane eating challenges, including a twelve egg omelet, a thirteen pound pizza, and a seventy-two ounce steak.  The show website refers to him as an "ambassador to all things delicious," but this hardly describes his noble stature.  He is a lone warrior in the tradition of the Homeric heroes, knights-errant and samurai, an Achilles for our gluttonous times who battles burritos and chicken wings instead of Trojans.  I love this guy and I love the show, but it may not present the best blueprint for rational diet and nutrition.

Can someone tell me how I get to Delphi?

1www.brighthub.com/health/dietnutrition/articles/23680.aspx#ixzz0PsApxdSz

THE GIFT OF SHARING

In my opinion, the three most unpleasant expressions in the English language are, "There's smoke pouring out of your hood", "Somebody from the IRS called", and "Oh, that looks great.  Can I have a bite?"  And frankly, I'm far more tolerant of greedy auto mechanics and rapacious tax auditors than of dinner companions who want samples.  I'm eating here, folks, not selling carpet. 

The first time I took my wife to a restaurant, she innocently asked for a taste of my Beef Teriyaki.  It required every ounce of restraint I possessed to smile politely and offer her a bite instead of stabbing her hand with a fork.  My suppressed rage eventually subsided, but I made sure my steak knife was close by in case she came back for more.  Over the years, I've taken fewer pains to hide my hostility

What's ironic is that trading food with my wife is a bargain.  She always returns more than she gets and sometimes offers a taste without demanding compensation.  I, on the other hand, require a notarized affidavit before I'll ante up, a pre-victual agreement with a penalty clause assuring forfeiture of the entire entree if the return portion is too small or not immediately forthcoming.

Now I'm no Sigmund Freud (I'm no Fred Astaire either, but that's another story), yet even I realize this paranoia didn't arise in a vacuum.  It arose at 45 Yale St. in Holyoke, Massachusetts where I grew up surrounded by my parents and older brother, the villain of this saga.

Western Mass. in the '50s wasn't exactly a culinary hotbed.  It wasn't even a culinary sleeping bag except for Mel's.  Mel's is a small Italian restaurant in Holyoke whose specialties include spaghetti in a spicy red sauce, meatballs, roast chicken, and...French fries.  Now I know that by today's health-obsessed standards, a dinner that includes both spaghetti and French fries is as unthinkable as a meal of poached salmon and motor oil, but back then, the greasy starch was a basic food group, as important to growing young bodies as red meat, butter, and Twinkies.

We would take out from Mel's about once a week.  I can recall few more joyous moments of my childhood than contemplating those two enormous meatballs floating on a sea of glistening pasta, with a hefty portion of my beloved fries on the side, steaming under a squirt of ketchup.  Then it would happen.

"Hey, Jeff!  Look at that huge dog in the driveway!"

Alas, I was the perennial sucker. I'd automatically turn to stare out the window, and by the time I looked back, most of my stash had disappeared. My brother would be in convulsions - half with laughter, HALF FROM CHOKING ON MY FRIES!

But even the biggest sap catches on eventually.  One night when I was nine, I feigned distraction and bashed him solidly across the hand with a serving spoon as he went in for the kill.  I didn't inflict any real damage, but the dynamics of our dining relationship changed dramatically.  Mealtime evolved from a cordial family gathering into a tense battle of will, no quarter asked, none given.  It must have been a remarkable sight -  the two of us sitting there in stony silence, eyes locked in a steely glare, left arm curled protectively around the plate, right hand clutching the fork like a shiv, just a couple of lifers in Alcatraz.  This standoff continued until he went off to boarding school, and I could again eat in peace.

But once you're accustomed to dining in full combat readiness, you can never fully relax again.  This is why I still regard every request for my food, no matter how innocuous, with suspicion and fear.  I'd like to think, however, that I've mellowed over the years and become a more genial fellow to break bread with.  I've learned to curb my more violent tendencies and conceal my outrage, save for a telltale blink or two.  As for my brother, we've since become very close and can now enjoy a meal together provided nobody makes any sudden moves.

MISSPENT YOUTH

Like all true Bostonians, I'm a loyal Red Sox fan.  I take pride in their successes, suffer grievously over their failures, and detest anyone who wears pinstripes.  So virulent is my hatred of that pattern that it extends beyond Yankee players to anyone sporting parallel lines on their clothing including train engineers and candy stripers.  If Mother Teresa had worn a pinstripe sari, I'd have booed her too.

I love going to Fenway and rooting for the team.  I jump up and down and scream with the best of them, cheering on our boys and excoriating the opposition or any official who dares rule against us.  In begrudging deference to Yogi Berra, I never leave a game until it's over.

And yet, I possess a certain animus towards the sport that I just can't shake.  Through deep introspection and extensive analysis, I've uncovered two possible explanations.

Ken Burns and my childhood.

My gripe with Burns is professional.  I've spent most of my working life as a television editor, and in my many years of cutting and watching documentaries, I have never been subjected to anything as stupifyingly dull as Burns' twenty-three hour snorefest, Baseball.  Employing a reverential tone normally reserved for Papal investitures, he smeared his Civil War paintbrush over the national pastime, obliterating every last bit of genuine excitement and color from the sport.  I mean, really, how many different ways can you play "Take me out to the Ball Game" in a minor key?   A complete hack could have generated more fun out of a ten-part series on crescent wrenches.

But this is a minor insult compared to the trauma that baseball inflicted on my youth.

There were other sports and activities while I was growing up, but none held the exalted boyhood status of baseball.  In addition to playing the game, there was the endless discussion of players, teams, and stats, as well as the constant buying, selling and trading of cards.  It wasn't the high-stakes memorabilia racket it is today, but many a tooth became cavity-ridden in a vain search for a Stan Musial or Moose Skowron.  From April through October, baseball was all that mattered.  Proficiency made you popular, ineptitude branded you an outcast.

I couldn't hit the damn ball.  It didn't matter how slowly it was pitched or how many swings I was allowed, my time in the batter's box was spent in utter futility and embarrassment.

I really tried.  I would hold my breath, tense my body, and glare wide-eyed and unblinking at the pitcher - more Marty Feldman than Mighty Casey, but no less determined.  It didn't matter.  As soon as the ball was thrown, it would disappear into some multi-dimensional wormhole until it smacked against the catcher's mitt.  On the rare occasion that I did connect, it was courtesy of the same dumb luck that allows a roomful of monkeys to type a word or two of Macbeth.

My problem?  Congenital Nystagmus, which, for all you Ophthalmology buffs, is a neuromuscular condition that causes the eyes to jitter uncontrollably.  Objects don't appear out of focus; they just dance around the visual field like blood-crazed mosquitoes.  As a result, my depth perception is on a par with a medium-sized plum.  I was diagnosed shortly after birth and began wearing glasses at the age of two.  During the "50s, it was the misguided belief of opticians and frame manufacturers that children’s glasses should simply be scaled-down versions of hideously ugly adult models.  In an era that worshipped DiMaggio, Williams, and Mantle, I could have been mistaken for Bennett Cerf.

My fielding was worse than my batting.  When grammar school teams were forced to include me, I was stuck deep - and I mean WAY deep - in center field.  The second baseman or shortstop would run miles to grab any fly headed my way.  My field of dreams was more like the Sea of Tranquility.

Finally, I gave up, reluctantly accepting the fact that this avenue to fame, fortune, and popularity would forever be closed to me.  My father made a valiant effort to keep me competitive, but when a simple game of catch resembles a medieval stoning, it's unlikely that pro scouts will come knocking at your door.  I put away my glove and became the youngest embittered cynic in the history of Western Massachusetts.

Forging an identity apart from sports was daunting.  I wasn't a gifted student, and my miserable eyesight meant that I always sat in the front row of class, a sitting duck for teachers' questions and classmates' spitballs.  I didn't have the smarts to be teacher's pet, and was too shy to be class clown.  My age and social background ruled out delinquency and petty crime.  And while alienation and angst were hot topics in North Beach and Greenwich Village, they were seldom discussed by the ten-year-olds who hung around the Coke machine at Lincoln St. Texaco.  The only beatnik we knew was Maynard G. Krebs on Dobie Gillis, and he was no more a viable role model than Nikita Khrushchev.

Ironically, while desperately seeking an identity, I was growing one.  My lack of baseball skills along with the attendant derision led me to disdain physical activity of any kind.  Spurred on by a twenty-three hour-a-day TV habit and voracious sweet tooth, I began to gain in girth what I lacked in self-esteem.  In sixth grade, I claimed the heavyweight crown of my class. 

From then on, I was "The Fat Kid," a role I coveted about as much as "Pariah Outfielder."  But a certain prestige did come with the pounds.  How many other boys my age had the stature to play William Howard Taft in historical dramas?   And while I was still shunned during ball games, I was in great demand for "Johnny-on-a-pony."  I couldn't lick any man in the place as John L. Sullivan had boasted, but I could do some real damage if I sat on him.

Still, the perks were few, and the bullies many.  Because of my size, I stood out from the other losers on the playground like Joseph Stalin at a DAR picnic.  And with the first stirrings of adolescence, I discovered that sheer bulk is not highly prized in romance (at least not in the Western Hemisphere.)  Today, unable to earn millions by playing a game eight months a year, I spend my time sifting through the detritus of a misspent youth trying to explain my dietary fluctuations and adult eccentricities - all because of that son of a bitch, Abner Doubleday.

COLONIAL THEME PARKS

[This piece has nothing to do with the purported theme of the blog, but it's summer and Massachusetts is awash in colonial tourism. JB]

We Americans love our mythic history more than our actual history.  This is understandable since real history is ambiguous and unpleasant while national myths are reassuring and optimistic.  They are feel-good fantasies promulgated to boost civic pride and, like all myths ancient and modern, give insight into the national character without necessarily being true..  I have nothing against these myths provided that they are not passed off as actual history and more importantly, are not incarnated in "historical" recreation villages.

Perhaps it's insecurity about our country's short lifespan that makes us yearn for some theatrical embodiment of an idealized past.  Neapolitans have yet to set up Ye Olde Volcano Village amid the Vesuvian ruins to reenact the natural disasters of first-century Rome.  They take pride in the actual Pompeii and Herculaneum and constantly debate the trade-offs of restoration, conservation, and tourism.  They prefer displaying the rock-encased bodies of the original inhabitants to having toga-clad actors run from imaginary showers of ash.  Americans, in contrast, will travel hundreds of miles to watch a bonneted high school girl churn butter just off Exit 9 of the Mass. Turnpike.

Old Sturbridge Village and Plimoth Plantation are two very big attractions on the East Coast colonial circuit.  To be fair, these sites do have historical roots, and Sturbridge Village does have many buildings and artifacts that date back to the time frame they try to reanimate.  The activities, crafts, and costumes are said to be accurate, and I don't question their scholarship.  It's what isn't shown that bothers me.

Where, for example, are the recreations of 17th century surgery?  As a grade school student, I went on several field trips to these places, and I don't recall a single exhibit where a leg was amputated without anesthesia and cauterized with a hot iron.  I don't remember hearing the blood-curdling screams that must have been common while undergoing the dentistry of yore.  The staff may dress appropriately, but I bet they bathe more often than their colonial counterparts did.  The smell of Mennen Speed Stick gives lie to the reality of Puritan-era hygiene.

If the goal is to give the visitor a real feel for colonial life, forget about candle-making and weaving classes.  Hook them up to an ox-drawn plow and let them break up rocky fields for twelve hours.

By ignoring the more distasteful elements, these sites minimize the actual hardships undergone by our American ancestors - well, perhaps your American ancestors as mine didn't arrive from Latvia until 1904.   That they survived and prospered is a testament to their strength and resolve, and it is a disservice to their difficult and dangerous lives to pretend they can be encapsulated in theatrical displays, 9 AM to 5 PM, March through November.  What about winter?  My understanding is that winters were particularly hard on these folks.  Perhaps a group of actors wearing insufficient period garb could demonstrate starving and freezing to death using a walk-in refrigerator.

I don't want to be overly disingenuous about these places - they are first and foremost tourist sites with their own hardships, primarily economic.  I know that they have to provide all the modern amenities to attract visitors and must balance authenticity with user-friendliness.  This might explain the "Plimoth Cinema," an indie art house on the Plimoth Plantation site.  Because when I think of colonial America, the first thing that pops into my mind is Jean-Luc Godard.

MOTIVATION II

About three or four weeks into a diet, the early withdrawal symptoms diminish or disappear.  This means I no longer have a handy excuse for my innate irritability.

At this stage, if you are a confident, well-balanced person, you’re well on your way to happiness and better health.  I don’t know who you are, but Godspeed.  For the rest of us, there is a shift from physical to psychological hunger.  Nutritional piety has lost its power, and the reinforcement of others, the “Gee, you’ve lost weight” effect hasn’t yet arrived.  We are in a whole new phase of the conflict.

The cause is simple.  You can accustom your body to smaller quantities of better food, use your brain to justify it, and canonize yourself for the effort, but as you do, your id will grow more insistent in its primal mantra: “Eat as much as you want, of whatever you want, whenever you want it.” 

The id, or as I like to call him, “The Little Chazzer1,” is the loudest and most belligerent of Freud’s mental triumvirate.  Until you decided to diet, he was in control of your eating.  Now he’s engaged in ruthless combat with your rational self-interest (the ego) and the demands and expectations of our weight-crazed society (the superego, or as I like to call her, “The Stern Governess.”) 

The Chazzer may be trouble, but he also makes life exciting.  And what do we do?  We spend our lives beating him down him.  Everything from toilet training to obeying traffic lights is an effort to suppress his madcap sense of fun.  I’m not opposed to restraint, mind you; society can’t function if its citizens are governed solely by their unbridled desires.  But loading another set of restrictions onto our already over-regulated and and over-scheduled lives seems criminally repressive.   It also infuriates the Chazzer and makes his demands more insistent.  This conflict is the root of our angst.

Not bad for a guy who barely passed Psych 1, eh?

To maintain any diet, a way must be found to mollify the Chazzer.  If he can’t eat whatever he wants, he must be offered something else to divert his single-mindedness and harness his boundless energy.  In short, you’ve got to find him a hobby.

That used to be easy.  Cigarettes.

Please understand that I am not endorsing the use of tobacco.  I myself have not smoked a cigarette since January of 1972, when a bout of bronchitis broke its magic spell.  But in college, I smoked, and while I smoked, I was fanatic.  After a shaky start learning the basics, mainly how not to puke, I embraced cigarettes with utter zeal, accelerating from 0 to 40 faster than a top-fuel dragster.  And it wasn’t just for show; I inhaled…deeply, all the way to my toes.

Not that I was immune to their stylish allure.  During the ‘60s, many of us who reveled in the social freedom, political tumult, and “mind expansion,” of hippiedom, were put off by its treacly, feel-good philosophy.  For us, there was the iconic Bogey, world-weary and cynical, with Ingrid Bergman or Lauren Bacall on his arm and a cigarette dangling from his lips.  Never mind that we looked ridiculous in snap-brim fedoras and bell-bottoms, our eyes burning from Camel smoke; we were, at least in our own minds, cool.

And thin.  Bolstered by faux-panache and nicotine, I smoked more and ate less.  Gradually, cigarettes surpassed, and then replaced food as my emotional tranquilizer.  I puffed for serenity and ate for sustenance.  The pounds came off.  It was the perfect balance - provided, of course, you ignored the bit about diseased lungs.

I'm not bitter that I gave up smoking and with it, my last neutral relationship with eating.  Had I kept going, I wouldn't be able to tie my shoe without a two-week stay at Mass. General.  But not a year has gone by since I quit that I haven't had two or three guilt-ridden dreams about smoking.  And if the Surgeon General were to reverse himself tomorrow and announce that smoking isn't bad for your health, I'd be up to two packs by noon.

So, no id-appeasement from RJ Reynolds.  Then what?

Some diet experts advise a system of rewards as weight loss goals are met.  Among the most common suggestions are mini-vacations, such as a weekend in New York, and new clothes for your increasingly svelte physique.  While sensible on the surface, this approach is fraught with potential disaster.

A weekend in New York?  In case the proponents of this approach hadn’t noticed, NYC is not only known for its theater and museums, but for its restaurants as well.  There are thousands of them serving an unimaginable variety of food, and they are located prominently on every block beckoning the unwary with their siren charms.  There are also battalions of food carts, the street whores of food desire.  Once, in one of my more depraved moments, I ate a Sabrett hot dog at every ten-block interval up 5th Avenue.  There is simply no way to avoid temptation in this city.  Do you really want to test your resolve against the best hand-cut pastrami in the world?

More insidious but equally disastrous is the idea of new clothes as a reward.  Initial joy at fitting into slimmer duds can turn quickly to despair when they bulge from even slight fluctuations in weight.  If perchance you have a small lapse in your diet, they become an uncomfortable and very public reminder of your pitiful weakness.  Living under the tyranny of the scale is bad enough, but at least you don’t have to wear the damned thing. 

As your diet progresses, more, and bigger rewards will be needed to achieve the same level of motivation.   What started with small vacations and clothes can quickly become sports cars and yachts.  Basically, you’re soothing your food addiction by becoming a reward junkie.  As your waistline shrinks, so will your wallet, and though you may be thin, you might also be on welfare.

There is a deeper problem with this system.  If you’re going to reward yourself when you’re successful, it follows that you should punish yourself when you’re not.  The logic is simple; ten pounds down gets you a weekend in New York, ten pounds up earns the same in solitary.

“C’mon warden, give a guy a break.  I was starvin’.”

“I’m sorry, Louie, you know the rules.  That piece of danish just cost you a deuce in the hole.”

What’s next? Law & Order: Weight Watchers Unit?

The simple fact is that diets are not fun, and any strategy designed to hide that fact is doomed to fail.  If you are the stoic sort, you’ll be able to live with this.  If not, you can whine, complain, swear, make yourself and everyone around you miserable, but don’t pretend that this process is anything but an unpleasant system of denial.

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1 Yiddish for pig or glutton.