Losing Weight
Intelligently
There was a wild clatter
in the den. I had forgotten again, as Lapius had asked me to do
repeatedly, to buy a large rubber mat to place under his exer-cycle.
S.Q. Lapius was pumping
away furiously, his hair matted with sweat, his T-shirt moist, his breath
coming in short gasps. He stopped when I entered. And tried to say
something but didn’t have the wind.
The kitchen odors were
inviting. I could smell cheeses, garlic, clove, and other spices.
Lapius had prepared one of his gourmet meals.
“You are preparing a
gourmet meal,” I said as I helped him from the exer-cycle and balanced him till
he could catch his breath.
“Precisely, Harry.
This constant fight against weight must be continued in order to permit me the
luxury of food and drink.”
“There are no calories
in celery and water,” I told him.
“Nor taste either,” he
gasped.
“You are fighting a
losing battle,” I badgered. “All you are losing on that bicycle is a few
pounds of water. You know that better than I.” Actually he
remained, despite his expertise in most matters medical, purposefully ignorant
of calorie balance with regards to weight. He knew the details, I
supposed, but blocked them out.
“It’s as simple as
elementary arithmetic,” I told him. “The meal you are preparing will
contain about 3500 calories ---“
“Ridiculous,
Harry. I have omitted the potatoes.”
“But not the cheese on
the tomatoes, the rich gravy on the veal, the parmesan to be scattered on that,
the blue cheese dressing, and the basket of garlic bread. Not just one or
two pieces but an entire loaf of French bread.”
“Harry,” he said
morosely, “It’s uneconomical to prepare only one or two pieces of garlic
bread. We can’t be profligate.”
“The point, Simon,” I
admonished, “Is that 3500 calories assimilated into your obese body is the
equivalent of one pound of weight. If you eat fifty calories a day less
than your daily energy requirements, less than one piece of bread, it will take
you ten weeks to lose that very same pound of weight.
“Of course. That’s
the purpose of the exer-cycle.”
“Do you have any idea
how many miles you would have to peddle to get rid of the
pound?”
“About three.”
“Nonsense, Simon.
If you ran 1.5 miles daily you would spend only about 200 calories. Thus you
would have to run that distance daily for two weeks to lose the 3500 calories
you intend to consume tonight.”
“Be quiet and open the
wine. The 1972 white Burgundy is already cooled.”
“Alcohol is immediate
energy, Simon. If you really wanted to lose weight you would forego the
wine, as well as your usual martini prior to sitting at the table.”
“Well I didn’t plan to
have hors d’oeuvres,” he said lamely.
“One ounce of gin, which
is somewhat shy of what you imbibe in your habitual pre-prandial martini,
contains about 160 calories that turn to instant energy. These calories
help you get almost 100 percent efficiency from the rest of the food you eat.”
“Really? Well I
certainly can’t give up eating. Perhaps I should have that ileal by-pass
operation—you know where they shorten the intestinal pathway for the absorption
of food.”
“It won’t work,
Simon. The results are not glowing. About 90 percent of the people
who have had that surgery have returned to their old weight within five years.”
“Well there must be a
way.”
“Sure there is.
Let me take you to dinner.”
“And waste that good
food. Not tonight, Harry. But I promise you can take me out
tomorrow night.”
I have to admit the food
was delicious. I knew it would add a pound to my weight within three or
four days. But true to his word, Lapius joined me the following evening.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” I said, as
I rolled the car up to a MacDonald’s.
Lapius was aghast.
“The atmosphere isn’t conducive to dining,” he complained.
“We are not dining,
Simon, we are eating.” He surveyed the menu carefully and ordered a big
Mac.
“I guess this will get
me through the evening,” he said morosely. “But you know I won’t be able
to digest it without some wine to wash it down.”
“That’s the idea,
Simon. The less you digest, the less weight you will gain. Here let
me help you.” I leaned over the spare table and removed the rolls on
which the hamburger basked.
“Not that too Harry?”
“Yes that too, Simon.”
“Even in jail they serve
bread with the water.”
“Simon, I am simply
amazed that a man with your medical background, with your sophisticated
knowledge in so many esoteric areas of medical science, can be such an idiot
about food.”
“All I can say to you,
Harry,” Lapius said, after nibbling gingerly on the hamburger, “is that you
would be a great guy to have around in a famine.”
“And if everybody ate
like you, Simon, we would be having one soon.”