LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMP Out: Fay's Rehoboth Journal - As Speilberg Would Say, Just When You Thought it was Safe to Go Back in the Kitchen... |
by Fay Jacobs |
Good news! Scientists have discovered that sharks don't like lunching on humans as much as had been believed. The bad news is when they do get a craving it's for plump people. Not only was this bulletin disturbing, but I heard it immediately following a tragic afternoon trying on bathing suits. I'm shark bait for sure. Is there a name for the kind of denial where, after a winter of parties and halfprice pizza, you ignore all mirrors and suffer abject shock come April when your clothes don't fit? What would that be? Reflection Deficit Disorder? Clinical Dimension? Whatever it is, I've got it. And here I am, a woman with the motto "Life's uncertain, eat dessert first" living where you can't walk two paces in any direction without running into a Funnel Cake. After exactly one year in a town with legendary pizza, beach fries, and schnitzel sandwiches, I'm at the top of Orca's food pyramid. Okay, it's not fair to blame the shape I'm in (round) on Rehoboth's goody glut. My long term relationship with the bathroom scale has been rocky at best. I've tried every diet ever invented and they all work fine. Really. Scarsdale, Weight Watchers, the cantaloupe diet, that 80's rage the Cambridge Diet, you name it. I can lose lots of weight on all of them. Unfortunately, I don't, because I invariably fall off the wagon and onto the buffet table. The only real success I ever had was during the Phen-Fen diet pill craze. Those things were great. Two pills a day and bingo! Better living through brain chemistry. In three months I shed thirty-five pounds, and a lifetime of excess guilt. It was terrific. But next thing I knew, doctors started shrieking that our heart valves were becoming applesauce and wham, the government confiscated my Phen-Fen. Luckily, the only permanent medical damage I suffered was blowing back up into a Women's World shopper. Then I tried a new drug I shall not name. You've seen the ads. Gaggles of substantial people troll the beach, tryst with spouses and eat what the announcer euphemistically calls a sensible meal. I think a sensible meal is the one pound burger at Purple Parrot, which is probably skewed thinking. But have you heard the disgusting disclaimer? I won't repeat it verbatim on the chance you're reading this with lunch, but let's just say that the warning has to do with a teeny little medical side effect which causes your digestive system to drain like a Humvee with an oil leak. Frankly, it's sadistic. There's nothing in the drug to help you say no to a side of fries, but you're expected to go cold turkey on fat grams to avoid this pesky little side effect. Duh. If I could go cold turkey on fat grams, who'd need their expensive wonder drug? I think it's a cruel hoax invented by the Kaopectate people. When you think about it, this drug works by figuratively scaring the poop out of you and then, if you stray, getting literal. Next! I was pondering my battle of the bulge when I was asked to serve as a judge for the annual Rehoboth Chocolate Festival. Oh boy. Having me adjudicate that event was like putting a crackhead in charge of the evidence room at the Narcotics Squad. What fun!!!!! In fact, a recent e-mail from some anonymous jokester sums up my theory of chocolate:
Certainly not me. So I showed up at the Convention Center at 7 a.m. on March 18 to join thirty other brave volunteers willing to make the supreme sacrifice of eating chocolate before breakfast. Just let me say it was an honor and a privilege to participate. The entries were really delicious. But the real blue ribbons should have gone to the volunteers. You think crowd control for July 4th fireworks is tough? These troops kept hundreds of tourists with sugar highs from causing pandemonium in the streets. Seriously, if you've never been to the event, put it on your calendar for next spring. It's great fun, and the dollar admission price is worth it's weight in...oh never mind.... Which brings me back to my original subject. Even if being shark bait is a farfetched possibility, I do have to get back into last season's clothes. So, I'm turning to the e-word. Exercise. Here, too, I have a checkered past. I'm just the kind of customer health club accountants love. I'd eagerly join up, go for a few glorious weeks, and thereafter get all my exercise just writing the monthly check to the spa. Years ago I joined a trendy city gym to try to lower my cholesterol. After one week in a spandex outfit best viewed on Calista Flockhart, and being snubbed by buffed bodies with attitude, all I lowered was my self-esteem. At Slimnastics I hung out at the back of the room, hugging the mirrored wall for security. I loved finding out it was a one way mirror for thin folks in the sauna to watch my sorry butt. Water aerobics was worse. Wading was nice, but when the instructor told us to hoist ourselves onto the side of the pool and bark like seals I wasn't waiting around for them to bounce a rubber ball on my nose and toss me a fish. A glutton for food and punishment, I eventually bought a life-time gym membership, meaning I could drop out this year, next year, and every one after that, in perpetuity. But moving to Rehoboth turned my Maryland lifetime membership into packing paper. At first, I joined the gym at Midway. Surprise! I loved it. The friendly people wore more SUNDANCE T-shirts than spandex, and I actually enjoyed working out. Alas, finances being what they are, it may be a while before we can afford another family membership. So in the meantime, I bought a cheap treadmill. Getting it out of the car and into the housenow that was exercise. Advertised to fold up and practically disappear, it looked dainty in Sears. In my bedroom it could have had Leo DiCaprio hanging off it's bow. But for now, I seem to be using it. Every morning the dogs watch me walk my twenty minutes. And, until scientists invent something that makes celery taste like Thrashers, sharks prefer low-fat swimmers, or diet pills that won't turn us into new life forms, I'm logging the miles. And it's a good thing. Bonnie and I just had our 18th anniversary and my sister, bless her heart, has finally realized it's not just a phase. Along with a lovely card, she sent us an entire New York cheesecake. Oy. I'm sitting here staring at the thing and already I can hear the theme from Jaws. I'm going to get a fork. Da Dum...Da Dum.... Fay Jacobs' CAMPOut, the 1998 winner of the Vice Versa Award for "Best First Person Column," is a regular feature of Letters from CAMP Rehoboth. Fay Jacobs is a member of the board of directors of CAMP Rehoboth. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 10, No. 3, Apr. 7, 2000. |