It's almost 2016, and I don't need to tell you what that means. Or maybe I do. So I will.
It's that time of year when I remind myself that if I could just lose 10 pounds in the next 12 months--and hopefully sooner--my life would be perfect. I don't think it's asking too much. Just 10 little itty-bitty pounds to eradicate all imperfection from my life, with the resulting perfection preferably not instantly undone by a single Smokehouse BBQ Bacon Cheeseburger (TM) from the Cheesecake Factory.
Every woman (and a few men) know this to be a truth more profound than gravity or the tenacity of the IRS: The removal of 160 ounces of fat, water, muscle, and other biomass from my stomach, ass, thighs, and chin will instantly transform my life from a dark pit of despair into a halcyon, celestial meadow bursting at the hedges with colorful wildflowers, frolicking unicorns, shooting stars, and rainbows.
Indeed, my life after the loss of 10 pounds will make the cover of a Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper look like a grayish-brown shit-stain layered over with homeless junkie sick, slowly drying up on the cold, beige tile floor of the handicapped stall of the men's restroom at the Port Authority bus terminal on 34th Street and 8th Avenue.
Speaking of 34th Street, losing 10 pounds would be my life's truest miracle. A Hollywood agent will probably option the rights to a remake of "Miracle on 34th Street" called "Miracle on the Scale: How One Woman Lost Ten Pounds and Gained Perfection." It will be a combination documentary/biopic. Mostly it will be interviews with me. But there will also be dramatized parts in which Rosie O'Donnell will play me in the "before" the loss of 10 pounds scenes, and Kate Moss will play me in the "after" phase.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I just stepped on Scaley (that's what I call her) this morning, and after she showed me a number, I could almost hear her talking to me in a little robot lady voice like an effeminate K.I.T.T. from Knight Rider: "GOOD MORNING MASTER. . . MIGHT I MAKE A RESPECTFUL SUGGESTION, MASTER. . . IF THIS NUMBER I HAVE JUST DISPLAYED DECREASES BY 10 DIGITS THIS YEAR, YOUR LIFE WILL BE PERFECT, MASTER . . ."
Seriously I think Scaley actually said those words out loud to me. And I know she's right!
I don't know if I'll wake up tomorrow. That's the way life is. Here one day, gone the next. It's all so ephemeral and fleeting. But if there's one thing I DO know, it's that the only thing--THE only thing--standing between me and the resolution of every single, solitary problem in my life (apart, perhaps, from death itself) is the aforementioned 160 ounces of fat, water, muscle, and other biomass.
Once those 10 pounds come off, everything else will instantly fall into place. It goes without saying that I'll feel better, be in a better mood, and have more energy. Or at least that's what I plan to tell anyone who remarks upon my drastic transformation. What I won't tell them though--because I don't want to rub it in--is how the loss of 10 pounds has also simultaneously solved every other problem that I have.
When I lose 10 pounds, my bank account will be flush with dollars; my kids will don their shoes and coats without being asked (or only asked once); my driveway will magically plow itself for free; my mental health will be impeccable; all my friends will love me; all my co-workers will think I'm a genius; and an enormous box of brand new clothing from Zappos will arrive at my doorstep, unbidden and perfectly tailored to my new physique.
SCUSHCLK ... Did you hear that? No? That was the sound of me opening a can of Diet Coke. (The sound of me opening a Rice Krispy Treat from the downstairs vending machine to complement the Diet Coke was silent, so you probably missed that). Whatever. As everyone knows, anyone who drinks Diet Coke instantly loses 10 pounds.
Can you imagine what my life will be like if and when I lose 15?!