October 12, 2026 – A Tale of Two Bills

As I sit here, having just excused myself from the dinner table after consuming a sizable portion of baked chicken, steamed broccoli, and wild rice, I can state with absolute certainty that I am STUFFED. Stuffed to the gills! And yet, I feel wholly unsatisfied. Despite being so full (to the point of discomfort) that I can’t envision my stomach having the capacity to hold anything beyond a single grain of rice, I find myself wanting. Another chicken breast, you ask? No. Another scoop of steamed broccoli? Nope. Another spoonful of wild rice? Not even! What I want is a damn M&M McFlurry with a topping of hot fudge. And it’s literally taking every last ounce of willpower within me to not immediately rise from my chair, head straightaway to the garage, hop into my car, drive one block to the nearest golden arches, and swing through the drive-thru.

I can’t seem to get it out of my mind. In fact, I am on the edge of euphoria just thinking about sinking my teeth into a single serving of ice-cold, creamy, chocolate-infused, mouth-watering goodness! Actually, since a McFlurry is essentially a milkshake, I wouldn’t be sinking my teeth into it. A spoon (aka tiny shovel) is all that’s required so there’d be no sinking, just shoveling. Lots of shoveling. Nonetheless, I want it. I want it BAD. Despite having had my share of sweet treats all week…donuts, concrete mixers (think DQ Blizzard), brownies, and untold amounts of candy…my brain keeps trying to justify indulging in more taboo food. It loves to tell me, “Just have this one last slice/scoop/handful of heaven and you can start back on your diet first thing tomorrow morning.” Liar! I know better. I know that in all likelihood, tomorrow will start out promising but by four or five pm, I will experience the same want, the same longing. And by nine, I will have succumbed once again. Sigh.

Why share all of that with you today? I thought it would be a great segue to my next story, A Tale of Two Bills. Have you ever heard of that term, ‘two bills’? For simplicity’s sake, I will refer to it as 2Bs from here on out. Apparently, it’s slang for 200 pounds. Years ago, when I was working at a community college, a male coworker used the term when discussing his own weight, and he was NOT the least bit pleased about it. Up until recent months, according to him, he’d maintained a MUCH lower and healthier weight. When he lived in California (where he was born and raised), he’d been an avid surfer and never had any ‘spare change’. He was fit as a fiddle and proud of his lean physique. However, after moving to another state and accepting a position at the college I was also working for, that was no longer the case. He was now employed full-time as a student advisor which entailed countless hours perched on a chair, advising students on possible academia choices. Somehow, someway, and completely unbeknownst to him, the weight had snuck up on him (as it often does).

According to my male coworker, this was brought to his attention when he stepped upon his bathroom scale the previous day. When the dial ultimately settled just beyond the 200-mark, he’d recoiled in horror and let out a loud gasp. To see with his own eyes that he’d crossed the dreaded threshold from the 100s to the 200s was a shocking and unwelcome discovery. And shameful at that! I listened and nodded as he shared his story but I chose to stay mum. Entering into that conversation seemed like a terrible idea (i.e.: stepping into a mine field). I empathized and wanted to express how much I related to his situation, but my gut said otherwise. Correction, ‘bread basket’. That’s the term my mom used to use to describe the region around her stomach where the fat cells appeared content to gather and stay for a while (much like an annoying party guest). You can call it what you want (gut, bread basket, jelly roll), but one thing I know to be true is that it pays to trust your gut.

Anyway, back to 2Bs. Prior to the discussion involving my male coworker, if someone mentioned 2Bs to me out of the blue, I wouldn’t have thought of a number on a scale, I’d have had one of two trains of thought, paper money or a couple of guys named ‘Bill’. That, of course, includes people with names such as William, Will, Willard, Bill, Billy, and so forth. As it stands, I know and know of several individuals who go by that name. To name but a few, there’s my brother, brother-in-law, and my neighbor across the street. There’s also Bill Shakespeare, Bill Murray, Bill Gates and Bill Hader. And I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Bill Clinton. He seemed to do a solid job as president but always appeared a bit distracted whenever standing at a podium.

Alas, I wish I could continue to plead ignorance when it comes to the 2Bs, but I can’t. It’s all too familiar. The first time we were formally introduced was when I was pregnant with my first child. And since then, it just keeps reappearing on my doorstep like a cheap relative who likes to show up unexpectedly and stay a day or more because they don’t want to foot the bill for a hotel. Personally, when it comes to the 2Bs, I like to tiptoe around the number. I certainly don’t like to say it out loud and proud when I mention to friends and family that I’ve gained a little weight. And I fear that I’ll soon return to that oh-so-familiar yet dreaded place on the scale sooner rather than later, due to making multiple, questionable dietary choices over this past week/month/year.

My excuse? Stress. In order to deal with stress, I turn to sweets. It’s a terrible coping mechanism but I suppose when considering the litany of self-harming behaviors (alcoholism, drug abuse, sex addiction, gambling, compulsive spending), I can justify overeating because in my mind it’s the lesser of the aforementioned evils. The one saving grace is that regardless of my occasional slips or dietary transgressions after finding excuse after excuse to justify them, it’s only a matter of time before I wake one random morning, size myself up in the mirror, and shout with conviction, “Snap out of it!” as Cher did to Nicolas Cage in Moonstruck (after he professed his undying love). I will then go to extreme measures to get my weight to a more acceptable number on the scale.

Throughout my life, as a means of shedding unwanted pounds, I’ve tried limiting my caloric intake or at the very least, limiting my sugar consumption. When I’ve stuck to my guns, I’ve been extremely successful. At one point, I lost a total of 75 pounds. It altered my appearance so drastically that if I ran into someone who knew me pre-weight loss (former co-workers and friends), they no longer recognized me. What a head trip that is! On one particular occasion, as I was exiting a movie theater, an acquaintance approached me with concern, gently placed her hand on my shoulder, and inquired as to whether I had cancer! Geesh. I’ve also gone the route of exercising more frequently and/or implementing the use of machines (things out of my comfort zone) to increase my heart rate. The problem is, apart from walking, cycling, or hiking outdoors every other day, which is within my comfort zone, I don’t like to exercise. I wish I could get on a GLP-1 but due to my kidney transplant, I don’t qualify.

I don’t know. I either need to accept my set of circumstances or do something about them once and for all. I’ve had some short-term success getting my weight within the ‘normal’ range, but for whatever reason, it never lasts. And let me tell you, I’ve made several attempts (with and without help). Weight Watchers? Check. TOPS (Take Off Pounds Sensibly)? Check. Overeaters Anonymous? Check. There have been other organizations and methodologies throughout the years but I’ll have to admit, I’ve lost track. My experience with Weight Watchers was the most satisfying but least effective. After each weekly meeting and weigh-in, a majority of the attendees would get together at a nearby pizza joint and pig out! And, no, not a single person ordered a salad, minus the cheese and croutons, with fat-free dressing on the side.

And speaking of kidneys, I have an appointment with my nephrologist later this month and I can tell you right now, it’s not going to be pleasant. He gave me a bunch of crap after he noticed a 10-pound weight gain during my last appointment six months ago. Afterwards, I kid you not, he provided me with a handout which contained ‘suggested foods to lose weight’ (i.e.: enjoying raw carrots with a low-fat dip as a between-meal snack). Come on! Who’s he kidding?! The only time I really enjoy carrots is when they’re grated and mixed in to cake batter, which is then poured into 8″ round pans, placed in the oven and baked to perfection. And the finishing touch? A generous layer of cream cheese frosting. Delish!

Alright, I guess I’d better go. It’s getting late and I still need to come up with a Halloween costume. Since going as Wonder Woman, Elvira or Jessica Rabbit is off the table, I’m seriously considering dressing up as the female version of either the Pillsbury Dough Boy, the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, the Michelin Man or the Kool-Aid Man. I’ll keep you posted on what I decide!

Much love to you and yours! And by the way, does anyone else find it curious that most of the past obese brand mascots were male? Hmmmm. It sure does make me wonder.