a burger and a toy, the new Go Active meal will include a salad, an exercise booklet and a pedometer meant
to encourage walking."
That's inventive of them, don't you think? Mind you, the skeptical part of my brain does wish to point out that McDonald's
has now officially lost its way in the world of marketing, if it fails to understand that an exercise booklet makes a meal
about as happy as being offered roast chicken with a hair shirt. Needless to say, if you want to make adults happy, give them
a baby-sitting coupon. Or a joint. On the other hand, the meal has been endorsed by Oprah Winfrey s personal trainer. That's a Go Active meal with a whiff of glamour. A hint to all future Caesar Barbers. Fat? You coulda
had a pedometer.
Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk
When people quit smoking, I strongly recommend that they join a gym. That way they can feel good about quitting and also feel
an extra thrill of righteousness about making a monthly donation to a fitness center they never attend. It works really well.
Certainly in my case, after I foreswore my beloved Marlboro Lights and then immediately, with bright and happy intent, bought
a pass to the YWCA, I felt marvelous. I don't regret the fifteen pounds I've gained since then. Not for a minute. Because,
think about it. I quit smoking after twenty-three years! If part of that difficult, painful process involves throwing good money after bad, month after
month after month, not going to the gym while slowly inflating like a hot air balloon, then so be it. I deserve to cut myself
some slack. Or at very least to buy roomier pants.
By the way, I have a theory about the dramatic and unprecedented rise in obesity in our society, which is that the trend corresponds
with the decline in smoking. Everyone is stopping their filthy habit and getting fat, just like me! Consider the math. In
1975, just under half of us smoked and less than a quarter of us were obese. Thirty years later the numbers have neatly reversed
themselves. The hysterias have supplanted one another. Oh no! We're fat! We're all going to die! We quit smoking, but it doesn't
matter, because we're fat and we're all going to die!
For a while I did try to curb my thigh inflation by playing tennis. The idea of this game entered my life in the excited yet
nerve-racking run-up to quitting smoking, when everyone advised me to develop a new lifestyle with different rituals. It was
a period not dissimilar to pregnancy, when those around me crowed with pleasure and offered a nostalgic knowledge.
"Oh! You're going to have so much more energy, you won't believe it!"
"You will be able to smell again, it's the greatest thing."
"Kissing tastes nicer."
"You just feel so much better about yourself. So much better."
I was encouraged to imagine stuff to do every hour and every minute and every second of every day that was jarringly new and
that I wouldn't associate with smoking. I compiled a list. Don't go to bars. Join the gym. Don't go out for dinner. Sign up
for tennis. Shun coffee shops. Arrange for dance lessons. Avoid writer friends. Hang out with joggers. Keep emotional turmoil
to a minimum. And for God's sake, Patricia, don't sit at your laptop and write another book.
Originally, of course, my plan was to knock myself unconscious with a mallet shortly after breakfast each day. But Ambrose
felt supportive of tennis, having himself played all through high school. One day, as we found ourselves in Toys "R" Us, beating
our zombie-like children back with sticks from the shelves, Ambrose cried, "Hey, look, they've got tennis rackets!" and grabbed
one, which he threw into the cart with the Play-Doh and dinosaurs and Junior Scrabble. "It's on sale," he added. "This is
actually a great price for a racket."
You know, you worry that these things are going to be inordinately complicated, these changes in lifestyle, and it's so pleasing
and surprising when they're not. Who would have
to encourage walking."
That's inventive of them, don't you think? Mind you, the skeptical part of my brain does wish to point out that McDonald's
has now officially lost its way in the world of marketing, if it fails to understand that an exercise booklet makes a meal
about as happy as being offered roast chicken with a hair shirt. Needless to say, if you want to make adults happy, give them
a baby-sitting coupon. Or a joint. On the other hand, the meal has been endorsed by Oprah Winfrey s personal trainer. That's a Go Active meal with a whiff of glamour. A hint to all future Caesar Barbers. Fat? You coulda
had a pedometer.
Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk
When people quit smoking, I strongly recommend that they join a gym. That way they can feel good about quitting and also feel
an extra thrill of righteousness about making a monthly donation to a fitness center they never attend. It works really well.
Certainly in my case, after I foreswore my beloved Marlboro Lights and then immediately, with bright and happy intent, bought
a pass to the YWCA, I felt marvelous. I don't regret the fifteen pounds I've gained since then. Not for a minute. Because,
think about it. I quit smoking after twenty-three years! If part of that difficult, painful process involves throwing good money after bad, month after
month after month, not going to the gym while slowly inflating like a hot air balloon, then so be it. I deserve to cut myself
some slack. Or at very least to buy roomier pants.
By the way, I have a theory about the dramatic and unprecedented rise in obesity in our society, which is that the trend corresponds
with the decline in smoking. Everyone is stopping their filthy habit and getting fat, just like me! Consider the math. In
1975, just under half of us smoked and less than a quarter of us were obese. Thirty years later the numbers have neatly reversed
themselves. The hysterias have supplanted one another. Oh no! We're fat! We're all going to die! We quit smoking, but it doesn't
matter, because we're fat and we're all going to die!
For a while I did try to curb my thigh inflation by playing tennis. The idea of this game entered my life in the excited yet
nerve-racking run-up to quitting smoking, when everyone advised me to develop a new lifestyle with different rituals. It was
a period not dissimilar to pregnancy, when those around me crowed with pleasure and offered a nostalgic knowledge.
"Oh! You're going to have so much more energy, you won't believe it!"
"You will be able to smell again, it's the greatest thing."
"Kissing tastes nicer."
"You just feel so much better about yourself. So much better."
I was encouraged to imagine stuff to do every hour and every minute and every second of every day that was jarringly new and
that I wouldn't associate with smoking. I compiled a list. Don't go to bars. Join the gym. Don't go out for dinner. Sign up
for tennis. Shun coffee shops. Arrange for dance lessons. Avoid writer friends. Hang out with joggers. Keep emotional turmoil
to a minimum. And for God's sake, Patricia, don't sit at your laptop and write another book.
Originally, of course, my plan was to knock myself unconscious with a mallet shortly after breakfast each day. But Ambrose
felt supportive of tennis, having himself played all through high school. One day, as we found ourselves in Toys "R" Us, beating
our zombie-like children back with sticks from the shelves, Ambrose cried, "Hey, look, they've got tennis rackets!" and grabbed
one, which he threw into the cart with the Play-Doh and dinosaurs and Junior Scrabble. "It's on sale," he added. "This is
actually a great price for a racket."
You know, you worry that these things are going to be inordinately complicated, these changes in lifestyle, and it's so pleasing
and surprising when they're not. Who would have
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