Real Food No More
Folks, today I write to you from the infernal regions of weight reduction's deepest pit. According to my medical advisory staff, I am to be interned in this smoldering abyss for the remainder of my stay on earth or until I shed fifty or more pounds of junk-food induced fat, which ever comes first.

This all started with a phone message from my doctor's office informing me of some "abnormalities" in my latest blood test. Abnormalities, what does that mean? For a hypochondriac like me, saying that there are "abnormalities" on my blood test is like telling a normal person that they have but a few hours to live and that they must spend those last fleeting moments in traffic court.

All of you must know a person who reads a health article in a magazine and is thoroughly convinced that they suffer from the described affliction. That's me. In fact, when reading such material I often feel myself manifesting the common listed symptoms as I tremble through the text. By the end of the discourse I have become a flinching, drooling, feverish, bedridden invalid frozen by fear. Upon hearing the news of my imminent demise, I insisted (pleaded) for an immediate appointment.

Following a sleepless night, I drove to the doctor's office and walked "The Green Mile" into the waiting room. Avoiding any medical magazines, I reached for the safety of a recent copy of "People" only to find an article on Patrick Swayze and his courageous bout with cancer. Quickly, I retreated to my overstuffed chair (sans reading material), and began to perspire.

Once freed from the waiting room, I was deposited into a small examination room with colorful diagrams of internal organs adorning the walls. Moments later the doctor arrived and got right to the point. In her estimation, my cholesterol number would make a great bowling score, but needed to come down dramatically. My triglycerides measured off the scale, eclipsing my SAT score from 1976. The doctor looked more worried than I did and that had never happened before. Solemnly, she handed me a sheet of paper which described foods that I needed to start eating and ones that I would need to cut out of my daily diet. EVERYTHING I eat was on the "must go" list. My fear transitioned to depression in the time it takes me to wolf down a bag of mini donuts (my personal best: 1 minute and 47.3 seconds.*milk aided).

No ribs, no hot dogs, no spaghetti, no salami. NO SALAMI! From age five to age twenty-five all I ate was kosher salami. I would have named my son Salami, but who needs that kind of pressure? My sisters would send me salami care packages through the mail when I first moved to Virginia, thinking that I might perish without a frequent visit from Hebrew National. NO SALAMI! I wanted to lie down in the middle of Campbell Avenue and wait for Valley Metro to roll over me.

Since receiving the bad news, my dining life has been predictably miserable. Nightly, I nuke low calorie frozen dinners, which appear yummy when depicted on the box, but, in reality, taste only slightly better than the box itself. Janet and Will have been supportive, encouraging me to stay with the eating program and exercise more often. Honestly the only part of my body that is in top physical condition is my right forearm which is frequently summoned to raise and lower my recliner's leg rest.

As I embark on this life sentence, I recall the day a six year-old Jon asked his mother "Mom, is there salami in heaven?" Holding back a giggle, my Mom put down her dish rag, put her hand on my shoulder, glanced skyward and said "I'm not sure who handles the catering up there Jon, but I'm sure they have everything, even salami." So at least I got that going for me.