I sat at my desk eating a container of cheese when I’d have much preferred lunch with “the boys.” At night, I’d slap a small steak on the grill and have that with a tomato. (Wait until you come to our chart. You’ll see just what I was doing.) So I complained to my doctor. I was told to cut down on my multivitamins. Or rather, to eliminate them. Now, even to my layman’s medical mind, this seemed odd. If you are cutting down on the nutrients going into your body, shouldn’t you be upping your supplemental vitamins rather than cutting them out entirely? So I questioned, as is my custom. And I was told that occasionally vitamins increase the appetite.
As appetite was not, and never has been, my big problem, I decided to ignore this medical advice. I just believe in vitamins and I also have a lot of will power when it comes to eating practically nothing. And I was eating practically nothing, while “nothing” kept coming off. Not off my body. Off my nerves perhaps, the ends of which were twanging.
And so I complained again. This time I was told I would be sent a diet pill. “To what purpose?” I inquired. “It isn’t my appetite that’s the problem. It’s what happens inside to what I put there.” No dice.
I got the diet pill anyway the first of my life and, I am most happy to say, the last.
For I am militantly anti-amphetamine. With my birth-given set of high-strung nerves, who needs “speed”? If there were ever a person walking this earth who doesn’t need speeding up, it is I. But I took the pill anyway, in the hope that perhaps all those years I’d suffered needless self-denial when the answer may have lain in one single little capsule.
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