I have a puppy. Not the big-eyed, tail-wagging variety. "Puppy" is my nickname for my stomach. I call it that because every night when I go to sleep, it lies beside me like a loyal mutt.
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Everyone knows what happens with puppies. If you feed them enough kibble, they grow into dogs. After two months of holiday feasting, my puppy turned into a Great Dane.
Every year I begin the holiday season with the prissy resolve of a Pritikin dieter: "You will eat lean, white meat, and one tablespoon of stuffing. Do not even think abut the pecan pie."
By the end of the holidays, however, I am Henry VIII, chicken grease dribbling down my chin as I bellow, "Bring me another mug of mead, wench, and be quick about it!"
The trouble is, the extra poundage takes awhile to catch up with me. I'll plow through a Publix party tray and heaps of Honey Baked ham with seemingly no repercussions. The puppy remains a charming little Chihuahua, and I deceive myself into thinking I've developed a metabolism like a blast furnace.
"It must be all that shopping I've done. You wouldn't believe how far away I had to park on my last trip to Target. Didn't I read somewhere that tree-trimming is aerobic?"
While I'm placating myself with outrageous lies, the fat cells are plotting their strategies. Thighs? Back side? Where will the blitzkrieg begin?
After several days of unchecked gluttony, some of my clothes feel a wee bit snug. Time for a new set of delusions. What's the harm in being pleasingly plump, I think, if it means you get to devour Christmas cookies at the rate of two per minute? Visions of smiling Earth mothers and Rubenesque nymphs cavort in my head. As I recall, Kirstie Alley didn't look half bad on the cover of People. Americans are way too uptight about body image anyway. I'm 43 years old! I should make friends with my flab.
Before I know it, the moment of truth arrives - otherwise known as January. The crumbs have been scraped from the pie tins, and the last dribble of wine has been guzzled. Do I dare assess the damage?
I open my clothes drawers and head straight for the fat pants.
"I'm sure I could fit into all my other jeans," I say, still lying to myself. "But I want to be comfy."
As I pull on my pants I notice something is very wrong. Usually I slide into my fat pants with ease. Today I'm encountering all kinds of speed bumps. This can't be. The fat pants have betrayed me. They've shrunk in the middle of the night!
"Maybe it's just muscle, " I say, in a last-ditch attempt at denial. "Muscle takes up more room than fat, and I've been lifting some very heavy sauce pans lately."
Trouble is I don't think muscle is quite so jiggly.
No more fooling myself. The fat cells have landed. They have strongholds on all my major body parts, particularly the puppy, who has morphed into Clifford the Big Red Dog.
Now I'm deluding myself in a different way: "Celery is my friend. I really like rice cakes." And the puppy? Lately it's been doing a lot of growling.
AUGUSTA RESIDENT KARIN GILLESPIE IS THE AUTHOR OF BET YOUR BOTTOM DOLLAR. SHE CAN BE REACHED THROUGH HER WEB SITE AT WWW.KARINGILLESPIE.COM.
