Sculpin

Having googled around a bit, I learn that the one-slice sandwich trick is an ancient Weight Watchers technique called the “twofer”. I suppose you do save a hundred calories or so by not having the other slice of bread. To my mind, though, that’s not really the point.

Not that I won’t take it. Some of you know that I’ve been on what I’ve been calling the Stick ‘n’ Twig Diet. It’s not really that dire, particularly because I’ve been using it as an excuse to buy a lot of delicious, expensive fruits, vegetables, and fish. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I am a spoiled middle-class hippie now and I can have all the local asparagus I want, thank you very much. I rationalize that while wild Oregon shrimp is expensive, heart attacks are really expensive. I like to think I’ve learned something from my herniated disc experience; cheaping out on the jackhammer rental was not cost-effective.

It’s basically a Mediterranean-type diet that I’m doing, heavily informed by the Harvard School of Public Health and the World’s Healthiest Foods website, with a little special attention to my grain consumption. I’m luckier than many: not only can I afford it in terms of time, money, and energy, but my metabolism seems to be pretty much bog-standard. There is the problem of weight loss exacerbating the dysfunction of damaged nerves, but I’m learning to deal. It appears to be working pretty well. I’m now about ten pounds over my fightin’ weight and I’m not fed up with working at it yet.

Next month I’ll check my blood chemistry, which is the point of all this. Some numbers came back a few months ago that startled me, and my doctor kind of shrugged and said, “Hey, lose some weight.” But, gosh, a lot of things can make those numbers look screwy. There could have been some other things going on besides my thunderous BMI of 26, and there’s been some excellent reason to consider them. (As I said to a friend, “Yeah, I know that when you hear hoofbeats, you should think horses, not zebras — but not if you live down the road from the zebra farm.”) No likely alternate explanation looks to be terribly urgent, from what I can tell, so I didn’t kick up a fuss, but… Look, I like my doctor. I like him very much indeed, overall. But I had to wonder: as long as I was overweight, could I really count on getting timely, appropriate medical treatment? How much did I want to bet? Did I want to bet my health? Because that’s what I was betting.

So I’ve been taking off a chunk of the nearly forty pounds I gained on Depo-Provera back in 2004. Some of that fat I arguably needed; the rest, not so much. It was an interesting experience, gaining that much weight in the space of about three months. I’d known that we lived in a fatphobic society, but I’d had no idea that the fatphobia kicked in at such a moderate weight. As far as I was concerned, my new size was ordinary and unexceptionable. But I could see the social world around me getting subtly chillier — not my friends, but people with whom I’d casually interact.

I told myself I was imagining things. I informed myself that I was just silly and awkward about my new shape, and all I needed was a better wardrobe and to carry myself more gracefully. I bought a few decent shirts, joined a yoga class, and eventually became a Pilates fiend. I felt better than I had since my early twenties, built a ton of muscle, and discovered my inner jock. I learned to carry myself more like a dancer. For a while I sported a diabolically fabulous haircut. And I’m telling you, folks, it wasn’t the clothes, the body language, the confidence, or the mind-body relationship that was most at issue. It was, in fact, the fat.

Now that I’m a good twenty pounds down, I see things happening in reverse. I think I look pretty much the same, but the world is reacting to me differently now. I thought I’d revel in having that privilege back, but the truth is I do not. But there it is: I go out to lunch and the guy at the counter seems really happy to take my order. The young woman wiping down my table is a bit more enthusiastic than I’m used to. I get on the bus and accidentally drop a quarter, and the bus driver grins sympathetically and tells me not to worry about it. The world is warming up again. People seem to act as if they know me. When I’m not feeling baffled at my strangely friendly reception, I feel like a spy from Plumpland, slimmed down for my secret mission among a strange and deluded people.

After all these years, it’s finally happened. Josh has finally acknowledged the deliciousness of my own special sandwich trick. Vindication at last.

It’s possible that other people do this as well, but I don’t believe I’ve heard of anyone trying it who hasn’t heard of it from me. It’s a slightly delicate operation, but I promise it’s worth it. What you do is, you toast one slice of bread to a medium brown. (You’ll have an easier time if it’s a plain white or wheat bread without inclusions.) Then, while it’s still warm, you stand the toast upright on your cutting board and slide a serrated knife right down through the soft middle, parallel to the broad surface of the toast, dividing it into two ultra-thin, crunchy-crackly slices.

This is especially good with egg salad, tuna salad, or thinly sliced leftover Thanksgiving turkey with lots of pepper. Any relatively delicate filling would do. Today’s winning sandwich was a tuna salad loaded with minced celery and a touch of paprika.

I’ve been told more than once that slicing toast like this looks bizarre and borderline insane. Well. They called me mad at the academy, but I’ll show them. I’ll show them all! Muah hah hah hah hah om nom nom nom *crunch*