A Dieter's Prayer

We’re midway through week three of our Game On diet, with only one more week to go after this. I was certain last Friday’s danceathon at our Little Town watering hole, wherein I did my best imitation of Elaine’s dance on Seinfeld (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DY_DF2Af3LM) for an entire night & drenched my vinyl chair with buckets of sweat, would put my team safely over the top. I was certain that when I weighed the next morning, I would be stunned by my sudden drop in poundage, and that when I went out that day, people would wonder if I’d been ill recently. Imagine my chagrin, then, when I discovered the next day that I had GAINED two pounds. Yes, it could have been the fluids—a dark beer or two, a glass of wine, some sort of shot that tasted like green apples—but c’mon…REALLY?!? I lost the two pounds by Sunday morning, but gained most of that back again at Easter dinner, for which I blame Mom’s incredible corn & macaroni casserole.

 

So now, with a forecast of music & dancing for the next three weekends, I’m resorting to prayer and a desperate hope for a miracle. Because heaven knows, I want our team, the Victorious Secrets, to wipe the sweaty dancefloor with the Fab Femmes and make them pay for the gluttony that will be our triumphant, prize-winning 27-course dinner out (ironic, yes, but oh, so satisfying). So here’s my dieter’s prayer (double duty, since it's also National Poetry Month). Keep your fingers crossed for the Secrets…

ST. CATHERINE OF SIENA

            patron of failed diets

Sweet child, bless me with your holy secret,

how you lived for weeks on eucharist alone,

because, trust me, I’ve tried everything else—

Cabbage soup eight times a day, my back

withered leaves folded in on themselves, idiot smile

a stigmatic line of stewed tomatoes, compost breath.

Meat rare, raw, blended or blessed & grilled over

frankincense coals until I grew fangs, fur, prayed

on my haunches, hunted squirrels in rabid packs.

Once I changed my name to “24 Points,”

every waking moment a food journal confession,

self-flagellation for the Weight Watchers high priest.

Racked once for the sin of bad food-group

combinations, I kept my citrus corralled,

my grains wholly egregious to my fatted lamb.

Or those eight summer weeks I ate nothing

but brown rice and soybean sprouts, until faint, I felt

the sharp stab of cherubic wings sprout in my shoulderblades.

And still, these round heathen hips sashay,

arms flap like heretic banners, chins double,

opulent breasts & belly a bed for some craven head.

Teach me, St. Catherine, to find the skin & bone again,

to see God in a slice of cucumber or a celery stalk,

to be so light that even hunger is too heavy to hold.