no.”
“But why?” she whined. “How can we have peace in the world when fatties and thinnies can’t communicate?”
I looked up tiredly. “What do you want from me?”
“Tell me how you put on weight,” she said.
“This is ridiculous,” I sighed. “I don’t know how I do it. All I know is I gain weight when I have to eat myown words. I gain weight when I chew on a pencil. I added five pounds in the labor room.”
“You must have some tips you can pass on to thin girls on how to gain weight.”
“All right, here is the B OMBECK F LAB P LAN.”
1. Go on a diet. There is no better way to gain weight than to call up everyone you know and tell them you are going to lose fifteen pounds by the time the pool opens on Memorial Day. You can sometimes add as much as two pounds a week.
2. Agree to go to your class reunion. As if on cue, your waistbands will grow tighter, your chins will cascade down your chest and you’ll grow shoulders like Joan Crawford.
3. Read a cookbook before retiring. Rich recipes at bedtime are hard to digest and tend to turn to fat. They also tend to get you up in the middle of the night to fry doughnuts and make malts.
4. Sit next to stout people. Overweights are contagious. They always carry food on their body and have an overwhelming urge to share it. I have gained more weight in exercise classes, health spas, and centers than anywhere else.
5. Drastic measures: Get pregnant. Suffer a hangover (at least your head gets fat). Look into the new fat transplants. I have this chubby friend who is such a willing donor … in fact, I’ll even throw in my Debbie Drake record.
YOU WANT ME FOR LUNCH?
In trying to rationalize my flab the other day it occurred to me that the high cost of dieting is keeping me portly.
Think about it. Did you ever see a fat Ford sister? Or an obese Rockefeller socialite? Or a tubby in the WhiteHouse? Face it. The good life begets a slender figure. The truth is they can well afford the dietary food products, the fresh fruits out of season, the imported fresh fish and the lean steaks.
They can absorb the cost of new wardrobes and extensive alterations to the old ones. But mostly, they can go the health and spa routes which cost anywhere from $2 to $1,500 a pound.
Actually, I have seen only one plush spa in my life. It was the Elizabeth Arden spa in Phoenix. A friend of mine was spending a week there and called me and said, “We’d like to have you for lunch.”
“You are desperate for roughage, aren’t you?” I said.
“I mean we’d like to have you as a guest,” she said.
It’s a beautiful, incredible place. To begin with, it is lousy with mirrors. (I had the good sense to take all mine down when I passed a mirror one day, sucked in my stomach, and nothing moved.)
All the dietees wear white terry-cloth robes and scuffs and wonderful smelling cream on their faces. They are massaged, pampered, exercised, sunned, and rested on a schedule that is carried around in their white terry-cloth pockets.
The lunch was simple. Cottage cheese, fresh fruit, and Ry-Krisp.
“I wish I could afford not to eat like this,” I said sadly, “but I come from a home where gravy is a beverage.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said my friend. “You could duplicate the spa in your own home … schedule and all.”
At home, I slipped into my chenille duster with the button over the stomach missing and consulted my schedule in the pocket. At 8 A.M. , I ate the leftovers from breakfast. At 9 A.M ., I sat on the washer during spin which did wonders for my hips but dissolved my breakfast. At 10, I chinned myself fifty times on the guard rail of thebunk beds. At 11 A.M. , I jogged to the garbage can, followed by luncheon at noon (cottage cheese) and beauty treatment at 12:30. (I rubbed hand cream on my elbows.)
I lasted until 1 P.M . By this time my bathrobe was hot and the cottage cheese had worn off. Then I saw it. A half of an Oreo cookie in the carpet. I leaned over
“But why?” she whined. “How can we have peace in the world when fatties and thinnies can’t communicate?”
I looked up tiredly. “What do you want from me?”
“Tell me how you put on weight,” she said.
“This is ridiculous,” I sighed. “I don’t know how I do it. All I know is I gain weight when I have to eat myown words. I gain weight when I chew on a pencil. I added five pounds in the labor room.”
“You must have some tips you can pass on to thin girls on how to gain weight.”
“All right, here is the B OMBECK F LAB P LAN.”
1. Go on a diet. There is no better way to gain weight than to call up everyone you know and tell them you are going to lose fifteen pounds by the time the pool opens on Memorial Day. You can sometimes add as much as two pounds a week.
2. Agree to go to your class reunion. As if on cue, your waistbands will grow tighter, your chins will cascade down your chest and you’ll grow shoulders like Joan Crawford.
3. Read a cookbook before retiring. Rich recipes at bedtime are hard to digest and tend to turn to fat. They also tend to get you up in the middle of the night to fry doughnuts and make malts.
4. Sit next to stout people. Overweights are contagious. They always carry food on their body and have an overwhelming urge to share it. I have gained more weight in exercise classes, health spas, and centers than anywhere else.
5. Drastic measures: Get pregnant. Suffer a hangover (at least your head gets fat). Look into the new fat transplants. I have this chubby friend who is such a willing donor … in fact, I’ll even throw in my Debbie Drake record.
YOU WANT ME FOR LUNCH?
In trying to rationalize my flab the other day it occurred to me that the high cost of dieting is keeping me portly.
Think about it. Did you ever see a fat Ford sister? Or an obese Rockefeller socialite? Or a tubby in the WhiteHouse? Face it. The good life begets a slender figure. The truth is they can well afford the dietary food products, the fresh fruits out of season, the imported fresh fish and the lean steaks.
They can absorb the cost of new wardrobes and extensive alterations to the old ones. But mostly, they can go the health and spa routes which cost anywhere from $2 to $1,500 a pound.
Actually, I have seen only one plush spa in my life. It was the Elizabeth Arden spa in Phoenix. A friend of mine was spending a week there and called me and said, “We’d like to have you for lunch.”
“You are desperate for roughage, aren’t you?” I said.
“I mean we’d like to have you as a guest,” she said.
It’s a beautiful, incredible place. To begin with, it is lousy with mirrors. (I had the good sense to take all mine down when I passed a mirror one day, sucked in my stomach, and nothing moved.)
All the dietees wear white terry-cloth robes and scuffs and wonderful smelling cream on their faces. They are massaged, pampered, exercised, sunned, and rested on a schedule that is carried around in their white terry-cloth pockets.
The lunch was simple. Cottage cheese, fresh fruit, and Ry-Krisp.
“I wish I could afford not to eat like this,” I said sadly, “but I come from a home where gravy is a beverage.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said my friend. “You could duplicate the spa in your own home … schedule and all.”
At home, I slipped into my chenille duster with the button over the stomach missing and consulted my schedule in the pocket. At 8 A.M. , I ate the leftovers from breakfast. At 9 A.M ., I sat on the washer during spin which did wonders for my hips but dissolved my breakfast. At 10, I chinned myself fifty times on the guard rail of thebunk beds. At 11 A.M. , I jogged to the garbage can, followed by luncheon at noon (cottage cheese) and beauty treatment at 12:30. (I rubbed hand cream on my elbows.)
I lasted until 1 P.M . By this time my bathrobe was hot and the cottage cheese had worn off. Then I saw it. A half of an Oreo cookie in the carpet. I leaned over
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