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Four months ago, I made one of the most universal New Year’s resolutions – to lose weight. Like most folks, my post-Christmas gut was the catalyst for this diet decision.
“Good Lord,” I sighed, poking at my midriff pooch and ham-sized thighs. “I’m a 5’8” Mrs. Butterworth.”
And so began my diet search, as I skimmed several websites for a convenient, budget-friendly weight loss program. While mail-delivered meals like Jenny Craig fit my busy lifestyle, they didn’t comply with my fixed income. And point-counting weight loss groups like Weight Watchers, although economical, meant yet another weekly meeting or online subscription. I’d all but abandoned my diet search until I stumbled onto a fairly new plan designed by Prevention Magazine, The Flat Belly Diet.
“Eat the foods you love and never go hungry” read this New York Times bestseller, written by Prevention Magazine editors Liz Vaccariello and Cynthia Sass. “Zero exercise required!”
A glutton who’d skipped several months at the gym, I was dubious of these marketing claims. Wasn’t my ample fluff the result of these very behaviors? Yet I was seeking a painless strategy to shed 15 pounds, so I committed myself to the fad diet.
The Flat Belly Diet, a modified Mediterranean diet plan, starts with a four- day cleanse that’s all but painless. This “anti-bloat jumpstart” targets belly fat by banning salt, excess carbohydrates, sugars, fried and spicy foods, carbonated drinks – everything that tastes good. The 1,200-calorie cleanse is complimented by a beverage called Sassy water – a homemade concoction containing water, sliced lemon, cucumber, grated ginger and mint leaves.
I’d read reviews that this “anti-bloat jumpstart” was a hunger-free cleanse.
Well, that wasn’t true.
Ravenous, I suffered through small servings of steamed carrots, green beans, low-sodium turkey breast and cream of wheat for four long days.
When the cleanse finally ended, the real adventure began.
On day five, I graduated to a 1,600-calorie diet that consisted of four freshly prepared meals. Served every four hours, these meals included a staple ingredient – a MUFA (pronounced “moo-fah”).
Purporting a 91 percent success rate, The Flat Belly Diet attributes its waistline reduction to MUFAs, commonly known as monounsaturated fats. Said to suppress hunger between meals, these MUFAs include dark chocolate, olives, oils, nuts and seeds, which are incorporated into all of the plan’s recipes.
While I’d never been much of a cook, preparing meals became a creative adventure for me, discovering MUFAs that magnificently blended themselves into dinner plate masterpieces. Whether the creamy meat of an avocado, the buttery taste of toasted pine nuts, or the bitter-sweet morsels of dark chocolate chips, I embraced these MUFAs as necessary staples to my daily meals.
Admittedly, I didn’t follow this plan precisely. Despite the diet’s claims, my hunger was rarely satiated by the MUFA-rich meals. And so, I modified it to my satisfaction, still maintaining a monitored eating routine. And after three months, I reached my weight goal of 135 pounds.
Although I’m no doctor or nutritionist, I’m convinced the best weight loss plan includes a produce-packed diet with limited saturated fats, such as those found in animal products and meats. Likewise, I’m convinced that some marketed diet programs are unhealthy, such as The Flat Belly Diet’s “zero exercise required” motto. Be careful what you believe — exercise is important in a healthy weight loss routine.
My best advice is to consult your doctor or nutritionist before embarking on any weight loss program. And for a successful diet, delve into healthy meals that you’ll enjoy as you eat. Bon appetit!
It’s been said there’s no better ice breaker than a cigarette — between a woman and a man, that is. And last Saturday night, luck matched me with a Marlboro Light and a dark-haired man, proving this adage true.
It was my Aunt Stacey 25th birthday, an age she’s celebrated since I was a kid. And I was attending her annual birthday bash with my best friend Kris, hosted at downtown Raleigh’s Berkeley Café.
Truth be told, Stacey is my “adopted” aunt. She’s married to Kris’ uncle, Epsom native Frankie Winn, whom I likewise claim as my kin. Both musicians, the pair met decades ago when big-hair bands were the rock and roll rage. Stacey’s guttural vocals and Frankie’s electric guitar forged their 80’s rock group, Driver. And today their band still performs at local venues, as it did last Saturday night.
“Happy birthday!” Kris and I cheered as Aunt Stacey approached our booth at the Berkeley.
“I’ve gotten my birthday wish!” Aunt Stacey smiled as she hugged Kris, who’d made the eight-hour drive from Pittsburgh, Penn., for the concert.
While the band conducted its pre-show sound checks, Kris and I joined cousin Melissa and her husband James near the stage. Moments later, multi-colored lights flashed as electric guitars and drums introduced the birthday dame. Leaning toward her microphone, Aunt Stacey roared the lyrics of her opening song.
“My mom’s a rock star,” Melissa posted on her Facebook page.
Aunt Stacey screamed into her microphone, stomping her black boots onto the stage as she entertained the crowd of Driver fans.
And that’s when I saw him. No, not the dark-haired man …
The bald-headed man.
Now, I have nothing against bald men. My dad’s practically bald himself. But this bald-headed man, who was likewise celebrating a birthday, had an agenda that night — to dance with every woman in sight.
“Oh no,” I grimaced as he grinned in my direction and then dropped to the floor, crawling on all fours.
Aghast, I turned toward the exit door, eager for an escape. And that’s when I noticed a nearby guy carrying a pack of cigarettes.
“Can I bum a smoke?” I asked the dark-haired man in desperation, accompanying him onto the smoking porch.
“Sure,” the stranger smiled, pulling forth a Marlboro Light from his front pocket.
I’m not a frequent smoker. Therefore I wasn’t convinced I could masterfully light my cigarette beside of my new friend, let alone smoke it. So I did what any non-smoking gal would do — I leaned towards his lighter’s flame, dragging on my cigarette until its orange glow gave way to ashes.
And then came the small talk: Where do you work? Where do you live? Have you ever been married? Do you have any kids?
After I’d successfully answered his questions, the dark-haired man asked for my phone number.
“It’s cold. I’m going back inside,” I replied.
As the concert concluded, Aunt Stacey summoned her family and closest friends to the stage. And as we belted out the lyrics to her final song, I beamed at my rockin’ and rollin’ aunt, who’d cracked the mold of a male-dominated music genre back in the ‘80’s — and continues to do so today.
And still smiling, I slipped my phone number to the dark-haired man, whose Marlboro Light had rescued me from a dancing disaster at the Berkeley Cafe on my Aunt Stacey’s 25th birthday.
It’s been said there’s no better ice breaker than a cigarette — between a woman and a man, that is. And last Saturday night, luck matched me with a Marlboro Light and a dark-haired man, proving this adage true.
It was my Aunt Stacey 25th birthday, an age she’s celebrated since I was a kid. And I was attending her annual birthday bash with my best friend Kris, hosted at downtown Raleigh’s Berkeley Café.
Truth be told, Stacey is my “adopted” aunt. She’s married to Kris’ uncle, Epsom native Frankie Winn, whom I likewise claim as my kin. Both musicians, the pair met decades ago when big-hair bands were the rock and roll rage. Stacey’s guttural vocals and Frankie’s electric guitar forged their 80’s rock group, Driver. And today their band still performs at local venues, as it did last Saturday night.
“Happy birthday!” Kris and I cheered as Aunt Stacey approached our booth at the Berkeley.
“I’ve gotten my birthday wish!” Aunt Stacey smiled as she hugged Kris, who’d made the eight-hour drive from Pittsburgh, Penn., for the concert.
While the band conducted its pre-show sound checks, Kris and I joined cousin Melissa and her husband James near the stage. Moments later, multi-colored lights flashed as electric guitars and drums introduced the birthday dame. Leaning toward her microphone, Aunt Stacey roared the lyrics of her opening song.
“My mom’s a rock star,” Melissa posted on her Facebook page.
Aunt Stacey screamed into her microphone, stomping her black boots onto the stage as she entertained the crowd of Driver fans.
And that’s when I saw him. No, not the dark-haired man …
The bald-headed man.
Now, I have nothing against bald men. My dad’s practically bald himself. But this bald-headed man, who was likewise celebrating a birthday, had an agenda that night — to dance with every woman in sight.
“Oh no,” I grimaced as he grinned in my direction and then dropped to the floor, crawling on all fours.
Aghast, I turned toward the exit door, eager for an escape. And that’s when I noticed a nearby guy carrying a pack of cigarettes.
“Can I bum a smoke?” I asked the dark-haired man in desperation, accompanying him onto the smoking porch.
“Sure,” the stranger smiled, pulling forth a Marlboro Light from his front pocket.
I’m not a frequent smoker. Therefore I wasn’t convinced I could masterfully light my cigarette beside of my new friend, let alone smoke it. So I did what any non-smoking gal would do — I leaned towards his lighter’s flame, dragging on my cigarette until its orange glow gave way to ashes.
And then came the small talk: Where do you work? Where do you live? Have you ever been married? Do you have any kids?
After I’d successfully answered his questions, the dark-haired man asked for my phone number.
“It’s cold. I’m going back inside,” I replied.
As the concert concluded, Aunt Stacey summoned her family and closest friends to the stage. And as we belted out the lyrics to her final song, I beamed at my rockin’ and rollin’ aunt, who’d cracked the mold of a male-dominated music genre back in the ‘80’s — and continues to do so today.
And still smiling, I slipped my phone number to the dark-haired man, whose Marlboro Light had rescued me from a dancing disaster at the Berkeley Cafe on my Aunt Stacey’s 25th birthday.
Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Eaves Rockin’ and rollin’ with Aunt Stacey and a dark haired stranger
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