Summer Pants

Janet Riswold

The second day of a diet is always easier than the first. By the second day you're off it. ~Jackie Gleason~

Last year, on first day of autumn, I was finally able get into my summer pants.

Every year, as Thanksgiving approaches, I give myself a mental pep talk about moderation, mindful eating, and sensible drinking. Then, after the holidays, I quietly congratulate myself for successfully navigating the parties and snack tables without going overboard. As January turns to February, I let my guard down and relax a little. The weather is chilly, so I get out my soft, stretchy clothes, snuggle up, and wait patiently for spring and then summer. When summer rolls around, my summer clothes don’t fit, so I shop for a few items to get me through the warm weather. Sound familiar?

One year ago, I gently reminded myself that I already had pants in three sizes and didn’t need to add a fourth. So I steeled my resolve and took action. Here is how it went.

It’s July 2024, and we are now home after a damp vacation in England and Scotland. Ready to enjoy some California sunshine, I eagerly grab a pair of shorts to head out for an easy morning walk. As I hop around trying to put the shorts on without sitting down, I remind myself that I need to add balance exercises to my preventive maintenance regimen. Finally getting my feet through the individual legs of the shorts, I attempt to pull them up, struggling unsuccessfully to get them over my hips. My heart sinks as I realize they no longer fit. I return to my chest of drawers and dig deeper, trying on one pair of shorts after another until I unearth a pair with elastic at the waist. The fat pants.

You know the ones - we all have a pair. (If you don’t, well bless your heart and good for you.) To my relief, they stretch over my hips and settle easily over my melon belly. Although these saggy-butt pants are not fit for public wear, they will have to suffice.

We’re not supposed to diet anymore, you know. A couple of years ago, a young relative suggested that I listen to the way I talk about food. Unaware, I had fallen into the habit of remarking on the size of food portions and then announcing how much I would not be eating. “Life is short - just enjoy your meal!” they encouraged. With newfound self-awareness, I committed to a fresh approach to both eating and talking about food.

So, wanting desperately to once again employ the top button on my cute summer pants, I sign up - not for a diet - but for an online “holistic lifestyle coaching program” that promises I will fit into my summer clothes in two months. Hey! I can do anything for two months. The next day I announce my intentions to husband Bjorn, telling him that henceforth I will be preparing foods to promote health and fat loss. After listening to my lengthy explanation, he responds “Oh, you mean you’re going on a diet? Good to know.”

I download the app and receive a welcome message from my online coach. Her tone is friendly and after a few online conversations, I am convinced she’s real and not a chatbot. The following weeks I follow all the guidance and slowly the inches come off, as do the pounds, ounce by ounce.

As the days pass my impatience starts to grow, and I find myself in a silent battle with my bathroom scale.

Stepping on first thing in the morning, I question the accuracy of the reading. Surely there must be a problem with the scale’s zero-setting mechanism; maybe the floor surface is uneven; maybe I’m standing on it wrong; or perhaps it’s my defective eyesight. After all, It’s a challenge to count the tiny scale markings accurately. So, using my phone, I take a photo of the scale and then enlarge the image. Still not getting the desired result, I march to the kitchen and weigh my phone on my food scale: 8 ounces - a full 1/2 pound! Ha!

Now my weigh-in routine is fully refined: wake up, pee, remove clothes, step on scale, take photo, enlarge photo, mentally subtract 8 oz, step off scale, adjust the scale’s zero-setting mechanism, step on scale (yes again), take another photo etc.; I repeat as necessary.

After a few weeks of this, the absurdity of my routine is more than even I can deny. Surely there is a better way. I need a new scale. Perusing the choices online, I find the one: a talking scale. Perfect.

When the scale arrives, I eagerly give it a try. It registers a full five pounds heavier than my analog scale. But there’s more. The voice on this scale is not just a voice; it is a VOICE. I don’t know what I expected, perhaps something akin to my cute little rice cooker that plays cheerful tunes when it is turned on and then again when the rice is ready. But this was not that.

Miss Trunchbull

Reminiscent of Roald Dahl’s tyrannical headmistress Miss Trunchbull, the voice is flat, devoid of kindness, and more than a little authoritarian. “ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-NINE POINT TWO POUNDS” she rudely declares.* I step off the scale, chastened. But the voice has one more thing to say: “READY FOR OPERATION!” What the hell is that supposed to mean? What operation? It’s chilling. Although I am not fond of the voice, or her vague threats, the readings are undeniably consistent. And besides, one does not argue with Miss Trunchbull.

As time passes, my weigh-in routine becomes matter-of-fact and I reach my modest goal. My pants fit once again and now, one year later, I am wearing seasonally appropriate pants for the first time in many years.

Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter

Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here

Here comes the sun, doo, dun, doo, doo

Here comes the sun, and I say

It's all right

Little darling, the smile's returning to the faces

Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here

Here comes the sun

Here comes the sun, and I say

It's all right

~George Harrison~

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*Any resemblance to my actual weight is purely coincidental.