Pop Goes the Button!

When it comes to trying to lose weight I am losing the battle. This I know when a button pops off my shirt. My shirt is telling me it has given up the fight. It has stopped resisting the steady strain on the threads holding it to my shirt that is being exerted by my slowly expanding body.

I ask what I should do. The world is surrounding me with pitfalls. One of the largest and most formidable of those pitfalls is the rectangular box in my kitchen, also known as a Sears Kenmore Refrigerator. That device is a trap! According to health experts it is deadly dangerous because it holds all sorts of foods than can kill me.

Right in plain sight in the freezer side of the refrigerator is that container of ice cream; rich, creamy and full of heart stopping cream and fats, not to mention sugar and eggs and other stuff. There may be frozen pies and pastries lurking in that freezer, ready to thaw at a moment’s notice.

On the refrigerator side there is milk, butter, cheese, and all other kinds of goodies that are like an army waiting to conquer my appetite.

It gets worse. The kitchen pantry holds cans and packages of food that are sure to add ounces and pounds to my body. There may be pies and cakes, candy and pastries. Wherever I look in the kitchen they are waiting to infiltrate my mouth.

“Avoid the kitchen,” I am told.

“But how can I?”

We have spent thousands of dollars on genuine marble counter tops, custom cabinets and futuristic appliances with 4 star energy savings in order to make the kitchen appealing. It is hard to avoid such an investment. Now, I wish we had built and unattached kitchen. That is what they did in olden days. I wonder why they did that. I have been told that they built unattached kitchens in the south because of the summer heat, and to reduce the danger of fire burning the main structure down. I think maybe the owners built unattached kitchens to remove temptation.

If I watch television my appetite is teased by ad after ad for mouth watering pizza; thirst quenching beer; pies like momma use to make; pretzels and potato chips; sour cream to die for; pastries made the old fashioned way, and so on and so on and so on. Unfortunately, I seem to be like Pavlov’s dog. Instead of a bell making me drool , the image of food on the Television makes me drool or reminds me how great a soda or a beer would taste.

I was trying to blame my shirts for causing the buttons to pop. “Damn,” I would say as I would watch a button pop. “Here is another shirt that shrunk in the laundry. They never use to do this.

I felt pretty good using this rationale until one day my wife remarked, “That shirt you are wearing is brand new. It never has been in a washing machine or in a dryer.”

I then tried the, “They are making these shirts skimpier than they use to.” excuse.

Eventually, I had to face the evidence. I was a shirt size (or more) larger than I use to be. So I went on a diet. I was faithful to the diet for about three days. Then, one day I was passing the refrigerator and I heard a cry, “Keith we miss you.”

I swear it was coming from the fridge, so I opened the door and peered inside. There was a carton of chocolate milk crying my name.

Next to it was a left over donut carefully gift wrapped with all but my name on the plastic wrap that was keeping it fresh.

“Look guys,” I whispered. “Leave me alone. I would really like to consume you, but I am on this diet.”

“The chocolate milk carton moaned, “Do you know how many cows would be put out of work and sent to become hamburger if everyone diets.”

“And do you know how many bakers would join the unemployment line if your diet catches on,” the donut quipped.

I tried to close the door to the refrigerator but I couldn’t. It resisted no matter how hard I tried. I wasn’t going to give in I thought. I shall not be brought down by chocolate milk and a partial donut.

Sweat dripped from my forehead. I could feel hunger pangs rip my stomach apart, But I still tried to slam the refrigerator door. Slowly, very slowly it began to close. Then all of a sudden the resistance disappeared as I pushed the door, and the door slammed as I fell onto it and then onto the floor.

Suddenly it was dark. I was tangled in something. I thrashed and tore at the material that was constricting me.

“What is going on?” My wife asked as she turned on a light and saw me rolling on the floor next to our bed, wrapped in a blanket.

“Uh, I must have rolled out of bed,” I replied. “I was having a nightmare. I think I will get a glass of milk. Perhaps that will help me sleep.

I tiptoed down to the refrigerator and opened the door. There, just as in the dream was the carton of chocolate milk, and its companion the talking donut. This time I didn’t wait for them to talk. I grabbed the milk and the donut. Poured myself a glass of the rich chocolate milk and dunked the donut, hoping the drown it. Then I devoured the donut and drank the milk.

The next morning my wife told me, “We need to do something about your midnight forays to the refrigerator. “

I nodded my head in agreement as another button popped off another shirt.

She made an appointment for me to see a Doctor. She told me the doctor was a new kind of eating disorder doctor. When I arrived for my appointment I filled out the typical forms and waited in an ordinary kind of health providers waiting room.

The door soon opened and a nurse led me into what looked like a typical examination room. The nurse told me to sit in the chair, and told me the Dr. would soon be there.

The doctor soon made his appearance. With him he had what looked like a sewing kit, except the thread was extremely thick and the holes in the buttons in his kit were large enough to take the thread.

He produced a pair of scissors and said, “ Remove your buttons.”

“What?” I asked.

“Remove your buttons. “

“Why?”

“You are here for a button popping disorder, are you not?”

“I am here to get help to lose weight.”

“You live in America.” The doc responded. “It is impossible to lose weight in America. My remedy is to sew your buttons on your shirt with thicker, stronger thread. Then you won’t be popping your buttons.”

“You are crazy, I yelled.”

“I may be crazy, but I am not popping my buttons,” The doctor replied.

“Well I don’t want my buttons cut and sewed.”

“Aw, a difficult case.” The doctor said. “Well we have help for you.”

Then without hesitating he began to sew my mouth closed.

“I guarantee you will lose weight with my mouth closing procedure.” He said and when he finished he said come back in three weeks and we will see what you look like.”

By now I knew I was dreaming and relaxed. The good Doc gave me an anesthetic and soon my mouth was sewn shut.

My wife was waiting for me. I said to her, “Oh you are part of my dream also. How do you like my mouth being shut.”

She looked at me for a moment and said, “I have no doubt you were dreaming, you were under anesthesia while the doctor performed a mouthelectame on you.

“What!” I tried to say, but couldn’t something was restrainging my mouth.

“You had a mouthalectame. You know the latest in dieting. Its all the rage. The procedure was started to help celebrities and fashion models gain that anorexic look. Now its so mainstream.

“But, but, “ I struggled to say. “I don’t…….”

“Now don’t you worry. You won’t be getting your mouth around any donuts or greasy frenchfires, or other food like that for a month. It is a liquid diet for you, and if all goes well we can keep your mouth sewn shut for up to three months.”

I muttered between my sewn lips, “You mean this isn’t a dream?”

“Dream,” My wife asked? “ Of course this is no dream. You must have been dreaming when Dr. Spock was performing a mouthalectame on you. And now, you soon won’t be popping anymore buttons, you will see it is all worth it.“

“Yes dear,” I muttered as she led me past a MacDonalds restaurant that was literally shouting my name.