What No Man Should Ever Say About Losing Weight
At the risk of starting a war with the person who buys my groceries and helps keep my bed warm at night, with her hot flashes by the way, I have decided that an official, science-based declaration must be made: women should no longer be allowed to complain that men have an easier time losing weight.
There you have it. Declaration made. Let the shooting commence.
While all persons of the female persuasion gear up for battle, allow this currently dieting male of the species to explain from whence my declaration has come. It comes by way of a recently published study out of Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles.
Give Me More
The study posits (Latin for “depositing a sciency-type guess like a dog deposits, you know…) that women derive more benefit from exercise than men. How much more? Try more than twice. For every 140 minutes of exercise a woman gets, a man must exercise for 300 minutes while exerting the same amount of effort. And since losing weight is a combination of diet and exercise, well, I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.
I am told that we men get more out of dieting. I suppose that’s true if you define ‘more’ as eating hoards of rice cakes and kale until they seep out of your nostrils, even as you try to convince friends that your complexion isn’t as pale as it looks. I’ll tell you this, I have had enough of getting ‘more’ fiber, ‘more’ roughage, ‘more’ leafy greens, and ‘more’ of just about anything that lacks flavor.
Speaking of flavor, why does every diet consist of food that has none? Why can’t candy bars and ribs be low in calories while a single serving of brussels sprouts provides all of your caloric needs for a week-and-a-half? I think God is playing some kind of cruel trick on us. If it tastes good, one bite will add 28.2 pounds of weight that will hold on tighter than a bitter clinger after Hillary’s embarrassing defeat. If it lacks anything resembling flavor, you might be lucky to lose an ounce for your suffering.
I can’t remember the last time I sat at the table begging my wife to give me more of her aunt Tildy’s broccoli and yogurt surprise with a Diet Coke chaser. I have never asked for more low-cal salad dressing on an already flavor challenged bed of lettuce and spinach. The day I ask for even an ounce of carrot juice is the day I will beg to be put out of my misery.
Back to the Exercise Thing
I’ve been so distracted by my own dieting woes that I completely forgot the point of this post, which is to declare my independence from accusations that I have an easier time losing weight. The next woman who tells me that is going to get an invitation to use the seated elliptical that gathers dust in the corner of our living room.
This seemingly innocent piece of exercise equipment is actually a torture device originally invented by the Duke of Exeter way back in the pre-let’s-not-be-savages era. And no, the Duke of Exeter is in no way related to the Duke of Earl, or the Earl of Sandwich, I might add.
Anyway, this piece of demon-inspired aluminum and plastic promises to help burn away the calories while you watch TV, which is ironic given the fact that most of us head right to the fridge during commercials. But here’s how I look at it: when I get off the seated elliptical to walk to the fridge, I’m still moving. Calories are still being burned. So it’s a wash.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that exercise doesn’t help me much unless I supplement with disgusting substances being passed off as edible food. Meanwhile, my wife can keep eating good stuff because she gets twice the workout for the same amount of effort. So it’s a level playing field after all.
Now, it’s time for me to wrap up. I have a delicious salad waiting for me in the kitchen. I wonder if it’s made of chocolate and barbecued ribs. Probably not. Perhaps I’ll just torture myself with exercise.
