Chicken Soup for the Dieter's Soul by Jack Canfield Read Free Book Online Page A

pointed finger or thoughtless laugh, or as subtle as pretending you don’t exist. I remembered back. . . .
    “Is there something I can help you with, ma’am?” There certainly was. The clerk was my age, a handsome man with wavy black hair and solid, angular features. I’d been patiently trying to get his attention for some help with a wallet I was selecting for a Christmas present.
    It was near dinnertime, and the shop was pleasantly near-empty. The only shoppers were me: short, solid and rather hefty; and a girl my age then—perhaps twenty— with perfect flowing hair, perfect hands, chiseled legs and a body with the flesh secured firmly to the bone. She was lovely, and the clerk was smitten.
    For what seemed like forever, I thumbed through wallets—now and then lifting my head with a smile, trying to make eye contact, to get his attention. It wasn’t happening. Only when the “normal” girl was gone did he realize I needed his help.
    And then he called me “ma’am.” It was the first time that ever happened to me. When I left the shop and got to the safe place inside my car, where the windows steamed in the winter night, hot, embarrassed tears stung my cheeks.
    And yet I did nothing about it. Except to maybe eat some more and gain an increasing amount of weight.
    Decades passed, and layers and layers of fat enfolded me. I was far beyond even “ma’am” now. I was nearly asexual. I made fewer and fewer trips to shops—to public places in general. I was no longer hefty. I was huge. Walking around the block caught me out of breath and sent my knees into agonizing aches and spasms.
    I knew if it kept on, I was going to die. A real, tangible, physical death. For a while, even with that reality in place, I shrugged off my destiny. It had been years since I looked into a mirror. People had stopped looking at me years ago, and I’d given it up for myself as well.
    It was a dark, dark place.
    I know exactly when the light came on. It was about a year ago, when sleeping at night was now no longer an option. Every time I lay down, it was difficult to breathe. Day and night, I walked the floors, exhausted, and now, finally, thoroughly afraid.
    And then, it happened. In one on-a-whim, entirely outof-character moment, I ventured out into a public place for the first time in a very long time—to the animal shelter. That’s where Max found me. He was so very small for a shepherd/golden mix, and so very sick. I saw his face and forgot about my knees.
    Max had no time for excuses. He needed medication every few hours, and because of the medicine, he needed more walks than a “normal” puppy. Because he also came with allergies, he needed to eat natural and healthy food And so, on another fine day, I found myself in the produce department instead of the ice cream aisle.
    He grew strong and began to thrive, and so did I. More than a year passed, and I was down ten sizes. Max was home, I was sure, comfortably snoozing on the couch where he wasn’t supposed to be, and I was at the mall, running errands and thinking about my past.
    The shopping bags needed to be shifted, and again I stopped. Once more I felt the sensation that a pair of eyes was watching. This time, I held my head up and looked back.
    What I saw jolted me. It was a woman, just about my age, short but easy on the eye, tanned and fit. I smiled, and she was smiling back.
    I had stopped in front of a full-length mirror.
    These days, the anguish is gone, along with the self-loathing and embarrassment, and I no longer fear my own reflection. Max has no problem looking into my eyes. Why, then, should I?
    Candy Killion

Ricotta-Stuffed Bell Peppers
    M AKES 4 SERVINGS E ACH SERVING: 24 GRAMS PROTEIN, 11 GRAMS CARBOHYDRATE
    4 bell peppers, cut in half lengthwise
    1½ pounds whole ricotta cheese
    2 eggs
    ½ cup chopped Kalamata olives
    1 cup chopped raw walnuts
    ½ cup minced fresh parsley
    2 tablespoons slivered fresh basil or 2 teaspoons dried basil
    1 tablespoon