Few Extra Pounds Quotes

The weekend was a much-needed breath of fresh air; Monday always seemed to not only take that breath right back, but add a few extra pounds to my shoulders as well.

We believe in the wrong things. That's what frustrates me the most. Not the lack of belief, but the belief in the wrong things. You want meaning? Well, the meanings are out there. We're just so damn good at reading them wrong. I don't think meaning is something that can be explained. You have to understand it on your own. It's like when you're starting to read. First, you learn the letters. Then, once you know what sounds the letters make, you use them to sound out words. You know that c-a-t leads to cat and d-o-g leads to dog. But then you have to make that extra leap, to understand that the word, the sound, the "cat" is connected to an actual cat , and that "dog" is connected to an actual dog. It's that leap, that understanding, that leads to meaning. And a lot of the time in life, we're still just sounding things out. We know the sentences and how to say them. We know the ideas and how to present them. We know the prayers and which words to say in what order. But that's only spelling" It's much harder to lie to someone's face. But. It is also much harder to tell the truth to someone's face. The indefatigable pursuit of an unattainable perfection, even though it consist in nothing more than in the pounding of an old piano, is what alone gives a meaning to our life on this unavailing star. (Logan Pearsall Smith) Being alone has nothing to do with how many people are around. (J.R. Moehringer) You could be standing a few feet away...I could have sat next to you on the subway, or brushed beside you as we went through the turnstiles. But whether or not you are here, you are here- because these words are for you, and they wouldn't exist is you weren't here in some way. At last I had it--the Christmas present I'd wanted all along, but hadn't realized. His words. The dream was obviously a sign: he was too enticing to resist. Wow. You must have a lot of faith in me. Which I appreciate. Even if I'm not sure I share it. I could do this on my own, and not freak out that I had no idea what waited for me on the other side of this night. Hope and belief. I'd always wanted hope, but never believed that I could have such an adventure on my own. That I could own it. And love it. But it happened. Because I'm So uncool and so afraid. If there was a clue, that meant the mystery was still intact I fear you may have outmatched me, because not I find these words have nowhere to go. It's hard to answer a question you haven't been asked. It's hard to show that you tried unless you end up succeeding. This was not a haystack. We were people, and people had ways of finding eachother. It was one of those moments when you feel the future so much that is humbles the present. Don't worry. It's your embarrassment at not having the thought that counts. You think fairy tales are only for girls? Here's ahint- ask yourself who wrote them. I assure you, it wasn't just the women. It's the great male fantasy- all it takes is one dance to know that she's the one. All it takes is the sound of her song from the tower, or a look at her sleeping face. And right away you know--this is the girl in your head, sleeping or dancing or singing in front of you. Yes, girls want their princes, but boys want their princesses just as much. And they don't want a very long courtship. They want to know immediately. Be careful what you;re doing, because no one is ever who you want them to be. And the less you really know them, the more likely you are to confuse them with the girl or boy in your head You should never wish for wishful thinking

It burns, I know. It burns now, now that the story is over, now that the daybreak is liquid, now that my knees don't creak anymore and the leaves are blowing and the highway is humming, and a few extra pounds is not a terminal diagnosis. It burns in me too healing me but the ache is not for you. It's for my passion. That used to be your name. And it's sad, really. The sting of too little too late.

But I’m going to need you to love me on the bus, dude. And first thing in the morning. Also, when I’m drunk and refuse to shut up about getting McNuggets from the drive-thru. When I fall asleep in the middle of that movie you paid extra to see in IMAX. When I wear the flowered robe I got at Walmart and the sweatpants I made into sweatshorts to bed. When I am blasting “More and More” by Blood Sweat & Tears at seven on a Sunday morning while cleaning the kitchen and fucking up your mom’s frittata recipe. When I bring a half dozen gross, mangled kittens home to foster for a few nights and they shit everywhere and pee on your side of the bed. When I go “grocery shopping” and come back with only a bag of Fritos and five pounds of pork tenderloin. When I’m sick and stumbling around the crib with half a roll of toilet paper shoved in each nostril. When I beg you fourteen times to read something I’ve written, then get mad when you tell me what you don’t like about it and I call you an uneducated idiot piece of shit. Lovebird city.

Gate C22 At gate C22 in the Portland airport a man in a broad-band leather hat kissed a woman arriving from Orange County. They kissed and kissed and kissed. Long after the other passengers clicked the handles of their carry-ons and wheeled briskly toward short-term parking, the couple stood there, arms wrapped around each other like he’d just staggered off the boat at Ellis Island, like she’d been released at last from ICU, snapped out of a coma, survived bone cancer, made it down from Annapurna in only the clothes she was wearing. Neither of them was young. His beard was gray. She carried a few extra pounds you could imagine her saying she had to lose. But they kissed lavish kisses like the ocean in the early morning, the way it gathers and swells, sucking each rock under, swallowing it again and again. We were all watching– passengers waiting for the delayed flight to San Jose, the stewardesses, the pilots, the aproned woman icing Cinnabons, the man selling sunglasses. We couldn’t look away. We could taste the kisses crushed in our mouths. But the best part was his face. When he drew back and looked at her, his smile soft with wonder, almost as though he were a mother still open from giving birth, as your mother must have looked at you, no matter what happened after–if she beat you or left you or you’re lonely now–you once lay there, the vernix not yet wiped off, and someone gazed at you as if you were the first sunrise seen from the Earth. The whole wing of the airport hushed, all of us trying to slip into that woman’s middle-aged body, her plaid Bermuda shorts, sleeveless blouse, glasses, little gold hoop earrings, tilting our heads up.

When you lose something, there's a chance you might find it again. Keys, a missing homework assignment, a few extra pounds. But Pup would never find Patrick. He couldn't feel him anywhere. There was no rainbow, no familiar song, no ghostly scent floating in the air...Patrick wasn't lost he was just dead.

fanny-pack: (v.) to put on a few extra pounds during the holiday season.

When you’re younger, a bump in the nose and a few extra pounds don’t mean much. But now they do.

She stood almost a foot shorter than him, but that had never been a problem, given most of their conversations had been horizontal. The years had filled out her curves, and she wore those few extra pounds of plush well, especially below the flare of her hips. The ass that dethroned JLo, or some shit. Her shapely figure had its own press corps. A woman like this was built to be bedded, and often.

Someday you will murder your father and be with your mother, he said.” Once I’ve spoken this, put this thought into concrete words, a hollow feeling grabs hold of me. And inside that hollow, my heart pounds out a vacant, metallic rhythm. Expression unchanged, Oshima gazes at me for a long time. “So he said that someday you would kill your father with your own hands, that you would sleep with your mother.” I nod a few more times. “The same prophecy made about Oedipus. Though of course you knew that.” I nod. “But that’s not all. There’s an extra ingredient he threw into the mix. I have a sister six years older than me, and my father said I would sleep with her, too.” “Your father actually said this to you?” “Yeah. I was still in elementary school then, and didn’t know what he meant by ‘be with.’ It was only a few years later that I caught on.” Oshima doesn’t say anything. “My father told me there was nothing I could do to escape this fate. That prophecy is like a timing device buried inside my genes, and nothing can ever change it. I will kill my father and be with my mother and sister.

Sure she had a little extra weight on her body, but since when does a number on the scale dictate who you are? She was a smart, fun, and good person, and that should count for something. And she was pretty, so what if she carried a few extra pounds, she was still a pretty girl,

And, the truth is, while God does call us to take care of the bodies He gave us, He never called us to obsess over how our bodies look. What truly matters is how God sees us. And I can tell you with assurance that He couldn’t care less about a few extra pounds or that leftover belly flab.

There is a significant body of research that goes beyond telling us that weight does not really matter all that much, to suggest that carrying a few extra pounds, over and above the weights currently being recommended, may actually have health benefits, resulting in reduced risk of many diseases and disorders that affect quality as well as length of life. These diseases include lung cancer, the number-one cause of cancer deaths among men and women, premenopausal breast cancer, and osteoporosis.

When people are randomized into diet-and-exercise interventions versus diet alone, the diet-and-exercise groups do better, but the difference in weight loss only averages about two pounds.3095 The studies lasted between three and twelve months, and all that extra prescribed exercise seemed to translate into only a few pounds lost.

The massage session ended with both of us soaked, covered in glittery dripping oil. I felt like a Greek salad sloppily drenched in extra virgin. But James was not going to stop. The kisses came thick and fast. And extra massages. “Lie back, wench,” he said. I lay back and stared up at him and above his head at the striped white and blue awning, which was rippling under the pounding impact of the rain. I’d almost forgotten about the rain, though it was coming down heavier than ever, a glittering silver wall, just a few feet away from us. James had decided that the most intimate p[art of my delicate self needed a delicate multi-facetted many-sided feathery back and forth up and down and sideways type of ecstatic slow-and-fast motion massage and which involved his index finger and his little finger and the palm of his hand and then his tongue, so and it began to build, and build … “You are being quite intimate, Master,” I gulped, trying to put on a dignified face and control my panting, the deepening huski¬ness of my voice, and the flood of saliva that had filled my mouth and was dribbling out of one corner. I think, given the circum¬stances, that I did quite a good job. “Really?” he glanced up at me, and then disappeared between my legs, back to work, his tongue darting, hither and thither, truly a busy little bee, harvesting honey here, there, and everywhere. “Really …” I sobbed, in a choked desperate voice, “Very ex¬tremely intimate, oh, oh, oh ... Master, Master, Pity, Master …

The Neanderthals had it tougher; their long spears and canyon ambushes were useless against the fleet prairie creatures, and the big game they preferred was retreating deeper into the dwindling forests. Well, why didn’t they just adopt the hunting strategy of the Running Men? They were smart and certainly strong enough, but that was the problem; they were too strong. Once temperatures climb above 90 degrees Fahrenheit, a few extra pounds of body weight make a huge difference—so much so that to maintain heat balance, a 160-pound runner would lose nearly three minutes per mile in a marathon against a one hundred-pound runner. In a two-hour pursuit of a deer, the Running Men would leave the Neanderthal competition more than ten miles behind. Smothered in muscle, the Neanderthals followed the mastodons into the dying forest, and oblivion. The new world was made for runners, and running just wasn’t their thing. Privately,

A slave, Marcus Cato said, should be working when he is not sleeping. It does not matter whether his work in itself is good in itself—for slaves, at least. This sentiment still survives, and it has piled up mountains of useless drudgery. I believe that this instinct to perpetuate useless work is, at bottom, simply fear of the mob. The mob (the thought runs) are such low animals that they would be dangerous if they had leisure; it is safer to keep them too busy to think. A rich man who happens to be intellectually honest, if he is questioned about the improvement of working conditions, usually says something like this: "We know that poverty is unpleasant; in fact, since it is so remote, we rather enjoy harrowing ourselves with the thought of its unpleasantness. But don’t expect us to do anything about it. We are sorry fort you lower classes, just as we are sorry for a cat with the mange, of your condition. We feel that you are much safer as you are. The present state of affairs suits us, and we are not going to take the risk of setting you free, even by an extra hour a day. So, dear brothers, since evidently you must sweat to pay for our trips to Italy, sweat and be damned to you.” This is particularly the attitude of intelligent, cultivated people; one can read the substance if it in a hundred essays. Very few cultivated people have less than (say) four hundred pounds a year, and naturally they side with the rich, because they imagine that any liberty conceded to the poor is a threat to their own liberty. foreseeing some dismal Marxian Utopia as the alternative, the educated man prefers to keep things as they are. Possibly he does not like his fellow-rich very much, but he supposes that even the vulgarest of them are less inimical to his pleasures, more his kind of people, than the poor, and that he had better stand by them. It is this fear of a supposedly dangerous mob that makes nearly all intelligent people conservative in their opinions. Fear of the mob is a superstitious fear. It is based on the idea that there is some mysterious, fundamental difference between rich and poor, as though they were two different races, like negroes and white men. But in reality there is no such difference. The mass of the rich and the poor are differentiated by their incomes and nothings else, and the average millionaire is only the average dishwasher dressed in a new suit. Change places, and handy dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief? Everyone who has mixed on equal terms with the poor knows this quite well. But the trouble is that intelligent, cultivated people, the very people who might be expected to have liberal opinions, never do mix with the poor. For what do the majority of educated people know about poverty? In my copy of Villon’s poems the editor has actually thought it necessary to explain the line “Ne pain ne voyent qu'aux fenestres” by a footnote; so remote is even hunger from the educated man’s experience. From this ignorance a superstitious fear of the mob results quite naturally. The educated man pictures a horde of submen, wanting only a day’s liberty to loot his house, burn his books, and set him to work minding a machine or sweeping out a lavatory. “Anything,” he thinks, “any injustice, sooner than let that mob loose.

Childhood can be painful, adolescence confusing, but for most people, behind it all there is the expectation that after one grows up, things will get better. During the years of early adulthood the future still looks promising, the hope remains that one’s goals will be realized. But inevitably the bathroom mirror shows the first white hairs, and confirms the fact that those extra pounds are not about to leave; inevitably eyesight begins to fail and mysterious pains begin to shoot through the body. Like waiters in a restaurant starting to place breakfast settings on the surrounding tables while one is still having dinner, these intimations of mortality plainly communicate the message: Your time is up, it’s time to move on. When this happens, few people are ready.

During the years of early adulthood the future still looks promising, the hope remains that one’s goals will be realized. But inevitably the bathroom mirror shows the first white hairs, and confirms the fact that those extra pounds are not about to leave; inevitably eyesight begins to fail and mysterious pains begin to shoot through the body. Like waiters in a restaurant starting to place breakfast settings on the surrounding tables while one is still having dinner, these intimations of mortality plainly communicate the message: Your time is up, it’s time to move on. When this happens, few people are ready. “Wait a minute, this can’t be happening to me. I haven’t even begun to live. Where’s all that money I was supposed to have made? Where are all the good times I was going to have?” A feeling of having been led on, of being cheated, is an understandable consequence of this realization.

After midnight, I’ve set the cookies on the cooling rack and put on my cat pajamas, and I’m climbing into bed to read when there’s a knock at my window. I think it’s Chris, and I go to the window to check and see if I’ve locked it, but it’s not--it’s Peter! I push the window up. “Oh my God, Peter! What are you doing here?” I whisper, my heart pounding. “My dad’s home!” Peter climbs in. He’s wearing a navy beanie on his head and a thermal with a puffy vest. Taking off the hat, he grins and says, “Shh. You’re gonna wake him up.” I run to my door and lock it. “Peter! You can’t be in here!” I am equal parts panicky and excited. I don’t know if a boy has ever been in my room before, not since Josh, and that was ages ago. He’s already taking off his shoes. “Just let me stay for a few minutes.” I cross my arms because I’m not wearing a bra and say, “If it’s only a few minutes, why are you taking off your shoes?” He dodges this question. Plopping down on my bed, he says, “Hey, why aren’t you wearing your Amish bikini? It’s so hot.” I move to slap him upside the head, and he grabs my waist and hugs me to him. He buries his head in my stomach like a little boy. His voice muffled, he says, “I’m sorry all this is happening because of me.” I touch the top of his head; his hair feels soft and silky against my fingers. “It’s okay, Peter. I know it’s not your fault.” I glance at my moonbeam alarm clock. “You can stay for fifteen minutes, but then you have to go.” Peter nods and releases me. I sink down on the bed next to him and put my head on his shoulder. I hope the minutes go slow. “How was the party?” “Boring without you.” “Liar.” He laughs an easy kind of laugh. “What did you bake tonight?” “How do you know I baked?” Peter breathes me in. “You smell like sugar and butter.” “Chai sugar cookies with eggnog icing.” “Can I take some with me?” I nod, and we lean our backs against the wall. He slides his arm around me, safe and secure. “Twelve minutes left,” I say into his shoulder, and I feel rather than see him smile. “Then let’s make it good.” We start to kiss, and I’ve definitely never kissed a boy in my bed before. This is brand-new. I doubt I’ll ever be able to think of my bed the same way again. Between kisses he says, “How much time do I have left?” I glance over at my clock. “Seven minutes.” Maybe I should tack on an extra five… “Can we lie down, then?” he suggests. I shove him in the shoulder. “Peter!” “I just want to hold you for a little bit! If I was going to try to do more, I’d need more than seven minutes, trust me.

Too often, treatments address only half the problem: they focus on the presence or on the absence. It is necessary both to cut away that extra thousand pounds of the vines and to relearn a root system and the techniques of photosynthesis. Drug therapy hacks through the vines. You can feel it happening, how the medication seems to be poisoning the parasite so that bit by bit it withers away. You feel the weight going, feel the way that the branches can recover much of their natural bent. Until you have got rid of the vine, you cannot think about what has been lost. But even with the vine gone, you may still have few leaves and shallow roots, and the rebuilding of your self cannot be achieved with any drugs that now exist.

Anyone Can Deal With Arthritis With These Simple Tips There is more than one type of arthritis and it is important to know what you have before you can begin proper treatment. If you find this fact helpful, then read this article because it contains even more helpful advice in order to help you live comfortably in the face of this painful condition. If you have rheumatoid arthritis, measure your pain. Use a scale of one to ten to let yourself know how difficult a new task is for you to accomplish. Take a measurement before the task, and again after. This will let you know how that task is effecting your body, and your life. It is important that you have enough calcium in your diet if you suffer from arthritis. Medical research has proven that inflammatory arthritis conditions are worse if a person does not have enough calcium in their diet. You can find calcium in many different foods, including milk, cheese, and ice cream. Lose weight to help reduce your arthritis symptoms. Losing even a few pounds has been shown to take pressure off of weight bearing joints and reduce the pain that you suffer with arthritis. It can also help reduce your risk of developing osteoarthritis of the knee and can slow the rate in which your arthritis progresses. Maintaining a healthy body weight reduces the stress placed on arthritic joints. Carrying around extra wait can place an enormous amount of stress on arthritic joints. Do not skip meals or deny yourself food in order to shed pounds, but adhere to a diet that provides your body with the necessary nutrients. Try hot wax for relief. While heating pads can give great relief when used, they do not completely touch every painful spot. Warm wax envelopes your entire hand or foot, giving you complete relief to the painful areas. Make sure the wax is not too hot, and do not use it too often, or you may cause more irritation than you fix. Make sure to eat plenty of fruits and vegetables if you want to help ease the effects of arthritis. Fruits and vegetables are healthy for all people, but for people with arthritis, they are especially helpful because they have vitamins and nutrients that help to build healthy joints and reduce joint inflammation. Let the sun in. Vitamin D has been shown to help relieve some symptoms of arthritis, and sunshine is well-known for increasing positive thoughts and bettering moods. Opening your blinds for around fifteen minutes every day can be enough to give you some great benefits, while still being in the comfort of your home. Add ginger to your food. Ginger is well known for relieving inflammation and stiffness, so adding a few grams a day to your foods can help you reap the benefits of this healthy plant. Ginger and honey drinks are the best method, as honey also gives some of the same benefits. In conclusion, you know not only that there is more than one type of arthritis that can develop, but there are different ways to identify and treat it. Hopefully you will find this information usefu visit spectrumthermography.com and that it will allow you to help yourself or other people that are afflicted with this painful disease.

As people move through life, passing from the hopeful ignorance of youth into sobering adulthood, they inevitably face an increasingly nagging question: Is this all there is? Childhood can be painful, adolescence confusing; most people, expect that in adulthood things will get better. During the early years of adulthood the future still looks promising. But inevitably the mirror' shows the first white hairs and confirms the fact that those few extra pounds are not about to leave; eyesight begins to fail and mysterious pains begin to shoot through the body...' Where's all that money I was to have made? Where are all of the good times I was going to have?

If you live in a chronic state of stress and anxiety, it’s inevitable that depression, fatigue, and a few extra pounds will be your constant companions. Having

Tina, who clearly had it in mind to dazzle her new husband in the kitchen, wanted desperately to learn the secrets of Angelina's red gravy. So they picked a Sunday afternoon soon after New Year's and Angelina hauled out her mother's old sausage grinder and stuffer. Gia had volunteered to make the trip to the butcher's shop and brought back good hog casings, a few pounds of beautifully marbled pork butt and shoulder glistening with clean, white fat, and a four-pound beef chuck roast. It wasn't every that the grinder came out for fresh homemade sausages and meatballs, but it wasn't every day that Gia and Angelina teamed up to pass on the Mother Recipe to the next generation. Gia patiently instructed Tina on the proper technique for flushing and preparing the casings, then set them aside while Angelina showed her how to build the sauce: start with white onion, fresh flat-leaf parsley, and deep red, extra-sweet frying peppers; add copious amounts of garlic (chopped not so finely); season with sea salt, crushed red pepper, and freshly ground black pepper; simmer and sweat on a medium flame in good olive oil; generously sprinkle with dried herbs from the garden (palmfuls of oregano, rosemary, and basil); follow with a big dollop of thick, rich tomato paste; cook down some more until all of the ingredients were completely combined; pour in big cans of fresh-packed crushed tomatoes and a cup of red wine (preferably a Sangiovese or a Barolo); reseason, finish with fresh herbs; bring to a high simmer, then down to a low flame; walk away.

Steamy Sauté: Garlicky Green Beans Serves 6 generously Steamy sautéing is a method for vegetables that are a little bit too dense to sauté directly. By cooking them with water for a few minutes before turning up the heat and letting them brown, you’ll ensure they’re cooked all the way through. 2 pounds fresh green beans, yellow wax beans, Romano beans, or haricots verts, trimmed Salt 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil 3 garlic cloves, minced Set your largest frying pan over medium-high heat and bring 1/2 cup of water to a simmer. Add the green beans, season with a couple generous pinches of salt, and cover, removing the lid every minute or so to stir the beans. When they are almost completely tender, about 4 minutes for haricots verts and 7 to 10 minutes for more mature beans, tip any remaining water out of the pan, using the lid to keep in the beans. Return the pan to the stove, increase the flame to high, and dig a little hole in the center of the pan. Pour the olive oil into the hole and add the garlic. Let the garlic sizzle gently for about 30 seconds, until it releases an aroma, and immediately toss it with the beans before it has a chance to take on any color. Remove from the heat. Taste, adjust seasoning, and serve immediately.

seventeen-year-old girl (eighteen in a month, and I guess I’d say woman, but I don’t feel like one – is that weird?) and there were two strange men in my home, so I guessed their motives were not pure. How did they get in? The front door is always locked – see rule number one. I peeked around the doorframe and saw them. The one that hit the coffee table looked to be in his forties, had a few extra pounds,

Gil handed Henny one of the cushions and a one-pound coffee can from under the seat. Henny was very suspicious. “What’s this for?” he asked. “Why are you giving me this stuff?” “The cushion is for your sitter,” Gil said, “and the can is for the water.” “What water?” said Henny. He didn’t look too good. “Well, there’s bound to be a little extra water with the three of us sitting here,” said Gil. “And your friend hasn’t done much rowing. He splashes a bit over the side.” Henny glared at me. “Quit it,” he said. “Just quit splashing water into the boat.” I tried to be smooth. By the time we got out into the river, I was doing better. “Two steps forward, one step backward,” said Gil. “We aren’t making much progress against this current.” “I’ll go out a little farther,” I said. “Maybe the current won’t be so strong out there.” I felt very good about things. My rowing was getting better. We were closer to the bowl. The crew was busy and in high spirits. Gil was reading from The Journals of Lewis and Clark. Henny was searching his photographic memory for loose information. “Says here that one time, the expedition had nothing to eat but bear fat and candles,” said Gil. “Now that’s real interesting.” Henny sighed. “Sometimes they ate buffalo humps, and wolf meat, and a root called Wappato. Wappato is supposed to taste like potatoes. Boy, am I hungry. Did anybody bring a snack?” “There might be a few crackers under your seat,” said Gil. “Then again, there might not be.” “There is a box of Wheat Thins,” said Henny after he rummaged around under the seat. “It is soggy, dirty, crushed, and unfit for human consumption.” “I never eat them,” said Gil. “I feed them to the kingfishers. But if you’re really hungry, they’re better than candles.” Henny waved the box in the air. “Is anything going to go right on this trip?” he said. A sea gull swooped down and almost got the box. The crew was starting to feel the hardships. Desperation and hunger had set in. I figured the people from my island would look to the turtle for an answer to this situation, so I tried to do the same. The only thing I could come up with was that the armor on a turtle was much better protection than an old rowboat.

coffee table looked to be in his forties, had a few extra pounds, and I could tell, even in the dark, that he had less hair than he wished he did. The other one was younger, I guessed late twenties, and his back

The technology involved,* given the economics of mass production, would have added no more than a few pounds to the final purchase price, so why would you not add this significant extra?* Any ‘rational’ person would have advised Morita to go with the engineers’ advice, but according to multiple accounts, Morita vetoed the recording button. This defies all conventional economic logic, but it does not defy psycho-logic. Morita thought the presence of a recording function would confuse people about what the new device was for. Was it for dictation? Should I record my vinyl record collection onto cassette? Or should I record live music? In the same way that McDonald’s omitted cutlery from its restaurants to make it obvious how you were supposed to eat its hamburgers, by removing the recording function from Walkmans, Sony produced a product that had a lower range of functionality, but a far greater potential to a change behaviour.

Ever plod along on a treadmill that tells you the number of calories burned? You might go 45 minutes before you hit 300 calories. Well, guess what? That’s 300 total calories burned in that time, and not 300 calories above what your baseline metabolism would have burned anyway, even while at rest. That’s the reason the exercise machine asks your weight: To calculate your baseline metabolic rate. The average male burns 105 calories at rest in 45 minutes. Those 195 extra calories that the exercise actually burned–only 195 calories more than if you had been taking a nap–can be undone by half a bagel in half a minute. And aerobic exercise typically spurns your appetite enough to more than offset those few actual calories burned. Here’s the skinny: One pound of fat can fuel a 130-pound female for 15 hours at target “cardio” heart range. If we were so metabolically inefficient as to burn calories at the rate the exercise equipment advertises, we would never have survived for so long, and certainly not endured the hardship of the Ice Ages. The calories expended hunting and gathering would have caused us to die of starvation long before we ever found a Wooly Mammoth. By today’s standards, we would hardly have enough metabolic economy to survive a trip to the super market, let alone hump it across enemy lines for a week-long reconnaissance mission with 120 pounds of gear.

I PUT ON A FEW MILLION EXTRA POUNDS

On the face of it, it seems preposterous to think that walking doesn’t help with weight loss. Recall that energy balance is the difference between the calories one ingests and the calories one spends. You probably burn roughly 50 calories more by walking a two-thousand-step mile than driving the same distance. So trudging ten thousand additional steps a day (five miles) will expend a respectable extra 250 calories per day.30 To be sure, those ten thousand added steps might make you hungrier, but if you snack sensibly and consume 100 calories less than you walked off, those supplementary steps will eventually amount to a deficit of about 3,000 calories a month. That amount is just shy of 3,500 calories, the supposed number of calories in a pound of fat according to a much-cited, overly simplistic, and inaccurate 1958 study.31 Further, low- to moderate-intensity activities like walking burn relatively more fat than carbohydrates (hence the “fat-burning zones” on some exercise machines).32 As a result, lots of people try to trudge away extra pounds. Biological systems such as bodies are messy, and anyone who has struggled to lose weight knows that simple theories rarely apply to the convoluted realities of weight loss. What works for one person fails for another, and while many people successfully shed pounds when they start a new weight-loss plan, satisfaction often turns to frustration as the initial rate of weight loss diminishes and then reverses. Study after study has shown that overweight or obese people prescribed standard doses of exercise for a few months usually lose at most a few pounds. For example, one experiment with the clever acronym DREW (Dose Response to Exercise in Women) assigned 464 women to 0, 70, 140, and 210 minutes of slow walking a week (140 minutes is about five added miles). Apart from their prescribed exercise, the women took about five thousand additional steps per day as they went about their normal activities. After six months, those prescribed the standard 140 minutes a week lost only five pounds, while those assigned 210 minutes lost a paltry three pounds (more on this unexpected result below).33 Other controlled studies on overweight men and women report similarly modest losses.34

If I follow a standard prescription of briskly walking thirty minutes a day, almost two extra miles, I’ll spend about a hundred extra calories per day, theoretically allowing me to shed approximately five pounds in half a year—about the reductions most studies report. If a skinny hunter-gatherer mother loses five pounds in six months, she’s in trouble, but many obese American dieters aim to lose about fifty-five pounds.39 Losing that many pounds that quickly through exercise alone would theoretically require Herculean efforts like running eight miles a day. Although far from easy, dieting is unquestionably more effective for shedding many pounds. While walking 30 minutes a day won’t lead to rapid, spectacular weight losses, an evolutionary and anthropological perspective puts a different spin on the argument that walking expends too few calories to shed excess pounds. While the commonly prescribed two-mile daily walk expends a pittance—just 4 percent—of the average person’s daily energy budget of twenty-seven hundred calories, that pittance is partly attributable to setting the exercise bar so low. It bears repeating that the standard public health recommendation is 150 minutes of moderate exercise every week. This amounts to a paltry 21 minutes a day, one-sixth the level of physical activity among nonindustrial people like the Hadza.40 Although jobs, commuting, and other obligations fill our days with necessarily sedentary activities, the average American still spends at least eight times as much time (170 minutes per day) watching television.41 It is no wonder that studies using modest exercise doses report modest weight losses.

Penne Pasta With Fresh Arugula, Tomato and Mozzarella Success depends on fresh tomatoes and arugula and basil. And don’t even think about using anything but the freshest mozzarella. You don’t need much, so go ahead and splurge on the good stuff. 1/ 2 pound penne pasta 4 ripe tomatoes, diced about 10 ounces fresh mozzarella, drained and diced 5 ounces arugula, torn into bite-sized pieces a few fresh basil leaves 1/ 2 cup extra virgin olive oil salt and red pepper flakes to taste Cook the pasta. Put the tomatoes, arugula, basil, mozzarella, olive oil, salt and pepper in a large bowl. When the pasta is ready, toss it with the tomato mixture and serve.

Chicken Salad à la Danny Kaye YIELD: 4 SERVINGS TO MOST AMERICANS, Danny Kaye is remembered as a splendid comedian and actor. I think of him as a friend and one of the finest cooks I have ever known. In every way, Danny was equal to or better than any trained chef. His technique was flawless. The speed at which he worked was on par with what you’d find in a Parisian brigade de cuisine. Danny taught me a great deal, mostly about Chinese cuisine, his specialty. Whenever I traveled to Los Angeles, Danny picked me up at the airport and took me to his house, where we cooked Chinese or French food. His poached chicken was the best I have ever had. His method was to put the chicken in a small stockpot, cover it with tepid water seasoned with salt, peppercorns, and vegetables, and cook it at a gentle boil for only 10 minutes, then set it aside off the heat for 45 minutes. As an added touch, he always stuck a handful of knives, forks, and spoons into the cavity of the chicken, to keep it submerged. The result is so moist, tender, and flavorful that I have used the recipe—minus the flatware—ever since. CHICKEN 1 chicken, about 3½ pounds ½ cup sliced carrot 1 cup sliced onion 1 small leek, washed and left whole 1 rib celery, washed and left whole 1 teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon black peppercorns 2 sprigs thyme 2 bay leaves About 7 cups tepid water, or more if needed DRESSING 2 tablespoons Dijon-style mustard 1 tablespoon white wine vinegar 1 teaspoon finely chopped garlic ¼ teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper ½ teaspoon Tabasco hot pepper sauce 5 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil GARNISHES 1 dozen Boston lettuce leaves, cleaned 2 dozen fresh tarragon leaves FOR THE CHICKEN: Place the chicken breast side down in a tall, narrow pot, so it fits snugly at the bottom. Add the remaining poaching ingredients. The chicken should be submerged, and the water should extend about 1 inch above it. Bring to a gentle boil, cover, and let boil gently for two minutes. Remove the pot from the heat, and set it aside to steep in the hot broth for 45 minutes. Remove the chicken from the pot, and set it aside on a platter to cool for a few minutes. (The stock can be strained and frozen for up to 6 months for use in soup.) Pick the meat from the chicken bones, discarding the skin, bones, and fat. Shred the meat with your fingers, following the grain and pulling it into strips. (The meat tastes better shredded than diced with a knife.) FOR THE DRESSING: Mix together all the dressing ingredients in a bowl large enough to hold the chicken salad. Add the chicken shreds to the dressing and toss well. Arrange the Boston lettuce leaves in a “nest” around the periphery of a platter, and spoon the room-temperature chicken salad into the center. Sprinkle with the tarragon leaves and serve.

She liked to be appreciated and although motherhood had put a few extra pounds on her, which she complained about vociferously, he didn’t care and went out of his way to tell her how good she looked every single day. It was a lesson that Terry Henry had urged him to learn. Billy told Terry that he should do the same thing for Char, which made Terry laugh, because he thought that she knew she looked good, so why did he have to say anything? Sixty-five years and he still had a lot to learn.

Any asshole can fall in love on a private beach in a tropical locale, surrounded by lush flora and adorable fauna, shining suns and chirping birds. Give me ten uninterrupted minutes without some ding-dong demanding something or subtweeting me or making me do work and I could fall in love with my worst fucking enemy. Seriously. What’s not to love about being expertly lit and drunk at two in the afternoon? But I’m going to need you to love me on the bus, dude. And first thing in the morning. Also, when I’m drunk and refuse to shut up about getting McNuggets from the drive-thru. When I fall asleep in the middle of that movie you paid extra to see in IMAX. When I wear the flowered robe I got at Walmart and the sweatpants I made into sweatshorts to bed. When I am blasting “More and More” by Blood Sweat & Tears at seven on a Sunday morning while cleaning the kitchen and fucking up your mom’s frittata recipe. When I bring a half dozen gross, mangled kittens home to foster for a few nights and they shit everywhere and pee on your side of the bed. When I go “grocery shopping” and come back with only a bag of Fritos and five pounds of pork tenderloin. When I’m sick and stumbling around the crib with half a roll of toilet paper shoved in each nostril. When I beg you fourteen times to read something I’ve written, then get mad when you tell me what you don’t like about it and I call you an uneducated idiot piece of shit. Lovebird city.

His eyes told her all she needed to know. He liked what he saw. As the relief washed through her, she let go of her critical side for the evening. She hated how she was harder on herself than she should be. So what if she carried a few extra pounds, she was still attractive. She wished she could hold onto that feeling more often.