Congratulations! I know how hard it is and how wonderful it feels to reach your target.

I was compelled to write a poem about it a couple of months back:
101 Things To Do With A Dead Chicken
(The Dieters Lament)
I have broiled it, I have diced it,
I have roasted it and sliced it -
but to eat the skin’s a deadly sin.
As “Coq Au Vin” it’s quite divine,
although I shouldn’t add the wine
if I want to be "fash-na-blee" thin.
I have stir-fried it with beanshoots
whilst drooling over baked roots
dripping with butter, nicely browned.
As my dreams became orgasmic
I didn’t make the sauces too thick,
just in case I gained another pound.
I’ve been lectured by the best,
then bored to tears by the all rest
who think that they have found the perfect plan.
Diet regimes so fantastic
that get rid of waist elastic
and let me wear real clothes that don’t expand.
I have suffered from despair,
I know my tales could curl your hair,
of weigh-ins that went so gravely wrong.
Now I’ve come to the conclusion
being slim is an illusion,
the out-size store’s where I belong.
Please don’t think that I’m ungrateful
roast chicken by the plateful
with salad or greens - I know it’s right -
But I’d kill for “Southern Fried”,
a plate of french fries on the side,
not a stick of celery in sight.
Copyright 2002 Celia L-L. All rights reserved.