STRANGER THAN FICTION: FAT THORN IN SIDE AND ELSEWHERE

It's sick, really.

Every morning, I step out of the shower and stand in front of my industrial-strength bathroom mirror.

In my last apartment, the bathroom mirror was one of those medicine-cabinet deals, only reflecting my hair, face and parts of my shoulders. That mirror was great.

THIS one reflects everything. Even without my contacts, I can see every ripple, crease and roll. So I stand there in awe, sucking in and tightening up, wondering if I could lose 50 or more pounds by Christmas.

Then I go to work and have my traditional breakfast of Diet Coke and Zingers.

Everyone's talking about cutting out fat. Haven't you heard? FAT'S the bad guy, not necessarily sugar. So have some jam, but no peanut butter. Have some syrup, but over fat-free waffles.

Ex-Mr. Dreams' mother loaned me "Stop the Insanity" by Susan Powder, which I read like the Bible, except for spending more time looking at the pictures. You may remember Susan from her infomercials. She's the woman with very little hair and a very big mouth, but I love her message.

The pictures in the book are remarkable. First, Susan is with two young sons wearing a tent-like piece of clothing. Later, she is alone wearing little more than spiked heels and a smile.

Conclusion: Children are fattening.

Wait, that can't be right, because I've never had children. But I did spend much of my teen years babysitting, and I put on a lot of weight at that time, too. Hmmmmmmm.

Susan says to increase calories but cut fat, and make sure the calories aren't just from sugar. Eat egg-white omelets, brown rice, beans and bagels, she says.

I love ya, Sue, but I'm not sure how that will work in a busy woman's schedule. Imagine trotting around the local Mc-You-Know-What drive through.

"May I take your order?"

"Yes. May I have egg whites on a bagel with a side order of legumes?"

Long pause. "Hey, Fred! We've got another loony in the drive!"

As mentioned in previous columns, I joined a local fitness center to help with my problem. Yesterday, for the first time, I saw two women who actually were larger than I was and had to fight my desire to kiss them. More or less, the folks there are fit and trim, and I'd trade bodies with anyone in my aerobics class.

Heck, I'd even consider trading with the instructor, who is male. At least I'd be thin, even if I kept mistakenly going into in the ladies' room.

I've been doing step aerobics, which some of you may know as the form of exercise voted most likely to sprain your ankles. Thom, the instructor, tries really hard to make me understand the moves, bless his soul, but there's only so much a 6-foot-3-inch body will do on command. Especially when the brain is disengaged.

I'm having a good time, though, staying to the rear of the classroom and falling off that step as many times as humanly possible. I probably have a love-hate relationship with the rest of the aerobicizers. They hate me for being out of step and ruining the total look of the class, but they love me because they look so petite in comparison.

The Current Interest has been pretty supportive about the whole thing. I was wearing shorts on one of the last warm days of fall, and he said I looked nice.

"Nice?" I shrieked. "Then you'd better enjoy seeing this cellulite while you can, because soon I'll look like her!" I held up my latest "Shape" magazine cover.

Mr. Interest said those expectations were unrealistic, and people should accept themselves for who they are, not how they look.

Men out there, take a lesson.

~Heidi Nieland is a member of the Southeast Missourian news staff.