The Parable of the Serial Dieter

One day while teaching, Josh was asked ”Teacher, on the fortieth anniversary of the final withdrawal of troops from Vietnam, what lessons can the United States be said to have learned from the experience?”

Josh spoke thus:

A serial dieter was looking at the refrigerator door.

“I will not open the refrigerator door,” the serial dieter said to the refrigerator door.  The refrigerator door did not question what the serial dieter said.

“I will not open the bread bin,” the serial dieter said to the bread bin.  The bread bin did not question what the serial dieter said.

“I will not open the cupboard,” the serial dieter said to the cupboard.  The cupboard did not question what the serial dieter said.

“I will not eat,” the serial dieter said to the serial dieter.  The serial dieter did not question what the serial dieter said.

“If I were to open the refrigerator door,” the serial dieter said, “Inside the refrigerator I would find the chocolate pudding I made yesterday but resisted eating.  I would find the six pack of beer I brought home yesterday but stored away rather than drank.  I would find the rich dessert cheese that I placed next to the black olives whose jar I opened, just to be sure the olives were not spoiled, but which I did not eat.”

“If I were to open the bread bin,” the serial dieter said, “I would see the soft loaf of bread that was freshly baked just hours ago, and whose aroma would wash over me like a summer breeze across honey.”

“If I were to open the cupboard,” the serial dieter said, “I would find the artichoke hearts in a jar, the guacamole dip in a tin, the tortilla chips and bean topping that looked so good on the store shelf that just in passing I had to pick them up.  How disciplined I was to put them in the cupboard when I got home!”

“I will not make a meal of all of these things,” the serial dieter said as the serial dieter put plates, glasses, flatware and napkins on the table.  The soft candlelight refracted like starlight through the cut crystal of the tumbler as the serial dieter poured the beer.  The wooden bowl gave off a satisfying thud under the weight of the guacamole, and scratched pleasantly when brushed by the tortilla chips.  The artichoke hearts glistened next to the rich dessert cheese.  The soft bread and the olives formed a perfectly proportioned still life on their side plate, a scene given profundity by a background of chocolate pudding in finely shaped stoneware.  The bean topping sat in a compact, confident mound prepared for distribution by knife, spoon, or even lustful finger.

“That was not a meal, not in the proper sense,” the serial dieter said through a happy burp when all had been consumed.  The serial dieter gazed at the remaining half-glass of beer beside the plates the serial dieter had licked clean.  

“Now that I have broken the habit of large meals in the evening, I can begin to manage my daytime caloric intake,” the serial dieter said.

The serial dieter felt a little over-full.  Another bite would have been a bite too many.

“It’s a good thing the ice cream is still in the freezer,” the serial dieter said to the lonely spoon, “Because I will not open the freezer door.”