Author’s Note: The following story is an excerpt from my upcoming book “Ultra-Fat to Ultra-Fit: A Scientist’s Rational Approach to Extreme Weight Loss and Optimal Fitness.” 

In the spring of 2002, I decided to lose some weight.  Stepping on the scale for the first time in years, I discovered I weighed 342 pounds.  Five months later, I’d lost 120 pounds, enough weight that those who hadn’t seen me in a while failed to recognize me.  Even people who interacted with me on a regular basis were a little wowed.

Weight loss, I discovered, could prove rather difficult.  Statistically, only about one in twenty diets actually results in a meaningful, lasting reduction in weight.  Though success is often a function of the person undertaking the diet, rather than the plan itself, people always think that there’s some special knowledge or technique that is the singular key for success.  This little peculiarity presents some interesting opportunities for jokes.  What’s a major life change if you can’t have a little fun along the way? 

One of the secretaries where I worked was particularly fascinated with my weight loss.  She hadn’t been privy to my day-to-day struggles, and so (like many people) she thought I had some sort of special technique for what appeared to be an effortless and very rapid shedding of weight.  Repeatedly, she approached me to find out what my secret was.  I always told her that I was just working hard and eating right, trying to spare her the peculiarities of my diet [A completely different story, wherein I spent six months fasting every other day].  Still she didn’t believe me, jokingly telling me that she would discover my secret if it killed her. 

Around this time, my research group had taken to ordering a large quantity of fried chicken for a group lunch every Friday.  As low man on the totem pole, I was tasked with driving to KFC to collect our order, even though my diet often forbade me from eating my cargo.  The same inquisitive secretary had a desk by the elevator, and she saw me time and again carrying several large buckets of fried chicken into our break room.  Assuming all of this was for me, she came to the erroneous conclusion that I had discovered a secret diet allowing me to eat anything I wanted.  One Friday, I was cleaning up the remains of the food from our meeting when she trapped me.  This was a non-fasting day, and I had the last piece of chicken stuck in my mouth as I picked up the remains of enough food for six people.  Seeing me in this compromising position only confirmed her suspicions.  She decided to confront me.

“I knew it!  I knew you had a secret to losing all that weight!  It’s the chicken, isn’t it?” she asked excitedly. 

Caught red-handed, I decided to play along and have a little fun with her.  I confessed, telling her that the real secret to my weight loss was a diet consisting exclusively of fried chicken.  I gave her particulars: All I was eating was original recipe fried chicken, no hot wings and no chicken strips.  All chicken was to be eaten only with a nebulous list of “approved” side items.  Cornbread was OK, as was the mac and cheese; the rolls and mashed potatoes were forbidden.  “Stay away from the pie,” I concluded, tipping her an exaggerated, knowing wink. “It’s the worst thing for you when you’re on the chicken.  That’s what we call it.  ‘On the chicken.’”  She nodded solemnly, committing every word to memory.  I think I even saw her take a note or two.  

A few days later, I was minding my own business, having forgotten the encounter, when the secretary appeared again with her cousin in tow.  He was a chunky lad who, she explained to me, was also looking to lose weight. 

“Noah, you gotta tell Devon about going ‘on the chicken.’  He wants to lose weight and he loves chicken,” she said, gazing at me expectantly. 

My inner thespian failed me; there was no way I could actually tell someone to go on an all-chicken diet with a straight face.  In a flash, I had a plan that would keep them safe from my imaginary diet forever.

“Devon, your aunt didn’t tell you the full story,” I said ominously.  “Before you get to the all-chicken phase, you have to prepare your body with the all-gizzard purification phase.  It’s really just like the Atkins diet … only with gizzards.  For a month.”