Finding Loopholes in Caloric Responsibility

You remembered how Julian French and Charlene Janson were practically fused at the hip, two early-90s lovebirds marinating in chlorinated water and dietary delusion. They spent more time poolside than anywhere else, suckling from the sacred teat of the nonfat craze like it was divine revelation. If it had “nonfat” stamped on the box, it became part of their holy sacrament. SnackWell’s Chocolate Crème Sandwich Cookies, Devil’s Food Cakes, Entenmann’s nonfat fudge—every bite a loophole in caloric responsibility. And when they weren’t sprawled in the jacuzzi, they were waddling over to Penguin’s Frozen Yogurt, their temple of guilt-free indulgence.

Julian, bless his misguided heart, believed himself a hero. You watched him parade across the pool deck in elastic-waisted shorts, clutching two towers of frozen yogurt like he’d just retrieved them from Mount Olympus. The froyo swirled skyward in absurd spirals of nonfat vanilla, trembling with anticipation. Then came the toppings—an avalanche of crushed Oreos, cookie dough boulders, syrupy strawberries, and sauces that flowed like molten sin. Fudge dripped in dark rivulets, caramel oozed like golden tar, and whipped cream sat proudly on top, crowned with rainbow sprinkles, the garnish of the damned.

They cackled with every bite, believing they’d hacked the matrix—dessert without consequence, joy without cost. But consequences don’t wear warning labels. You watched the pounds creep up like a slow betrayal. One day, Julian hauled himself out of the hot tub, his belly sloshing like an overfilled water balloon, and just as he reached for his towel, he clutched his chest and folded like a cheap lawn chair.

The doctor’s message was blunt: drop fifty pounds or drop dead.

Charlene took the news as a divine calling. She transformed overnight into a wellness dictator, dragging Julian from snack god to penitential health monk. Veganism became the law of the land. Dinners were now grim platefuls of raw broccoli, quinoa, and tofu cubes that looked—and tasted—like packing foam. Julian, a former king of indulgence, was reduced to sneaking cheeseburgers in gas station parking lots. But Charlene could smell deception like a narcotics dog. The scent of trans fat sweat gave him away.

Her response? More treadmill. More SlimFast. Less mercy.

Their days of poolside romance were replaced by hikes, boot camps, and overpriced health retreats where fun went to die. Charlene found her calling in this tyranny of self-improvement. When you spotted them months later at Woody’s, the transformation was stunning. Charlene glowed like a fitness influencer on a juice cleanse, sipping Perrier with the smug serenity of a cult leader. Julian looked like a prisoner of war in gym clothes—gaunt, glassy-eyed, and blinking out Morse code from behind his herbal tea.

His lips said, “I’m fine,” but his eyes whispered, “Save me.”