The no-burp diet

Day one of my no-burp diet. I weigh in at 164.2.

I will violate social norms and write frankly about my weight and the embarrassing topic of burping because, whether you have my problems or not, my struggles might provide insight for some of yours.

As I grow older and gain weight, my digestive system has become more sensitive. I have frequent bouts of gas and heartburn. I’ve advanced from Tums to store-brand Prilosec and still, yesterday afternoon I was emitting loud, braying belches. Fortunately I was alone in the house.

At the same time I was listening to a little lecture about personal change based on the Heath brothers’ latest book, which also prompted yesterday's musing, Switch: How to Change When Change is really Hard. And I was thinking about how I might try once again to shed a few pounds. That summer of biking, for all its rewards, had not shaved off more than five pounds, though it probably replaced some fat with muscle. And the rather lazy month of October had already put four of those back on.

Now here was Chip Heath, suggesting that I find some kind of positive emotion, a reward, to stir up my motivation for change. Well, I knew about all that. The picture on the refrigerator, the camaraderie of the group sessions, the snug pants in the closet, the regular weigh-ins showing the (hopefully) dropping numbers.

They don’t work for me, not reliably and not for long. I needed something more powerful, personal, and immediate.

As I was listening to this you-already-know-this lecture, I was issuing those awful belches every few minutes. I knew why. It was because for lunch I had eaten two bowls of a delicious lentil soup I’d made for myself instead of one.

I noticed how uncomfortable I was. I started timing the space between burps, thinking how nice it would be in a few minutes or hours to be free of them. And suddenly I knew that I had found the feeling I needed for changing my eating habits.

I knew in my mind and my gut what needed to change. Tiny portions, more frequent meals or snacks, total avoidance of some foods like ice cream, and cutting way back on others like wheat. I wouldn’t even need to think about this diet. I would just need to pay attention to the burps and get myself burp-free.

I could have burp-free contests with myself, burp-free marathons, my own Guinness Record on burp-free days. I could even imagine a burp-free Thanksgiving! Suddenly, the upcoming pumpkin and mince pies were losing their appeal, and I could imagine the tiny scoop of my luscious stuffing on my plate next to a moderate slice of turkey thigh, a mound of green kale, a dollop of bright red orange-cranberry relish, and no potatoes at all. And good heavens, no seconds! I could imagine this without a hint of regret or anticipated suffering. The feeling was there.

I know from past dieting experience that I can learn to enjoy the feeling of less. I can go to bed feeling empty—not stomach-growling hungry but slightly hollowed out—and enjoy that sense, go to sleep on it. But I can lose track of that feeling and go back to overeating in the evening, which is my main downfall: seconds on dinner, snacking afterward. What happens is an emotional change: the joy of emptiness somehow gets replaced by a feeling of never-enoughness. When I lose the joy of emptiness I can’t control my eating. And when I lose the feeling I don’t know how to get it back.

I believe I have stumbled on the trigger, the path back to that feeling of being in tune with my body’s needs. My aging body has given me an instant feedback mechanism, the uncomfortable, embarrassing burp. My body is speaking to me--rather loudly, in fact--and, finally, I am listening.