Over the years I’ve watched my husband try a myriad of diets: the Beach diet, the Fat-Flush diet, low-carb/high-fat diets, low-fat/low-carb diets, a raw vegetarian diet that gave him bad breath for weeks (all that garlic, all those weird spices–ughh), even the infamous lemonade diet (lemon juice mixed with maple syrup and cayenne pepper, consumed for as many days as one can stand—in my husband’s case, it was eleven). I should explain that my husband eats normally most of the time; he also works out daily and is in great shape. But he inherited a slow metabolism from his father, who was obese much of his adult life, so every once in awhile—maybe once every six months or so—my husband tries out the latest diet in order to drop a few pounds. I, on the other hand, was born with a fast metabolism and, until the last five years or so, have never had to watch what I eat (apparently the fast metabolism gene expires at age forty-five). In fact, as a teenager I was so painfully, self-consciously thin that I did everything I could, including drinking protein drinks, to put on weight, to no avail (Cry me a river, I hear you say—I know, I know, but really, I hated it). And don’t get me started on my pre-mission physical, when I had to convince the BYU Health Center doctor that I wasn’t, in fact, anorexic, just abnormally thin, and that the stress of finals week had made me even thinner than I normally was. But I digress.