Like so many of you, I made a New Year's resolution to lose weight. I had the good fortune to have my wife joining me in this endeavor, ensuring that whatever food plan we ended up on, we would be suffering together.

I knew I was overweight. Even obese. Those of you who have read my scribblings in the Weird Chronicles know that I've made no secret of the fact. However, I figured maybe a year or so of dieting and I'd be back in fighting shape and then could carry on with my life as normal.

That lasted until I stepped on the scale.

470.2 pounds.

That can't be right. That's the kind of number associated with those pathetic creatures on talk shows who can't get out of bed without assistance. That can't possibly be ME. Sure, I've got a penchant for fried chicken wings. Sure, my job involves so little physical activity that I could conceivably do it without the benefit of legs. But 470.2 pounds?

OK, maybe.

But I'm a food editor. My readers depend on me to bring them new and different (and very frequently fattening) items of interest. How am I supposed to WRITE about fried Twinkies if I can't EAT them?

The choice is really pretty simple, though: No matter how tall I am (6 feet 5 inches), there's no way on earth to justify carrying this much weight. The strain on my heart, blood vessels, skeleton and everything else is going to take its toll sooner or later, and I'd just as soon not be known as that brilliant writer who died too young.

So, the scene is set. Come along with me over the next months as we experiment, succeed, fail and, most importantly learn how to deal with food in a healthful way without consigning ourselves to some contrived dietary prison.

Next week: Cleaning House: Out With The Bad

I welcome your thoughts, feedback, ideas and weight-loss experiences. Just drop me a line anytime!