I am about to brag. If you don’t want to listen to me bragging, you have my permission to stop reading right now. I generally hate it when people brag, so I wouldn’t blame you in the least. Bragging is obnoxious. If it isn’t one of the seven deadly sins, it should be. I much prefer self-deprecation.
But there are those exceptional occasions when a little bragging is warranted, even called for. And, in the first half of my eighth decade, I have arrived at one of those occasions, so here goes. In spite of a declining metabolism that may have reached its nadir years ago, I have achieved weight loss!
I won’t relate the actual number of pounds, but considering my starting point, the amount is not insignificant. And yes, I stand before you, in my slim jeans pulled from the back of the closet, very proud of myself!
I have a healthy relationship with food. I’m neither too thin nor too fat. I eat only when I’m hungry and try not to snack between meals. I believe I am what I eat. I eat this and not that. I heed the media medics. The wrong foods can cause brain shrinkage and heaven knows I need every cell I can hang on to. I’m a believer. I drank the Kool-Aid. Oops! I mean the green tea.
I spend an inordinate amount of time in the supermarket reading labels. I’ve even purchased a pair of extra-strong reading glasses so I can see the fine print. Gone are the days when I would speed-shop through a super store and in less than an hour, purchase a week’s worth of groceries for a family of four. Five, if you include the dog.
I sometimes think about the damage my reckless shopping habits might have caused my young family. In retrospect, I can’t help but wonder if my son might have gotten into Harvard had I not let him eat all those Spaghetti-Os. But no point looking back.
It’s Monday morning, and I have declared that I am going on a diet. Again. My weight is starting to climb. Again. I’m sure if I try hard enough, I can identify more evil food items that must never again pass my lips – foods that will join the cadre of those already banished, like pizza, ice cream, deli sandwiches, salty chips, and (sob!) Oreo cookies.
Off and on, throughout the years, I have lived on a steady diet of diets. That’s what happens when, at some very impressionable age, your baby fat doesn’t melt and the boy next door teases you about being chubby. And your doctor (not a pediatrician, because once there was such a thing as a family doctor) is telling you that you are pretty enough to be Miss America but you have to lose some weight. That’s what happens when your friends have developed waistlines and are wearing skirts with extra-wide leather belts purchased at the trendy shop in Greenwich Village where everyone went. Everyone except you because you would prefer not to call attention to your middle.