The time has come. My blood test results have all come back and I’m in almost perfect health. I have no cholesterol issues, no thyroid problems, nothing that is contributing to my current health concern except the usual factors like overloading my pie hole and not spending enough time getting active.
I’ve never been a skinny gal. My body structure means I’m not going to be confused with Kate Moss in this lifetime but I am currently the heaviest I’ve ever been in my life, period. In fact, I’m beating my old record (set in the late 80’s) by about 6 pounds. If I allowed myself to continue on this particular track, I would soon end up looking like I swallowed a bean-bag chair; it all gathers at the middle. My little stick-legs don’t pick up an ounce and Beyonce would never call me booty-licious.
This is the time of a gal’s life when, even if she didn’t struggle with her weight in decades before, she is finding that it’s harder to keep the fatness at bay. If she’s an emotional eater, like yours truly, the love handles can turn into muffin tops and the muffin tops threaten to turn into 7-layer cakes. It is so much harder to lose weight here in the middle ages that some people just give up and buy bigger pants with hidden elastic waistbands.
Now, we all come in different shapes and sizes and that’s all well and good but I just don’t feel good at this juncture. So I have decided that this will be my weight management solution: to publicly embarrass myself via this blog and insist that I straighten up and fly right past the cupboard with the treats in it. Carbs are my downfall. When I want something to satisfy the empty hole in my psyche I fill it with carbs. So today, here and now, I say to you, dear Internet, that I am going to get serious. I want to wear the half of my wardrobe that’s hanging in my closet mocking me with its unforgiving waistbands. I’m embarking on a venture to lose 25 pounds which will still put me at the high end (the healthy end) of my weight range for my age and height. Enough is enough.