The Battle Of The Bulge

When I was young I didn't know what being fat was. I used to be so skinny  that my mother often called me a dried chilly! But boy could I eat! You could call me border-line greedy. I was hungry all the time. Social visits, birthday parties, weddings and even death anniversaries only meant one thing- unlimited food. I was obsessed with eating and yet I managed to look undernourished and starved! So much of eating and not a care about weighty issues. Such was life- young, carefree and weightless!

Once when I was around 7 years old, in boarding school, me and my pals polished off a pack of 500gms butter all by itself. Well the butter showed up  on me after 40 years!

Now with the scales threatening to tip 75 kilos and my metabolism asleep, being a foodie is near suicidal. These days even the air I take in gets converted into F-A-T!

 My mother scoffs at my attempts to exercise (says they are not challenging enough) while my dad insists that I should spare a thought for the starving millions in Somalia(he thinks I eat for two). On some days I do worry about my jiggling belly and shrinking clothes but most times the worry buries itself underground as my hands creep stealthy into the bag of chips. Watching a crime thriller without butter popcorn is like committing a crime, right?

Buying clothes is most frustrating. Explaining to sales people that I want a ladies shirt but need it in XXL size is like explaining nuclear physics to my pet dog. The trial room mirrors are all out to take revenge. Who says these things are inanimate objects? My rubber slippers smile sheepish dimples at me (the husband sneers that  it's just buckling under my weight).

How come the 7 minute workout videos look so easy, but when actually lying down on that yoga mat to start, all I want to do is the Shavasana (corpse pose).

Calorie conversations are nightmarish because most of the time I want to agree but the heart disagrees. I mean who counts food? Food is pleasure. And you only live once. The stern hubby disagrees. He has stopped taking me  grocery shopping and returns home with baskets full of raw food, fruits and veggies. He sticks the Food Chart on our fridge door.

Its battle time. Everyone is up in arms against me and all I want to do is sit on my butt. Which reminds me of  how uncomfortable the seats are in theatre halls and aeroplanes. The world is a cruel place. People judging my choice of food. Everything is made to fit size zero or its equivalent(whatever number that is). Is it me or are things getting cramped up around here?

I have to acknowledge that pushing towards 50 its now more important to be healthy and the only way I can stop these aching joints is to tie up my shoe laces and take the first giant step. Procrastination is so much simpler, says a small voice inside my head but I think I should ignore it.