I come from sturdy stock and I like to eat. Happy! Let’s eat. Sad, let’s eat. Birthday, holiday, special occasion, let’s eat. See the pattern? I was raised on the firm belief that there is no problem that can’t be solved by the quick application of a cookie. I am quite certain my grandmothers never considered they were instilling in me a deep-seeded pattern of over eating; they were simply showering me with love; even if it was wrapped in chocolate and rolled in nuts.
I’m no longer five years old. I’m now responsible for my own eating habits. That’s where the problem lies. I’m weak. I’m like a junkie when it comes to sweet and savory. Drugs and drink hold no sway with me. Place a bowl of chips and a side of clam dip on the counter and I’ll feel the earth move. Open a Snickers bar in the middle night and I’ll wake from a sound sleep. When it comes to snacking, I’m kind of a savant.
I am the classic American yo-yo dieter. In my adult life I have weighed as much as three hundred thirty pounds and as little as one forty five; although only for about twelve hours in my early twenties. I’ve always been able to loose weight. I’m better at gaining weight, but I’ve always been able to loose it. As I get older, it’s getting harder to loose and easier to gain weight. I attribute this to bad knees, bad back and loss of motivation. It’s hard to be motivated when a big night out becomes a bowl of popcorn and the sofa.
So here I am; fifty something and just shy of three hundred pounds. Do I give up? Should I take a cheeseburger in each hand and put one foot in the grave? No! I want to be around to see my grandbabies graduate and marry. I want to choose stairs when the elevator is right there. I want to walk by the big and tall shop to buy my cloths off the rack. There are things I want to do and places I want to see before the inevitable. I’ve reached the place in my personal journey where how I finish depends upon the decisions I make today. I choose life.
Here we go, again.
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