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Happy stinking new year

     I may have this whole so-called “New Year’s resolution” thing figured out. For years I’ve lost and gained back about 1,000 pounds. The thing is that it’s hard to stay on a big-time diet when you’ve decided long ago to be okay with yourself no matter where you fall on the fat spectrum.     
     The only thing that helps people like me stick with any diet is our impending death. When you get to be 50 or older, staying alive sort of becomes the focus. Especially amidst all those reports of folks who didn’t make it to the end of 2016. You start to think that they must have eaten a lot of sausage and Snickers bars.
     But I have to say, the world gives us a mixed message. We’re supposed to love ourselves right where we are no matter what, but then again we’re supposed to fix anything that’s “wrong” with us — for me that’s what Chris Farley referred to as “a little bit of a weight problem.”
     Oh, I’ve definitely decided again that I’ll get back on the elliptical and kick my own ass as we begin this new year. But I have to say I’ve only decided to do it because I’ve got three kids and a husband who, I think, still want me around. If it was up to me alone, I’d gorge myself on Almond Joys and chicken wings and give everybody the finger.
     I’ve got one go-around here—as far as I know—I’d like it to be as pleasant as possible.
     This means I’m going to find my loose sweatpants (that’s right, I do have tight sweatpants in my bottom drawer) and get back up there on those stupid foot pedal things. My problem is that I’ve lost weight before and experienced that whole “your numbers are down” thing. This leaves me thinking that there’s something to eating kale with lemon and not unwrapping that first Hershey’s Kiss. Why does everything have to be so not fun?
     I was talking to someone the other day; somebody I’d just met. We were at the 50th birthday party of a good friend. I said, “No matter what my age is, I feel like I’m 12 inside.”
     This didn’t really go over as I’d planned. I got one of those Chris Farley “Oh, she lives in a van down by the river” looks. Keep in mind, this guy I was talking to would’ve gauged about an 8 on the ol’ “pinch and pull” body fat meter.
     I have no idea why I shared that little “I feel like I’m 12” line with a stranger. I should have known it might not go over. I guess it’s best not to talk to newly met people when you’re talking about personal problems. I’ve found that they really aren’t that interested in my weight and/or my choice of antidepressants. This always leads me to thinking that they’re somewhat snobbish. Whatever, it obviously wasn’t a great idea.
     So, I guess the bottom line is that I need to wake up earlier, grab my loose sweatpants and put my foot to the pedal if I expect to live another year or so.
     I have to say it gets tiresome. The whole worrying about your body fat index and eating everything steamed and cookies made from mashed chickpeas. Is this the way we’re supposed to live?
     I guess it makes for interesting conversation. Maybe we talk about this stuff one-on-one because we don’t want it pasted all over social media. Maybe that’s the up side.




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