It’s true. Yesterday, I turned 47. Or as I like to say, celebrated my 30th birthday for the 17th time. I don’t feel old. Not often, anyway.
I feel fat. In my head, I’m still a size 6. In my closet, I’m a 10.
Years ago, I had gained some weight and couldn’t fit into a size 8. I refused to buy a size 10, so I was motivated to lose some weight. Now? Losing weight would mean giving up my favorite food groups – sugar and carbs – and exercising. Bring on the size 12.
I had thought that when I got a job I’d be getting a little more exercise. Not that it’s a labor intensive job. But at home, I sit on my arse all day and peck away at the laptop. I figured standing up and waiting on clients would burn a few more calories. But guess what? At work, I sit on my arse and peck away at a computer.
I am trying to cut down on sugar and carbs, but I drink about 6 cups of tea a day, with milk and sugar. That’s a hard habit to break. And it’s a habit I really, really like. On my second day of work, I didn’t have a cup of tea for 6 hours. By the end of my shift I had a splitting migraine and my brain was so fuzzy I couldn’t have spelled my own name if my life depended on it. I stopped at Dunkin Donuts on the way home for a coffee and at home had two cups of tea before the pounding stopped.
Is it such a big deal to gain weight? Sure, actresses on TV work out and do yoga and maintain their size 2 figures. Even actresses at my age, I guess. But that’s no fun. I mean, at my age there are more important things to worry about on the horizon. Like facial hair. Skin tags. Varicose veins. Incontinence.
Somebody hand me the sugar bowl.