I remember as a teenager having lunch every day and eating a hamburger, hot dog, burrito and a large Non-diet Dr Pepper. Looking back now with over two decades (and several inches) under my belt, I think to myself, “What an idiot I was!” After two decades, that particular meal would send me into anaphylactic shock. My body could not process all those carbs, fats and sesame seeds without a mandatory purging of my system. And I don’t mean puking my guts out either. Think the other end.
The singer Steve Poltz once sang the lines, “I drink myself some herbal tea cause it’s healthier they say. Healthier ain’t all that fun. I’ll take a cold beer any day.” I understand where Steve was coming from. These days, the aforementioned meal would cause a gastric phenomenon that would make the raging of Vesuvius seem rather peaceful, meek and mild. And I’m sure that volcano would have smelled better, too. Sulfuric gasses have nothing on the effects of onion rings on a middle aged digestive tract.
The obvious noxious nuisance aside, think of what those calories do to those same waist lines. Back in the day, I was a swimmer who could go miles without a problem. Now the waters where I swim are alligator filled; however, they are not as physically challenging as they affect the mind. Now the calories that seemed so helpful as a youth are the bane of my existence. Those same calories are stored as fatty globules to help us in times of famine. As the rate I am adding to my globulous gain, I should be prepared for the next several lean harvests.
I remember with fondness the blue jeans that had the 32 inch waist. I looked at a pair of those in Wal-Mart the other day. All I did was look. There was this tiny voice in the back of my mind saying, “Why don’t you try it on?” Even though I do listen to the voices in my head on a regular basis, my instinct for self-preservation was a lot louder than that vicious little voice that was trying to hurt me. And I don’t even want to think about the damage the mirror in the fitting room would have done to my psyche as I looked at the fat oozing over the waist of those jeans. Love handles my middle aged butt! Who loves those? Really? Even your Mom would say, “Honey, loose a little of that chub. You can pinch several inches!”
I have come to the conclusion that it is a waste of time worrying about your waist. Why bother? I have been fighting the middle aged battle of the bulge and have deluded myself into thinking I can win. Maybe I will be lean, mean, loving machine when I die at the age of 103. Then again, there is a chocolate malt calling my name at Dairy Queen.
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