Weightloss is a weighty issue. I've been here before, the lamenting of the time spent on the scales, that one piece of guilt laden chocolate, the obvious culprit for piling on the extra 10 kilos or so.
What's a little more disheartening is when we were youthful, wearing skin that fitted snuggly and when our face hadn't become a cartographer's dilemna, if jeans didn't quite make the journey across the hips, a quick dance around the room ensured they'd be able to complete their journey.
Not any more.
No, as age has pounded the body and pressed excess baggage where it never belonged or could possibly fit before, it has also sets the metabolic rate to self-destruct. Now, we no longer lose weight to flaunt our bodies in a bikini but it is more as a pay-it-forward kindness to our pallbearers. Who wants to think you may have helped to cause a back injury as you were on the meander off your mortal coil? Who wants to leave that sort of legacy? Remembrance can be a fine thing, as long as the memories are not only activated by a visit to the physiotherapist.
Yes, there is the notebook lying beside the keyboard. It records my dietary entries, every crumb, every slurp. It doesn't make interesting or happy reading (well, not for the chicken anyway). It will only be a month or so till it resembles a War and Peace tombe.
And then in some faraway country children are mere bags of bones, and in neighbourhoods not so far away, children will not have any breakfast. How can the calories we deplore so much be deployed to those in need of them?
I wonder.
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