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WHAT I HATE MOST ABOUT AGING.

December 10, 2018

 

The Lump of Lard Below my Waistline.

 

It’s more commonly known as belly fat. Or, if you want to sound knowledgeable, visceral fat.

 

I swear it came out of nowhere.

 

As did its twin sisters. Comfortably ensconced on my sides. A little towards the back. Stretching from lower rib towards the top of my hip bones.

 

AND I HATE IT.

 

I was never a tiny person. Always sort of average. But I did have a waist. Once.

 

A fairly small one at twenty-four inches.

 

Now? I’m too proud to put the figure out there.

 

I don’t need sympathy, understanding, commiseration, explanation,

 

I NEED IT GONE!

 

I weigh less than I did in my twenties. What happened?
 

I read. I research.  What causes belly fat? Not to be confused with subcutaneous fat.

 

What to do! What to do!

 

  • Liposuction. Only works on subcutaneous fat. Might encourage visceral fat. Meh…

  • Freezing fat. This one looks promising.

  • Tummy tuck. Ouch. Also, my body has a nasty habit of rebelling when having a full anesthetic.

 

Website after website.

 

Study after study.

 

Pages couched in high-fallutin’ medical terms.

 

Throwing out percentages and averages and conclusions and more.

 

Everyone spinning the roulette wheel and at the end of the day, reaching the same conclusion.

 

The wheel stops on –

 

DIET AND EXERCISE.

 

And, I decided, diet being the most important. And not “diet,” but

 

BALANCED EATING.

 

When I whined to my Pilates Instructor, who also holds a degree in nutrition

 

(https://www.jennipilates.com/)  she said,

 

“You have to look at quality of life as well.”

 

Translate- “how much of what you enjoy are you prepared to give up?”

 

A step further the question became –

 

“If sacrificing your glass of wine would help flatten your belly, would you do it?”

 

Hell yes, but a cup of tea as a pre-dinner cocktail is not quite the same.

 

The whole eating/drinking thing came under a spotlight.

 

My husband loves that big evening meal with his cocktail beforehand and glass of wine with his meal.

 

The man does not carry an ounce of fat. Not even a suggestion of a beer belly.

 

It really is not fair.

 

And then there’s me. I loathe eating at night. I feel fat and frumpish when I do.

 

But it’s our “together” time. Who knows how many more years of “together time will be granted us?

 

As so often, I don’t have answers. Only questions.

 

Maybe I should look at what I most love about aging.

 

 

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