When I was younger, I could eat anything I wanted. I could stuff my face full of donuts, cookies and pizza without my body betraying my lack of willpower to the world. I wish I had known then that the betrayal was just biding its time, waiting around the menopausal corner. Maybe I would have gotten my act together a little sooner. Now, after adding ten pounds in the last two years, I have to face the reality that others have had to deal with their whole lives - fattening food makes you fat.
It's not that I don't like broccoli. I do. I just like it better when it has a spoonful of hollandaise covering it. It's not that I don't appreciate a good salad. I do. My problem is in the definition of a good salad. Mine is mixed greens topped with goat cheese, walnuts, fruit (notice I didn't say croutons) and a generous ladle of Lou Malnati's sweet vinegarette. Most days I get through breakfast and lunch relatively unscathed. If I can talk myself out of heading to Big Apple for their cinnamon danish bagel, I've hit the home stretch without doing much damage. But come sunset, I'm in trouble. There's no way I'm plopping in front of the TV without a cup of tea and some nefarious waist buster. If I'm behaving myself, it'll be a few vanilla wafers or cinnamon graham crackers. If I'm not, . . . well, it gets ugly pretty darn quickly.
So, now I have some tough questions to ask. How much do I want it? How much do I want to rid myself of the muffin tops that pop over my jeans? Am I willing to do what it takes (for more than a day or two) to get myself in shape? So far, the spirit has been strong but the body has been weak. I don't remember exercise hurting this much. Could it have something to do with my rebellious joints? Or is the lure of that piece of chocolate cake just too strong? Hamlet had his questions. I have mine.
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