My son compliments me a lot. Enthusiastically and relentlessly, sometimes, since he tends to perseverate in all things to the point of shut up now, thanks.
A few weeks ago, as he does a lot, he went on and on about how trim I was looking, lean and fit.
This is true, of course.
And, obviously, all of his life he lived with Fat Dad, so this is new and exciting. And nice, with the above exception.
But recently I’ve felt like an insult waiting to happen, that is:
Your momma is so fat…
(I am momma for the purposes of this)
Your momma is so fat that she lost 30% of her body weight and still maintains a Body Mass Index slightly above 25.
YOU HAVE TO HAVE A SENSE OF HUMOR, PEOPLE.
The point being that I have room to move, southerly speaking. If you just look at the highly problematic BMI chart, I could actually weigh 135 pounds before I was statistically underweight.
I would not reach 135 pounds, since my family would have done a Caloric Intervention long before that, but you see my point. It probably wouldn’t hurt to lose a few more pounds.
And, as I wrote a while back, that elevated blood sugar level from my recent physical has nagged at me. Prediabetic? Your momma.
Maybe it was an aberration, and maybe I’m a little paranoid lately (I am, and with good reason), but I decided that it was a waste of a brand-new year to spend 365 days without losing a little, so I decided to pay attention and make changes. Minor changes. Nothing serious. Even 2 pounds a month over the course of a year adds up (to 24; I have a calculator).
So my scale this morning informed me that I’ve lost 22 pounds since January 1. My scale is free to say whatever it wants, of course. I happen to believe that weighing myself on New Year’s Day morning only tells me what I ate on New Year’s Eve, so I lop off 5 pounds right away.
Still, given my state of mind, and despite honest efforts to keep indulgence to a minimum and continue daily exercise, it seems a bit much.
Which only fuels my paranoia. So now I think I’m dying of a prediabetic fat-dissolving parasitic malignancy, but I try not to let it interfere with having a good time.
What is really going on, I suspect, is that a year and a half of daily, reasonably vigorous exercise has tuned up my metabolism. Works for me, and furthers my goal of achieving Viggo status before long.
(Viggo Mortensen, age 50)
(Me, age 50)
I know, I know. Like we were separated at birth. Weird.
So I only worry a little, and mostly I’m grateful, and even for John with his odd compliments. As the other day, mentioned above, when he went on and on at how great I looked, and then topped himself:
“It’s as if someone Photoshopped an old guy’s head onto a young guy’s body.”
Viggohood awaits anyway. Since goals are good.