I’ve been seeking moments of bliss in my pandemic lifestyle. My go-to seems to be a combination of sedentary behavior and comfort found in food. I’m not entirely sacrificing my health. I still exercise daily and eat the necessary fiber and protein. But I think the window of self-pity needs to slam shut.
We supposedly live in an era of acceptance and tolerance, in which body shaming is unacceptable. But we also have adipose baggage from times prior to Covid. I feel sorry for recently married college freshmen. They’re simultaneously dealing with the “Married 10,” the “Freshman 15,” and the “Covid 20.” My gosh, the potential for gaining 45 pounds is real and upon us. And by the end of this seemingly endless sequestration I may be right on target if I’m not careful, having summited the first two peaks years ago. I guess this is the point at which I correctly state, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” But there is.
Obesity is unhealthy. It is correlated with type 2 diabetes, coronary artery disease, hypertension, stroke, gallbladder disease, sleep apnea, mental illness, many types of cancer, osteoarthritis, body pain and shortened life span. Not listed here are poor self-image, fatigue and a plethora of other daily epiphanies, some of which arise in the “mirror of truth” installed in clothing store changing rooms everywhere.
A BMI (Body Mass Index) of 30 or more qualifies you as obese. A recent visit to the doctor brought this home for me when my doctor rather incautiously said that my perfect chemistry and lipid panel results were “Excellent. But you don’t see many FAT 90 year olds.” And he wasn’t concerned with appearance. Thanks Doc. I guess I either need to lose weight or grow taller. (You can calculate your BMI here.)
I actually appreciate my current doctor’s candor. Jerk. I’ve gone through my life with primary care physicians who routinely weighed and tested me at my annual physical exam without once suggesting I diet or reduce weight. “See you in a year! Would you like a statin?” And of course I realize I’m dodging accountability in blaming them.
This reminds me of some advice I imparted to a personal trainer at a local health club a few years ago. The trainer’s name was Don. That’s his real name. It doesn’t matter. A few of you knew him. He was ripped. He was young and attractive, and he knew it. One evening after a general toning class that was much too vigorous for a person in their late fifties I slunk into the locker room with my tail between my legs, a perspirational approximation of a potato in a sweat suit, only to find Don flexing in front of a full length mirror. I paused and couldn’t help but admire his physique. He looked better than I did almost forty years earlier, but not much.
“How old are you, Don?” I asked.
He glanced away from the mirror, a bit irritated, as if he might miss something.
“Twenty-four,” he replied.
I took a few slow steps for dramatic effect, so that he might possibly take in my full sweaty splendor behind his image in the mirror, then said,
“One pound a year, Don. One pound a year, and you’re ME!”
It was hurtful, I know. But it was the truth, and I hope he took it to heart. The reality is, I can gain three pounds in a weekend! The fact that I have gained only one pound a year since I was Don-like is a testament to the GOOD behaviors I’ve demanded of myself over the decades. “This took work!” I like to say, when I search beyond my gut for my shoelaces.
So I briefly took Don on a ride down a dark street of dreams and left him standing at the corner of Revulsion and Horror. I didn’t charge him for the consultation. That’s more than I can say for him. Forty dollars per session? Be serious! I need that money for snacks!
😎
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