I’m fat. Well, I’m not Jabba the Hutt, blobby fat. There is so much more of me than there used to be. In fact, when I look at my high school pictures, I’m not entirely sure the photos are of me.
I’ve been on every diet there is. Yep, I loose a few pounds with diets and exercise programs. Apparently I don’t loose them well enough. The pounds hunt me down and find me—again and again. The most maddening thing is when I mention the word “diet” at home, my darlin’ Bruce automatically drops five pounds.
What makes women, mature women, fat, no matter how hard they try to take off weight? Is there some yet unidentified enzyme, protein, or hormone that older women produce which demands and requires us to store fat? Is fat production part of a basic survival technique thrust upon us by a quirk of nature?
What if my grown children, long since tired of my whinings about weight, abduct me and drag my fat self up to Alaska? There my kids would deposit me onto an ice—floe and shove me out into the ocean. I could live for a long time, they reason, on my abundant adipose tissue. In the event I encounter a Japanese ship in the middle of the Pacific, I could wave a banner saying, “I know how to cook blubber.” With such a find, the whaling vessel would have no choice but to take me aboard. The sailors should be tired of whale sushi anyway, and ready for some hot meals. Eating blubber, for me, would have its drawbacks. After all, it is fat.
Isn’t there some way for women to loose wait and keep it off? I wonder.
[Stay tuned for Susan’s continued quest to abolish her unwanted fat.]