I had weighed nearly the same for decades. No matter what I ate, how much or how little I exercised, my weight didn’t fluctuate more than a pound or two. Even when middle age hit and my hormones went on permanent vacation, the needle on the scale stayed the same. I was satisfied with what it said.
Why, then, when middle age is a distant memory, has my body decided to sock away some extra pounds? I could understand if I were in my forties or fifties. But with seventy looming in three and a half years, I am crying, “Foul!”
If all the extra weight were evenly distributed, I could live with that. I could get new clothes and feel stylish. But the poundage has settled in one area: not north of the equator—which would be much appreciated—or south of the equator, but totally at the equator. If I buy new clothes to fit the equator, the rest of me will be swimming in them. I’ve taken to wearing my husband’s shirts to cover zero degrees latitude.
I used to look at other women’s bodies at the gym and pick one I wanted to model myself after. The young women leaving the body-sculpting boot camp class always inspired me. I’ve become more realistic lately. I look for women with more mature bodies and aim for that look.
Yesterday, in yoga class, I saw a woman with the perfect body for me. She was sleek and toned. However, she did have the slightest pooch to her stomach. Granted, she just had a baby. But, hey, I just had three children. A little while ago. It takes time to get back in shape.