I love four letter words, a lot. I could say the adoration stems from genetic predisposition, but a therapist once told me to own my shortcomings, I can only blame my Dad’s linguistic mentoring for so much. (Remember you love me, Tim.)
However, one quatro-letter-beauty I loathe, detest, hate beyond measure – Diet. Problem is, I’m a writer, and the one thing all prose-peddlers know is writing is an ass-widening profession. We sit. We snack. We spread.
Not long ago, two months to be precise, I got a wake-up call at my annual physical. In Doc’s lilting British accent, “You have enviable cholesterol and perfect blood pressure – despite being slightly chunky.” I love her tact, but I doubt the AMA categorizes fat-ass as slightly chunky. And with the pesky blood tests she discovered a little bonus: Rheumatoid Arthritis. Crap.
Not the end of the world, there are worse things, but I knew through binge Googling the only true way to proactively manage symptoms was a kick-up in exercise, and yes, significant diet changes. Damn.
I devised a three-prong attack:
One – Stop plotting sadistic trainer’s death and listen. Burpees, weight training and TRX (Totally Require X-Rays) do help!
Two – So long, Sugar. I’ll miss you, but fear thigh-friction while hiking in corduroy will spark forest fires.
Three – Good carbs in moderation. Brown rice is palatable, and not at all the edible cousin of the devil I presumed.
Fast forward to last week and Doc’s face after checking my latest weight and blood work.
Yep, that about sums it up, and Friday night, for the first time in ten years I was able to attend a wedding in a single-digit-size dress. Of course, in my blind excitement I forgot the directions.
Better late than never, good for wedding guests and lifestyle changes! Bring on health, happiness and the half-triathlon!