Before I begin, I want to say that I have no problem with other people’s body size. If that is a life-choice, wonderful. I don’t think less of anyone because of their body shape. We all have our comfort zones.
This rant is ONLY about me. I am accustomed to looking a certain way. That image of myself ties in with a zillion neuron’s that connect to my sense of well-being.
Over the years, of course I have adjusted that comfort image a little. I weighed 98 pounds when I was first married at eighteen. I crept up to 110 and stayed there until a hysterectomy in my late thirties, when it shot up to 120. That’s where I stayed—until recently. I definitely don’t want to go back to 98 pounds, but 125 would be good. It will be perfect, in fact.
For centuries, or so it seems, I have been preaching from the food pulpit that diets don’t work. I still believe that, but as age creeps up on my A$$ and my metabolism goes equally south, I find myself in a dilemma. My life has taught me the valuable lesson of eating Real Food instead pretenders-of-food, for health and keeping the weight off, but now I see that sometimes it isn’t enough, especially for women of a certain ripeness.