Why Weight?
For a healthy and active 49 year-old guy who, according to an online body mass indicator, is in the 8th percentile of weight for American males my age, I certainly spend an inordinate amount of time thinking and worrying about how much I weigh.
I step onto a digital scale every morning and depending on whether I’ve gone up or down a few ounces from the morning before, I congratulate or castigate myself before stepping into the shower.
It’s not obvious to me why I’m so obsessed. While, in general, I do tend to feel a bit better when I’m lighter and I’m also able to go farther into certain yoga poses when I’ve got a bit less flesh on the bone, it’s not like I’m a fashion model or something whose livelihood depends on being as svelte as possible.
And it’s weird enough to make decisions about what to do, where to go, and sometimes even whom to hang out with based on how that’s going to affect my waistline. This is probably the kind of thinking that teenaged anorexic girls engage in. And I don’t even have the fun of freaking out my parents by doing so.
Sometimes I try to justify it by reference to those studies which indicate that reduced calorie consumption may make one live longer. I don’t think that’s the case, really; I just think it makes life SEEM longer.
Last night for dinner, I had lasagne, Caesar salad, and ice cream for dessert. Today, I’m a couple pounds heavier than yesterday—plus even more because my heart is heavy that I’m heavier.
The hell of it is, of course, that booze packs on the pounds more than anything else. So just when I most need a drink to dry my sorrows, I’m reluctant to do so. I guess this is the appeal of hard drugs; you know, “heroin chic,” and all.
Hmmm…maybe I should become a fashion model after all.
I step onto a digital scale every morning and depending on whether I’ve gone up or down a few ounces from the morning before, I congratulate or castigate myself before stepping into the shower.
It’s not obvious to me why I’m so obsessed. While, in general, I do tend to feel a bit better when I’m lighter and I’m also able to go farther into certain yoga poses when I’ve got a bit less flesh on the bone, it’s not like I’m a fashion model or something whose livelihood depends on being as svelte as possible.
And it’s weird enough to make decisions about what to do, where to go, and sometimes even whom to hang out with based on how that’s going to affect my waistline. This is probably the kind of thinking that teenaged anorexic girls engage in. And I don’t even have the fun of freaking out my parents by doing so.
Sometimes I try to justify it by reference to those studies which indicate that reduced calorie consumption may make one live longer. I don’t think that’s the case, really; I just think it makes life SEEM longer.
Last night for dinner, I had lasagne, Caesar salad, and ice cream for dessert. Today, I’m a couple pounds heavier than yesterday—plus even more because my heart is heavy that I’m heavier.
The hell of it is, of course, that booze packs on the pounds more than anything else. So just when I most need a drink to dry my sorrows, I’m reluctant to do so. I guess this is the appeal of hard drugs; you know, “heroin chic,” and all.
Hmmm…maybe I should become a fashion model after all.
posted by Professor Dave at 11:49 AM
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