The Fat Chance Theory
It’s about that time of year when most people have given up on those New Year’s resolutions they so earnestly pledged while liquored up.
And the most common resolution? Lose weight.
Since I never make resolutions, I don’t have to worry about abandoning them. I do, however, have to worry about the 10 pounds I gained since I moved to the Pacific Northwest.
I’m not really sure what’s going on. Except I’m taking up more space than I did on the East Coast.
This is supposed to be a very health-conscious part of the country.
I’m conscious all right. Conscious that I need more comfortable yoga pants and looser tops to float around a few too many curves in not the right places.
And the 10 bonus West Coast pounds seem to be so much in love with me that they simply won’t let go. Think 10-pound psycho stalker. I would be flattered if I wasn’t so miffed, disgusted and desperate to get rid of the tiny, but surprisingly noticeable, creep.
What’s a dizzy blonde to do?
I tried fasting. But I don’t like fast things. I’m a take-it-slow-and-easy kind of gal.
I tried eating only fruits and veggies. But I’m vegan. That’s apparently what got me into trouble.
I tried a food diary. But apparently you have to log everything you eat. Every day. And evaluate it. I mean, seriously, who does that?
My guy got me a Fitbit for Christmas. Think about this for a moment. He got his OCD-ified partner a device that helps her obsess over shizzle like the number of steps per day (I’m averaging over 10,000 and if I’m not quite there, I march around the house until the thing buzzes telling me that I’m there), miles walked, heart rate and sleep quality, plus it has a food and water log.
The Fitbit is both my dream and nightmare strapped to my wrist.
Since Christmas, I’ve lost and gained the same two pounds. It’s a flipping Christmas miracle.
As I’ve been walking to make sure I get my 10,000-step per day minimum, I’ve been thinking.
I know. Never a good thing for me to do. But here goes.
I gain weight when I’m content. I lose weight when I’m either sick or distraught.
So my ten-pound persistent psycho stalker is a sign that I’m happy and that life is good. Too good.
Can life be too good?
Plus, the older we get, the harder it is to lose weight. It’s our bodies way to protect us from dying too quickly if we develop a debilitating illness or get kidnapped.
We’ll hang in there much longer if we can’t eat (or aren’t fed) because we have all these reserves at the ready on our hips, bellies and upper arms.
It’s called the “Fat Chance” theory. Don’t laugh. It’s a thing. It has to be, right?