page_img_fast-foodI ate a cheeseburger, chicken tenders, french fries, and dessert, and I felt great! Phenomenal, in fact, and I followed it all up with umpteen alcoholic beverages and an all night dance-a-thon at my favorite club – without gaining an ounce. When? About thirty years ago, that’s when.

I can’t tell you exactly when it started to happen, but here it is: the inability to consume carbs without ballooning up to elastic waist proportions; the sluggish cholesterol-laden blood flow that won’t allow me to stay awake past 11 p.m.; the agonizing hangovers that last two days after consuming only small amounts of alcohol. Not to mention the scales that have got to be lying when I step, ever so daintily, onto them every
morning. Only a texting acronym is befitting of this new and unimproved version of myself: WTF?!

barbie-turns-50I used to think that “middle-aged spread” meant some kind of face cream that old women used before bed – or maybe a prune based condiment for toast. Nope. It’s actually a harsh reality that comes wrapped in snug dress pants and an expanding collection of Spanx.

Why couldn’t I be one of those women? You know, the ones that can still wear a size zero well into their 50s, or shop in the junior section and forget to eat. Forget to eat? I’ve forgotten to put on deodorant, but eat?! Uh, no.

aging-weightSo now I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore. Not going to take the doughnut, the Big Mac, the bacon, the key lime pie, the pizza, the onion rings, the sour cream or the chocolate chip cookie – for starters. Sad? No, because I’m also not going to take Crestor, Metoprolol or Insulin, if I have anything to do with it. Besides, I’m coming to terms with the fact that I’ve had my days of high metabolism, slim fits and all night parties. The time has come to embrace change (the change) and be the best that I can be for the next chapter instead of trying to linger on at the start of the book.

And one more thing that I won’t be taking? My dress pants to Goodwill. This ass is going to fit into my wardrobe again, if it kills me. Spread that, menopause!