Thoughts at fifty down…

The internet is chock full of sites about weight loss, exercise, and healthy eating. You don’t need to worry about this turning into one of them. Everyone wants to tell you about their “weight loss journey,” or how happy they are, or how it’s been the most wonderfully transformational experience of their life.

Yeah. I’m definitely not one of them.

As of late last week, I’m down 50 pounds. My reasons have nothing to do with looking better or giving much of a damn about having transformational experiences. My sole motivator is doing whatever is advisable to keep my heart from attempting to race out of my chest for no apparent reason while I’m sitting in the living room watching television on a random Wednesday night. Full stop. If we arrive at a final diagnosis that doesn’t include weight as a contributing factor, you can rest assured that I’ll go on a burrito, and cheesesteak, and lasagna eating binge the likes of which the world has never seen.

The simple truth is, I don’t feel any better. I don’t feel more energetic. I certainly don’t feel “transformed.” What I do feel is just about constantly hungry. I also feel mad as hell that recipes I spent 20 years perfecting are now in the ash heap because the “appropriate serving size to stay within your caloric goals” is a 2-inch by 2-inch square or 1/2 of a cup. 

If you happened to think my mood was a bit surly before, well, this new, lighter Jeff is just wandering around looking for a reason to pick a fight. 

Look, if you’re one of the people who gets thrilled and excited by this sort of thing, more power to you. I’m envious. For me, it’s more an experience to be endured while I ponder if what I’ve given up is worth the few extra unpromised miles I may or may not tag on the end of the trip. 

In time, maybe I’ll get to acceptance… but just now, I’m perfectly happy to sit here stoking the low-grade rage.