IN Other Words

by Becky Slatten

Fit or Fat

WITH CHRISTMAS all packed up and put away, it’s now time to usher in the not-so-merry-but-inevitable season of Weight Loss and Fitness! Yes, brace yourself for the back-to-back Weight Watchers, Pelaton and Nutrisystem commercials, which, of course, wouldn’t be complete without Marie Osmond with her hand on her hip. The onslaught of advertising for gym memberships, weight-loss systems and magic pills that melt fat are just punishment, I suppose, for all the fat, sugar, salt and carbs we consumed in November and December. But I, for one, am not sorry; it was all delicious, and I don’t regret one bite. In fact, I’d rather cut back on television commercials in January than cornbread dressing and apple pie during the holidays. One of my favorite memes (if you don’t know what a meme is, ask your kids) reads, “I wish I was as fat as I was the first time I thought I was fat.” I’m turning 60 in a few months (be advised that we’ll be discussing this at length in future issues), but somewhere in my mid-50s I found myself trapped in what can only be described as a fat onesie with the zipper in the back, just out of reach. Though I know it didn’t happen overnight, it still feels like it did, and now, no matter how much I deprive myself of my beloved carbs and regardless of how much I exercise, it’s all for naught. Well, 5 pounds maybe, but for all the effort I’ve expended, I think I deserve to be a size 2. Some would say less wine, fewer restaurants and twice the exercise would probably produce drastically better results, but I prefer my version of the story where I’ve done everything humanly possible to lose 20 pounds but nothing works. I fondly remember the ’80s, when we could just pop over to the K&B and score some diet pills (if you don’t know what diet pills are, ask your mom). Nothing like a little over-the-counter speed to help us drop a couple of dress sizes, right girls? It was fantastic. Now we’re forced to choose between diet and exercise or surgery and, let me tell you, the knife is looking good.

At the end of the day, I guess it comes down to priorities. As much as I’d like to get in shape, I’m not sure I’m ready to change my whole philosophy of life, which could arguably be summed up as, “Eat, drink and be merry”—which is also, ironically, how I got fat in the first place. It’s entirely possible that I’m just too old to adopt a radical new approach to life. “Sweat, starve and go to bed early” does not inspire me, but, then again, neither does my shrinking wardrobe; admittedly, I’m getting a little tired of wearing the same three outfits. That said, there is a third option worth weighing (no pun intended); since I’m already a grandmother, I could just let myself go and embrace that whole thing— you know, go grey and wear housecoats everywhere. I saw a grandma at Target the other day who looked like she just rolled out of bed, put her feet in her slippers and headed out into public to run her errands. As much as I envied her comfort level, since all my clothes are a little snug, I can honestly acknowledge that the day I cruise around town in pajama pants could very well be my tipping point.

So here we all are, once again, at our yearly crossroads: do we join the gym, or do we stock up on pajama pants? I heard somewhere that 60 is the new 50, but it could also easily be the new 70 if I go with the comfy housecoat. So I’m going to kick it up a notch, and I might even join a gym. I have to admit it, Marie Osmond is looking pretty good for someone over 60.