God almighty. So the gluten-free diet died a death after a few days. Beige food that tastes like a Cornflakes box and hard-bread alternatives that resemble beef jerky just ain't me. Likewise the wine instead of beer approach. I'd rather have a light beer occasionally rather than a bottle of wine that renders me comatose. Now if only I could stop impulse buying tortilla chips and family bars of Fruit and Nut chocolate, or, for that matter...eating anything resembling a sin, it would be great.
I'm at an age where every dietary mistake makes seeing my shoes less likely. If I race my bike I'm up against kids possessing the metabolisms of a rocket launcher. Their bodies haven't known stress, their minds are free of worries and they are as fresh as sushi. I on the other hand sometimes need a glass of wine to decompress. I have bills and kids and commitments. Food is often a Xanax alternative. I'm telling you...the odds are stacked.
Approaching fifty has left me with a few scars. A 32-inch waist is becoming a luxury. There's more grey-hair growth from my ears and nose than anywhere else. I'm beginning to grunt getting up from the sofa. 'Older' people seem to know my name. I could be a grandfather. I spend tea-breaks talking about aches and pains. I see problems as chores rather than challenges. I'd more easily unfriend rather than befriend. Actually, I must be a right old pain to be around.
So is it possible to reverse the effects of nature? No, but can't I keep on laughing, keep on pushing myself physically, try to fool myself into believing I'm younger than I am as long as possible? Some people are born being a forty-nine year old. Thankfully that has never been me. Damned if Spelt bread, couscous and mouse-shit flavoured Ryvita will change that either.
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