On the drive home -- what? You thought I'd walk? -- I started thinking about my weight.
I'm a completely healthy 53-year-old fat woman. My heart rate, blood pressure, blood sugar, cholesterol, and everything else are normal. During my last check-up, my doctor sent me to get my carotid arteries scanned. I'm blockage free. So far.
But here's an inescapable fact: There are no fat old people.
Find me a fat hundred-year-old, and I'll show you...well, nothing. Because there are no fat hundred-year-olds. If you're fat, you get to maybe 60, 65. A handful of fatties squeak through to 70. There may be one or two morbidly obese 80-year-olds. But nobody gets to a hundred while wheeling around 90 pounds of lardbutt.
My youngest child hasn't hit puberty yet. How great would it be if, when she got to my age, she still had a mom? Statistics don't lie: No matter how healthy I am at this moment, my 90 pounds of lardbutt are going to make the difference between an orphaned kid and an adult child with a healthy, independent mom able to take on grandparenting duties.
There's more. Is it possible my excess weight and my proclivity for falling on my can and breaking things are linked? Could it be that I keep throwing my back out because there's so darned much back to throw?
You know what? Maybe God shoved me down those stairs, so I'd join a gym six months later and be around for my kid when she grew up.
What? It coulda happened that way.
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