Crappy ankles = belly fat

The direct result of crappy ankles, in my opinion, is a bulging belly. I cannot get control of my belly except by artificial means. Like girdles. Or sweat pants. Or loose blouses.

Not walking, eating exactly the same amount, drinking wine on the weekends and the dreaded menopause equal weight gain. It's more than irritating.

I remember, was it in my 20s; maybe my 30s, when I could lie in the bathtub and my stomach wouldn't reach over the water line. Today, even if I fill the bathtub up to precipice heights, I can see a mound with a belly button on top.

I know people my age and older who eat only salads. Or nothing basically. And it's true, some of them are stick thin, but do they have any fun in life? I can't imagine how. When I look at a menu, I go straight for the fried food. Fried shrimp. Fried oysters. Now, I don't always choose those. But put a hamburger and fries (or tater tots!) beside a salad and decadence is going to win every time.

I've read Mark Bittman's books. I've even underlined in them. And cooked from them! But Mark Bittman is not my husband. My husband likes to eat as much as I do.

Now, in my defense, I exercise. I go to a gym. I used to do the elliptical machine for 30 minutes. But those days are over for now. I ride the recumbent bike for 45 to 60 minutes. And I do weights.

So I am not sitting around watching The Blacklist and eating hamburgers. Instead, I download it to my iPad and watch it while riding the bicycle at the gym.

Am I making excuses? Should I have more discipline? You decide. But keep it to yourself. I already have enough guilt and shame. (Also I love cheap penny candy [now 25 cents] and I need a haircut.)

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Photo by Stu Spivak | CC BY-SA