How Very Stupid of Me

Just a few days past my 70th birthday, (one of which is too mindful of my days),  thinking clearer that ever, finds great disappointment in myself.  Oh, I have been here before amazed at how weak and ridiculous an “old fat man” can be.  I am not belittling myself.  I merely tell it like it is.

There are excuses that are legitimate but at seventy when a distinct, harmful feeling can not be controlled and one that has been a lifelong irritant should be addressed harshly.   Yet, this uncontrolled reality easily slips away to prey again on my actions.  It is, if you believe such things, that the devil, as in “the devil made me do it,”was the catalyst, then I need to say I don’t think so.

It is the same old thing.  The older the “old, fat man” gets. the less logical thought he has and the weaker he acts.  There is simply no control.   I go away for my birthday and eat without any conscious.   No conscious, but there was plenty of awareness.

I should have been more aware that in twenty-two days I am to have a knee replacement.  It would have been great if I didn’t gain a single pound, even better if I had lost a couple of pounds.  It is not good when I eat and gain too much weight and not be able to stop this frenzy.  And now as I go home tomorrow I can only try to stay on the second floor, stay out of the kitchen and hope that a few pounds can melt away.

I repeat, “How very stupid of me!”



Something About FAT!!


There is something about fat, specifically the fat padding every part of my body, which continually becomes more!  Two nights ago after having dinner I caught an unsightly reflection in the restaurant window.  It was me!  I have often been fat, lost weight, gained weight and lost the fat again during my many years of eating, but the person I saw in the reflection was a person that had gone way past the point of control.

I have no control.  The refrigerator beckons me  each hour–sometimes every  minute.  I go and eat something even if I have just had a nosh of  a calorie laden dish.

Yesterday, once again, I placed an order with Medifast.  I really detest the flavor and consistency of their food packages, yet if I can adhere half way to the plan I will lose enough to break my present pattern of eating, but there always is a price to pay.  The food packages are dehydrated and is laden with additives that are to sustain the nutrients you need when dieting.  The additives make the food taste slightly of old iron, a quality I have never acquired a hankering for and that cause my body to move into constant constipation.

Regardless, it is time to take the fat wrapped around my midriff, on my pork chops and in all the other places I have  stashed it and get rid of it.   I am sure once I lose the first leg of this journey I will be able to breathe much better.  Now, after my surgery, I feel the fat forcing me to breathe harder with every foot steps.

Yes, there is something about fat…...on me……….

  • it is disgusting
  • By allowing myself to binge and gain, the fat has gotten me to the look like a blimpy, walrus
  • When it finally leaves, in return for my negligence, I will be blessed with loose flab!

One day, far in the future, a  pill may correct a gene to stop obesity.

Most likely I will be dead.

 So for the rest of my days I will continue to say that “there is something about fat”!

Should I should i s h o u l —

Maybe, two months ago, I should have seen a grief conselor.  I had a premonition that if I didn’t I would feel the ramifications.  I think I was right.  Now, the affects of not doing so is beginning to show.

  • I have a terrible time sleeping.
  • I am not organized.
  • I am a blimp with no control over the binging.
  • I am in Phoenix and wish to be home.
  • Home, the safety of my Library is paramount to me.

Now, I wonder, what do I do.  I am only worried about my eating.  I have absolutely no self-will at this point.  In fact, I feel like I don’t give a damn.  At the same time, I also worry about what this fat midriff is doing to me.  I fear a heart attack.

I may fear a heart attack, but if I should get one then I prefer it to being massive, rather than having it bring me down, have me taken to a hospital and poked at endlessly.  That is torture to me.  I prefer that not be a reality.

Why, I hate hospital’s, I know what they can do and I can’t let that happen to me.  I can’t be there and be poked at looked at.  I was born the wy I am and because I hate the reality it makes me not want to be examined.  To many times I have been and I die a little each time.   I much prefer going to my grave without such untruthful poking!

Am I depressed.  It’s hard to say because usually I feel much differently when I am depressed.  Now I feel only to be in a la la land.  Thats it i just float through the environments and discussions I have.  Can’t seem to settle down and focus on what is beeing said.

I have to think all this out!