I’m thinking about my body and my age more often now than before. Let’s say three years ago. I would have been confined in bed, in a hospital for a week but afterwards you’ll find me biking in the woods or going on a trip as if I’m a twenty-year old. I think it’s the bathroom mirror or any mirror for that matter. Every time I see the extra pounds around my belly I start thinking about my father and uncles (in my father’s side).
My father died of a stroke (or complications of a stroke). He died 2004 at the age of 73. Uncle Rolly (my godfather and cousin really) died on a bike of a heart attack apparently. Both men have round full bellies. My father tried to lose some pounds all his life and exercised regularly. He’s more fit than the average sixty-something. The stroke had to try three times to win over him.
I’m 44 years old. I will be 44 a week from now. My father had his first stroke at 52 when I was in High school. My mother sat beside the bed with red eyes and this worried smile. Mom is at least 10 years younger than Dad.
This layer of fat around my midsection makes me a member of a club which predicts with uncanny accuracy how I’m going to go and when. My march to overweight person started when I started to put my own money in my pocket. I can afford to eat out, I eat out.