(Today, write about a loss. The twist: make this the first post in a three-post series.)
I was born into a family whose gene pool goes back to Jurassic Park, where the cave people stored up fat in their bodies for the long, lean winter. It would have been nice if they had adapted to becoming hunter-gatherers, feasting on roots and berries while the pounds melted off, but alas! It was not to be.
Instead, we just kept munching our way through the centuries, feasting on the fatted dinosaur, steer, pig and anything else that would replenish the calories we used up on the hunt. Roots and berries were fine for dessert, but certainly not for the main course.
Fast-forward from the land before time began to the 1950’s, and you’ll find my family having come through the Great Depression and World War II, not to mention Korea. People who survived the Depression looked on leanness as a sign of poverty. To show that you had recovered, you got nice and plump. A typical meal consisted of rich meat, mashed potatoes (plenty of butter and cream), gravy, corn or peas, a salad of some sort with lots and lots of high-calorie dressing, and of course DESSERT! Yay for whoever discovered dessert. Oh my. Cake holding up a thick layer of buttery frosting; all sorts of pie served with a generous dollop of whipped cream or a couple of scoops of ice cream; puddings, cookies, fruit cobblers and tarts and tortes and slumps and crunches. There are lots and lots of things you can do with fruit to make it very unhealthy.
The dinner hour (supper, if you came from the midwest) was a highlight of the day. It was family time, with wonderful food to glue us all together. The meal I’ve described already, the rich, satisfying, comfort-food meal, was considered very healthy. No one knew that we were on the verge of self-extinction, if you’re going to believe the food gurus and nutrition cops of today.
So. I’m only 5’1″ tall. At least, I used to be. Now my doctor tells me I’m 4’11”, which really just isn’t fair or kind. I’ve lost height. That’s loss number one. Why does it matter? Well, if you have to ask that I’m guessing it’s because you’re in the tall, lean gene pool and I just really don’t like you. It matters because the height/weight charts say I have to weigh less than I did two inches ago! I don’t know who on earth creates those charts. Probably someone from the lean mean gene pool.
Oh, I’ve lost weight. Lostgainedlostgainedlostgainedlostgained–are there any questions?
For the last few years, I’ve been doing serious battle with the dreadful A1C test, which has the sneaky propensity to look back three months and see how much sugar has developed a symbiotic relationship with one’s blood cells. The magic number is 7. If you stay below that, you’re considered pre-diabetic. If you stay below 6, you’re a very good girl. If you go over 7, however, you’re in deep weeds. You must lose weight. You must exercise. You must eat more healthy foods. You must give up everything that makes life worthwhile. I’m talking chocolate here, folks. Ice cream. Pot roast and gravy. Butter. The list is endless. As your blood sugar increases, so does your cholesterol, your triglycerides, and your blood pressure. You will die of yummy food overdose.
Bottome line, my A1C went to 8.2 over the winter. I knew it would increase. I had a lousy winter, health-wise. I caught a cold in January that turned into severe asthma. Because I had trouble getting a Medicare card (thank you Obamacare) I was uninsured for several months and could not get my meds. I didn’t sleep well. I didn’t exercise because I couldn’t breathe. It was awful. I gained weight, and everything just went to pot.
Finally got the Medicare issue resolved and my poor doctor is just now recovering from the hospital stay that was induced by my soaring negative statistics. Stress is literally a killer.
I’m kidding about my doctor, you know, but seriously, stress IS a killer. The work I do does not contribute to health. Sedentary and stressful. Not a good combination.
This whole weight issue started with my first pregnancy, and I went on to have three more babies. It’s not my fault. I wish.
So what’s my loss, as per this assignment? My svelte pre-pregnancy, petite size 8. Lost. Gone foerever, just like Clementine.
And I have no idea whatsoever what I’m going to say in Part 2 of this assignment. Should be interesting to see what happens next!