The Folly of New Year’s Resolutions

If you’re still feeling as stuffed as the Christmas goose, it’s time to talk turkey. Most women in my age bracket gain weight whether we eat a carrot or a seven-course meal. It’s just an unalterable fact of growing older. Sure, I know there are some lucky gals who remain slim and trim throughout their lives, but they’re in the minority. So chin up, ladies, we’re all in this kettle of fish together. I keep thinking I’m forty years younger than I am. I don’t feel old. I don’t dress in polyester pantsuits. I don’t have blue hair. I don’t wear housedresses or bib aprons like Mom did. I don’t own a purse that snaps when I close it. There is no fur encircling the top of my snowboots or the collar of my winter coat. I don’t have a bridge, an implant, or a set of choppers other than my own. I don’t feel old until I pass by a mirror.

Most of us threw out our full-length mirrors when things started heading south. Now we take a quick glance in the bathroom mirror when we comb our hair or put on some makeup in hopes it will cover an assortment of colorful spots that appear out of nowhere. Makeup does little to hide them, but making the attempt boosts our morale. We pluck a few wayward white eyebrows and maybe even a few pesky hairs sprouting from you know where. We dab on a little rouge, run a powder puff over our face, and get out the magnifying glass to find our lips.

Before we leave the house, we take one final look. The mirror tells us we’re presentable because we only see our face. The rest of our person is hidden from view and that’s nothing short of a blessing. For those of us who were always thin, seeing our hips spreading across our frame like butter spreading across a slice of warm toast is enough to discourage us from taking one step beyond our own threshold. It isn’t vanity that makes us cringe at our appearance and yearn for the good old days of our youth. It’s something entirely different. It’s a feeling of total and complete hopelessness.

It’s a terrible thing to lose hope. Without it, we are forced to face the inevitable. We will never again be thin. We’ll never squeeze into anything smaller than a size 1X. We must be willing to accept what we cannot change. I do not care what all the ads say about weight loss. Once we hit a certain age, it’s a losing battle and we might as well admit it. We must train ourselves to look past the chocolate cake sitting on the counter and begging us to eat the last slice. We must leave the pistachios and mints in the candy dish. We must make a firm decision to honor the resolution we made on January 1.

Never again will we order a strawberry shake from McDonald’s because never again will we stop at a fast food restaurant. The tasty thin crust pizza we were so fond of will go the way of the milkshake. We don’t care when the Dairy Queen opens in the spring, because a hot fudge sundae is a treat of the past. For the remainder of our lives, we’re doomed to a plate of uninspiring greens wilting before our eyes. We’ll devour radishes by the pound and celery stalks by the dozen. We’ll crunch our way through bowls of broccoli, cauliflower, and popcorn as dry as kindling.

But wait a minute. Is it really so bad to be old and gain weight just thinking about food? Any kind of food. It doesn’t have to be crammed full of calories. I put on weight merely by drinking water. If the plain liquid from the tap in my kitchen has become my enemy, what chance do I have when it comes to eating a meal, even one made of quinoa and green beans? None, that’s what. No chance whatsoever. So why am I concerned about my appearance? Why am I worried what folks will say about my new exterior? Could it be that