Fit at 40: How to Lose Weight and Other Stupid Questions by Walker Kornfeld
A few weeks ago, I was scanning my appointment summary after a routine checkup when I saw it at the bottom of the diagnoses list: Obesity.
The word itself somehow looked fat. It just sat there, immovable, right after “acid reflux” and “too old for cartoons but won’t admit it.”
How did it come to this?
What series of events has to lead me to this moment, to this portly noun mocking me from the safety of its righteous and awful truth?
How can I possibly be turning 40 in a few months?
I didn’t know. I didn’t have any answers, just more questions. Like that episode of Transformers where Bumblebee loses to Starscream.
I’ve never been accused of being anything resembling athletic. Or fat, for that matter. I’ve always tread that thin line between the two, at best achieving a “Meh, I guess he’ll do” shrug from the ladies. And that was fine by me. I was proud of that shrug. It made me feel good.
But somewhere along the way, something happened. Treading that line became more and more difficult. In my early 20s, I’d just eat salad for a few weeks and then go back to being awesome. And with a collar of the decidedly blue persuasion, I got all the exercise I needed at work, thank you very much. I was fully capable of maintaining a dad-bod long before the term was cool, and I was happy doing it. All was right with the world.
But now, as the big 4-0 inches ever closer like a fat vampire come to steal my youth, I realize that the days of two-week salads have been gone for quite some time. Looking back, I now see quite clearly the sad, empty craters of my failed attempts at a healthier lifestyle, pocking the landscape of my past like a moonscape made of cheese. Mmm, cheese . . .
Focus, fatty. Where was I? Failed attempts as far as I could see, right. They were everywhere. The crumpled gym membership cards that had died in my wallet, squeezed to death by countless fast food receipts. The many clothes hangers I had owned, and the realization that their original design was meant to be that of exercise equipment. The innumerable New Year’s resolutions that had passed my lips, only to be forgotten because they’re hard. And stupid. Just so, so stupid.
And perhaps the most painful of all, the realization that it’d been some years since I’d seen that shrug. That glorious, life-affirming shrug that always managed to just barely tip the scales in my favor. The only thing that’s really changed for the better is my collar has turned from blue to white, which is great—but that means I don’t even get the exercise from blue collar work anymore.
So the question becomes, what’s to be done? Can I become fit at 40? Or am I relegated to spending the next 40 years as I have the previous? Can a lifetime of habit, excuses, low expectations and no commitment be turned around? Or am I stuck here, a dude with a dad-bod but no kids to justify it?
Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m not one to wallow in self-pity unless there’s money involved. It’s time for a change!
Weight bench? Check. Exercise bike? Check. Lat machine? Check. I don’t know what a “lat” is, but I’m going to work the hell out of it. I’ve got greens in the fridge, a blender for shakes, and not a granule of sugar or ounce of processed food in the place.
But it can’t stop there. I need all the help I can get. What else? Supplements! All those fit, healthy bastards take supplements, don’t they? Doing their fancy para-cliff-biking and their board-mountain-kayaking and whatnot, they need supplements to be that active. And crazy.
That’s how I stumbled across the folks at https://elysiannaturals.com. I never noticed before, but apparently the internet is awash in supplements. Supplements for energy and focus, supplements for anxiety and depression, supplements for growing bigger . . . eggplants. There’s no end to the supplements, and I had no idea where to begin. But these guys seemed different. Straightforward folks selling quality stuff. So I ordered the lot, and now I’m ready.
Wish me luck. If you have any pointers, I’m all ears. Once I’ve got my six-pack abs, a clean bill of health, and sly smiles from the ladies, I’ll update you on my progress. Shouldn’t take me more than a couple weeks.
Walker Kornfeld is a freelance writer and editor in Northern New York. He enjoys ski-hang-rafting, cartoons, and is thinking about adopting a puppy. Drop him a line at https://www.watchwordwriting.com.