It’s only when we start to fag out that we realize the things we took for granted are the ones we don’t want to live without. – Roy Watkins
I’m starting May in an interesting place. In a couple of weeks, I head to Wales for a month-long stint as writer-in-residence at Stiwdio Maelor. I have my own cell, I mean, room on the outskirts of Snowdonia National Park.
I’m not worried about writing. Nope. I’m looking forward to losing myself in characters and their stories.
But after walking almost 500 miles two years ago, I have a tiny confession. Or a FATTY one. Constant work travel has expanded my waistline to grotesque proportions, because 1. I believe I never have time to exercise; and 2. I cannot resist an orgiastic food experience.
I’ve been promiscuous with food, Dear Reader. Lots and lots and LOTS of partners. Irresistible combinations. New positions. Every plate disrobed and sprawled before me, and I opened my mouth and moaned, “Yes! Yes! YES!”
When I tried to hike a couple of weeks ago, I was a pathetic version of my former self. Huffing. Panting. Woefully slow. My body isn’t too old to hike yet, but I’m not extending its useful life, am I?
And now I shall greet Snowdonia with my flabby midsection and atrophied muscles. I’m determined to hike each morning, though I suspect my first few outings will consist of me vomiting into the shrubbery and screeching, “Good God, WHAT have I done?!?”
Good stories a built of discipline. I’m determined to avoid the pub, shed some of my lard, and make some memories I can’t live without.
Do you have a fun weight loss tip, Dear Reader? Or more likely, a grueling one? Please leave it in a comment today.
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