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The jean factor
I always knew it!""It isn't my fault!""It started generations ago and I'm a mere victim! It was Grandfather - he was the one! I see him whenever I look in the mirror. That I cannot fit into my jeans is a problem that lies not in me but in my genes!"
I always knew it!""It isn't my fault!""It started generations ago and I'm a mere victim! It was Grandfather - he was the one! I see him whenever I look in the mirror. That I cannot fit into my jeans is a problem that lies not in me but in my genes!"
These were the various reactions of our group to the publication of a recent study that found that, indeed, the reason for obesity can be traced to a genetic variant.
All of us die-hard walkaholics, we meet in the morning and march or stroll our ten thousand steps, depending on our varying ages and stages of adiposity. You can recognise us gene carriers as we near.
Glassy determination in the eyes, with a desperation to convert the slightly tired wobble to a slim-legged stride, resulting in a cross between a heavy-footed waddle and a ship in full sail!
No more of that pretence! No more struggles to zip up the jeans that have mysteriously "shrunk!"
"FTO - that must be fat turn-over," one declared, still a trifle overweight despite the sincere and never-failing morning exertions. "I've always told you that being fat runs in my family!"
"I don't think so," murmurs the slimmest, the most petite of the group. She recalls her abstemious ways, thinking back on the many times she'd refused a second helping - or even a first - of those delectable treats, while all around her others piled their plates and pampered their palates.
Her silence spoke volumes as we continued to trudge around on our customary route. How could we, who tucked into our meals with greedy gusto while she picked at them, be so blind to our own responsibility and choose to blame MC4R, FTO, ghosts of generations past, and anyone but ourselves for the unsightly middle-age spread?
A lot of holding
For one who has been on the hamster wheel for four decades and more, striving, rarely succeeding, but managing with a lot of holding of breath and sucking in of the bulging middle not to change sizes more than once a decade, this is the ultimate release.
Let out that breath. Try a band of elastic around the waist instead of double-stitched and often-stitched buttons and hooks that could pop at any time. Slow down your pace to suit your age.
Let those pathetically pumping arms that are a danger to passers by drop back to your side. Forget imaginary punching bags in front of you, stop the very real dumbbells, the hypothetical skipping rope.
Never mind that ample band of flesh that jiggles as you wave to your friends to wait up for you. Be yourself. Your world, a large chunk of it, is getting to be a very well-fed place. Look the part.
No more abstinence! Remember all those gelatos and chocolate shakes, truffles and cheese cakes you shook your head to, while all around you the pencil slim, almost invisible in side view, carried home their treats indifferently? You stood there licking your lips in anticipation, trying hard to conceal the gleam of gluttony in your eyes.
Now you can point your plump fingers and ask for the treat to be packed, take it back to your extra large sofa at home and - enjoy!
You can even take a bite right there in the chocolaterie, savour it, let it linger on the lips, it's been a lifetime on the hips, in any case!
With a sigh of relief that brings a rush of oxygen to my brain, I release that long held breath. I feel the tightness of the garment, but let go of the panic that would have set in a few short weeks ago.
I twirl in front of the mirror and smile at the blimp that is twirling there, smiling back at me. Both of us are free at last. Free to attack the spread that awaits on the buffet table!
Cheryl Rao is a journalist based in India.
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