I used to scoff at the saying ‘nothing tastes as good as skinny feels’. Because NOTHING tastes as good as fried fowl, sweating in grease, gently twirled in a tub of chicken gravy. But, as my Teflon 20s turned into my tubby 30s, I knew the price paid for nuking veg in cheese and drinking two liters of coke a day was going to be far more costly if I didn’t get off my deluxe derriere to combat it.

Looking at me you wouldn’t think I’d weight to lose. Baggy clothes and my previous skinny frame cast my new robust physique in a more appealing light. But a topless session in the doctors exposed the rolls of flab that were usually saved for my beloved. “Your metabolism is slowing down and you’re doing nothing to combat it.”
Read the rest of this entry »