The script for the next half-century

I’ve just come from the doctor’s office and the first “Well Woman” check-up of my 50s, having reached that inaugural aging mountain last October.
And while I don’t believe “it’s all downhill from here,” it would appear that if I want the grass to stay green on this side of the fence, the days of casual indifference to health issues must take leave on the night train bound for the past.
Medical statistics dictate that once you hit the half-century mark, your reasons for “kicking the bucket” depend more on the diseases in the bucket than you tripping over the bucket and meeting an untimely end due to the accidental fall.
This tidbit of information was a huge eye-opener for someone like me, who has no intention on cutting short her Earth visit over the next 50 years.
“Well Woman” changes are then a must—including to my usual after-supper menu of three cups of bold “Caldwell” coffee, four chocolates, and three slices of the blackened carcinogens of over-cooked pork roast that I’d forgotten to take out of the oven because I was slouched over the Internet.
In other words, now I really should be drinking green tea and plenty of water, eating more blueberries, wild Alaskan salmon, broccoli, almonds, and walnuts.
And exercising more than the effort it takes to lift my tired carcass onto the couch after a long day at my office desk.
Yes, body mass index reducing exercise.
Perhaps the biggest surprise of the “Well Woman” doctor visit was learning that for the last 35 years, I’ve been living the lie of being taller than I actually am. Alas, the jig is up. Somebody turn off the sirens and warning lights.
The reality check of being even shorter than I thought I was means my height/weight ratio has catapulted me into the red zone on the BMI scale.
Suddenly, “Buddha” no longer is the unsung hero of my child-bearing days, but the target for every shape-shifting exercise and weight loss plan I can find.
The question remains, will I put myself to the task? I am the one student who in high school waited until the night before to study for exams—and it wasn’t because I was gifted with scorching intelligence.
I’ll readily admit I could be a poster child for procrastination. In a former life, I’m sure I was the Greek goddess “Akrasia,” who knew what she ought to do but didn’t do it.
I continue to be challenged by self-regulation failure and when it comes to balancing my love of food and the “Despicable Me” who rears her ugly head at the thought of exercising on purpose, my inability to avoid or stop undesirable behaviour needs to go to rehab.
Yet, while I may drag my feet too much in some areas of my life, I do not do that with my desire to lead an honest living. And yet, as I have come to realize, even honesty doesn’t always pay.
Or at least it doesn’t pay me.
Like a good citizen, I wrote the taxman to advise of my marital status change to “separated” and they acknowledged my truthfulness with a bill for $465. Go figure.
My honesty also dictates that I ask the burning question that faces me as I pull a homemade pizza out of the oven. If I live alone, does that mean I can eat the whole pizza by myself without feeling guilty?
Bon appétit!

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