Lifelong against the kilos

When I was still slim and fit (yes, I was once), I still found myself too chubby. In hindsight, I should have cherished that moment, taken a hundred thousand photos as evidence, and held on to that body. Being a foodie and non-sporty as I am, I mainly held on to the wines, cheese platters, speeding up my pace at the gym, and gratin over tasteless casseroles (the kitchen princess in me awoke much later). I am a bon vivant. A friend (the one from that faithful) once told me that I was made for Brabant's coziness, hospitality, and bon vivant nature.

Well, that nature has settled in, and how. Around the waist to be precise. Also some leftovers on the legs and a few grams on the upper arms. With an excess of cheese sticks, I anxiously keep my chin up to avoid being caught with a chubby fat ring on my neck. Exactly that and already twelve nagging years.

Now I can pinch myself with my beloved. He loves every ounce or gram more and always finds me the most beautiful. That's a luxury, but it also means you adjust to those extra kilos. They almost feel comfortable. Even though you do it for yourself and blah blah blah. That certainty makes you complacent. Aside from those times in the fitting room when you are confronted with the harsh truth, like: you need a size bigger. That is a bit less easy.

Four years ago, I was fed up. After a failed attempt to quit smoking, I gained ten kilos and that had to come off. I fell back on a range of soups, nibbled on celery sticks, and walked at least an hour every evening (walking is the new thing, here the proof). In the morning, I meditated for about ten minutes before jumping on my spinning bike to pedal away for ten minutes. Fifteen kilos, gone. In a year. Five-ten. Oh, I wasn't thin, because that's a utopia with my build. But I was in shape. And with a new wardrobe richer, because everything sagged from the butt. Good excuse.

It's two years later and let me sketch the current situation. Mi-ni-mally five kilos up. Maybe more, but I dare not step on that scale. The switch is far from on. I want to, but I don't do it. The Viognier tasted extremely good to me again yesterday, just like that accompanying cheese. And I won't even tell you about that sneaky bitter garnish with my white Vedett on Sunday. It's hopeless. So hopeless that I wanted to type again that I really want to, but I don't do it. And you know what the danger is of repetition: you remember that. I want it so badly that I get excited about stories about sports. Weiiiiird.

You know what it is? It just is. I have several kilos of coziness because this is who I am. Nine times I don't care at all, and the tenth time that care is a bit too present for me. That doesn't mean I nestle in that knowledge, because you have to keep a bit busy. Only this time I promise nothing and set no goals, because I only get punished by correcting looks when I treat myself to a delicious hambo. I do it in a Harry Potter way: suddenly it just is. And you can count on one thing, that a few years later it will just be like that again but then the other way around. Ha.