… Losing Weight

“Can I help you at all, sir?”

“No thanks.  Just browsing.”

“But Sir, this is a Greggs.”

Much as I’m ashamed to admit it, the time has come for me to lose some weight.

Mrs Dr Brown pointed this out a little while ago.

“That’s a bit harsh.” I countered. “I weigh the same as Mo Farah and Usain Bolt.”

“No you don’t.  Mo Farah’s tiny!”

“No.  I weigh the same as Mo Farah AND Usain Bolt.”

“You’re not helping yourself.”

And it’s true.

Other than to seconds of trifle, I don’t really help myself.

I have been known to buy Chinese takeaways so massive they have set off the seat belt alarm on the passenger seat of my car on the way home.  I have tried to rectify this.  Not by buying any less, but by stealing prawn crackers to lighten the weight each time I get stuck at a red light.  And believe me at two prawn crackers a time that takes a lot of red lights. 

When I got home Mrs Dr Brown and the little Dr Browns complained the food was cold, but I explained I’d had to drive back via Aberdeen just to make the beeping stop.

Keen readers might remember I’ve started jogging and aside from the usual suspects (knees, lungs, motivation and attitude) there are there are a number of complications for joggers in the heavyweight division.  I’ve started to feel like I’m running wearing a wetsuit made of meat which is about half a size too large for me, so while I try to run forwards my back swings from side to side creating additional drag. 

I mean, come on!  How do you even get a fat back?

I don’t know.

Well, obviously I do know. I’m a GP. But I don’t like to admit it.  And so I’ll blame epigenetics; the subtle science of the expression of hidden genes in response to stimulus from the environment.  My genes look at me, upset, and point out they’d have had a sporting chance if that environment hadn’t been a chippy.

But the problem is that as you get older your weight inevitably creeps up.

I appreciate that’s not strictly true.

The problem actually is that as you get older, if you have a sedentary lifestyle, low willpower, a sweet tooth, and comfort eat your way through a stressful job, your weight inevitably creeps up.

So when my inner snob starts to judge people who struggle with their weight, the angel on my right shoulder (Mrs Dr Brown) brings me down to earth. 

The devil on my left shoulder struggles to respond because it has a mouthful of sausage roll.

“It’s disgraceful!  How do people let themselves get like that?”

“Well, they start off where you were, they get to where you are, and they go to where you’re going.”

“Well, they start off where you were, they get to where you are, and they go to where you’re going.”

Drat.

And there’s no hiding it either.  Gone are the days when I’d buy a sneaky snack as a reward for doing the big shop.  Did you know that 55 per cent of all pork pies sold by Tesco are eaten by dads in the carpark hoping to dispose of the evidence before driving home?

It’s like the cocktail sausage or spring roll popped in the mouth on the way back to your table from the buffet.  Like somehow unobserved calories don’t count?  If a tree falls in the middle of the night and nobody sees it, will it still go straight to your hips? 

Sorry. 

Not tree.

Kebab.

But I now have the evidence trail of the receipt going directly to Mrs Dr Brown’s mobile.  Which is at least a little more dignified than her previous method of weighing me before and after supermarket trips.

And so, folks, the next time you read one of these Dr Brown will indeed have got better.

A little bit less.  But a little bit better.

To be continued….