Okay, so I’m overweight. My doctor won’t let me forget it. Every time I see him, I am reminded to shed twenty pounds, in part because he’s lost fifty himself and is, therefore, extra zealous and cloyingly self-righteous, which makes his predictable sermons altogether too gleeful.
Tomorrow's Thanksgiving, a holiday given to stuffing. Don't I know it. Just last week, I heard a news report that said a bit of rubber tire wasn't all bad--might even be healthy. I'm sure I did.
But then, those first few steps out of bed in the morning are getting really noisy. Every joint has something to say, it seems, some of them painfully. Be better all over, I suppose, if I shed that weight.
I’m not, as they say, buff. I’d like to boast that my body shows the workouts I’ve taken for most of my life, but it doesn’t. Not really. Not at all.
But a couple days ago, walking home from work, I was somehow reminded that, hey, I’m healthy. And I am. And when ya’ got ya’ health, ya’ got just about everything. For that I’m thankful.
Hey!--why ruin a good holiday?