The Weight of the Matter
Last time I said I would unpack my high-stakes soul stuff. I’m going to start with the bane of my existence: my effing weight.
Most of my life I’ve been… you know… just over the limit. Not thin. Never completely comfortable in a swimming costume. I never really felt “fat,” but I also knew I wasn’t thin. In my twenties, I probably always had about 5kg to lose.
Enter the horrible ex-husband.
Yes, I have one of those. Mr. I-Have-No-Imagination had an affair with his very young secretary. Before I knew for sure—during that awful period of doubt, suspicion, fights, and emotional gore—I picked up so much weight that I skipped a size. Skipped it, I tell you.
When the troll eventually left me and confirmed my suspicions, I did shed most of the “his” weight. But I would still say I had about 6–7kg to lose. And that’s how it mostly stayed. I’d lose some, then pick it up again. You know the story.
The big life pause
Then came Covid. The “need to lose” became 9–10kg. And now Frau Menopause has kindly delivered an extra 5kg on top of that, in a bread basket wrapped in cheesecloth. So currently, I need to lose 15kg just to get myself under the BMI fat threshold.
If you can still fit into your school uniform, God bless you, but this post isn’t for you.
The rest of you know this story well. If you have 30 years of diet experience, you’ve got quite a few notches on your scale. After thirty years of diets — points, pods, hypnosis, willpower — I’ve learned this: they all work briefly, and then they all stop. The weight always creeps back—and brings friends.
Calorie counting, however, is probably the thing I’ve had the most success with. After all this time, though, it’s really hard to try again. I’m so scared of failing. Starting something and not seeing it through. But I also know that if I don’t do something now, I’m going to age badly. (And Mr. J is in such good condition.)
I had my children late (all Mr. J’s), and I want to be fit enough to still have good times with my grandchildren one day. So as the new year approached, the writing was on the wall. I am the fattest I have ever been, and my BMI is brushing up against obesity’s fat thigh. One more kilo and I’m there.
I read around. I was very tempted by the injections, but it seems you have to be on them almost for life—and financially, that’s just not an option for me. Now, I eat healthy food. I like vegetables and fruit. We try to eat vegetarian half the week. My problem isn’t what I eat—it’s how much. I graze. Emotional (and boredom) grazing.
Through our medical aid, I signed up for Second Nature. They sent a scale and a cookbook, and initially, I felt that familiar spark of “this time is the one.” But the recipes? Bland. So bland. It’s the same old drill: drink your water, say your prayers, never go to bed angry. They claim they don’t count calories, but they do—just clumsily.
I’ve decided to take their tools but bring my own wisdom. I’m upping their suggested 1,200 calories to 1,400 because I’m a grown woman with a family to feed and a life to live. I can cook a beautiful vegetarian meal for 500 calories that Mr. J and the kids will actually enjoy, so I’m going to screw the yawn of the official plan and trust my own experience. After thirty years of dieting, I’ve earned the right to be my own consultant.
But here is the real soul stuff: being back “on the wagon” at this age feels different. It’s not about the bikini anymore; it’s about the terrifying realisation that I am carrying the physical evidence of every stress, every hormone shift, and every bit of “emotional gore” I’ve survived. I’m not just fighting the 15kg; I’m fighting the fear that I’m losing the battle with my own aging body. So, I’m counting the calories and drinking the water, not because I believe in the magic of a new app, but because I’m trying to negotiate a peace treaty with the woman in the mirror.