Trapped Fat, Covid Curse, or Ancestral Gift?

I got on the scale this morning, first time in a while, and OMG, it is time to do something drastic. I weigh more today than when I was pregnant, which was a long time ago because my youngest is nearly a half century. I have about three sizes worth of clothes in my closet, and if I don’t get my act together, I will have to add a fourth, and believe me, it’s not extra, extra small…but the other direction.

Some call it the quarantine fifteen or the Covid-19-19, but whatever it is, it’s ugly. My friend calls it “trapped fat,” and I’d like to un-trap it, but what to do?

There are thousands of weight loss plans, and I’ve used a bunch through the years. They all have their advantages and disadvantages and what works for one person doesn’t necessarily work for me. For me, exercise, calorie counting, carb counting, and drinking a lot of water all work, but the other side of the last one is that I spend an inordinate amount of time you know where.

I wear a Fitbit and keep track of my steps, aspiring to the recommended 10,000, which is now more difficult to do with our ominous and foreboding weather, including snow on the ground, not to mention soggy leaves and icy sidewalks and a mask that fogs up my glasses restricting my sight. I owned a treadmill for a while, but I gave it away because it made funny grinding noises and pops when I walked on it. I bought it secondhand and I think it was worn out when I got it and then I added a few hundred miles, before it gave up the ghost. I might have to buy another. My doctors advised me not to go to the gym because of the virus, so here I am, trying to figure out my fate.

I’d like to place the blame on my mother and grandmother and great-grandmother who blessed me with good German genes, allowing me to survive any famine, but I won’t do that…well, maybe a little bit. I can’t complain because those genes also gave me a work ethic, which allows me to work in the fields, drop a baby in the middle of a potato pasture, and keep on digging spuds.

The bottom line for me is that I need to place the blame precisely where it needs to be placed… on me, squarely between my ears and wrap my head around the dangers of trapped fat, Covid-19-19 or Quarantine Fifteen. Note to self: Get your act together. Stay tuned: I’ll get ‘er done!

(One more thing…let’s attack this virus: Wear a mask, please!)

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