Fluffy is one of those words you want to hear when you are buying a pillow, squeezing a stuffed animal or perhaps describing your bedroom slippers. When you look up in the sky and observe “fluffy” clouds all seems right with the universe.
“Fluffy” as a body type is NOT good…period.
When you separate the goats from the sheep, “fluffy” would be the sheep.
This goat is now known as “Fluffy.” A term bandied around by my family, affectionately addressing my dissatisfaction with my middle-aged body shape as I struggle to remain fit and not succumb to my body’s urge to “fill out.” Those reading this who do not know me likely are not aware that weight was always a struggle for me. Although, in the last 25 years, no one could tell as my usual size was an 8 (in most things) regardless of having given birth nine times. (!!)
In my teenage years, I was always a little heavier than the average goat.
Fluffy…It started slowly. Suddenly what I was used to eating everyday was now causing me to gain weight. I was always blessed because normally my body reacts to stress by rapidly losing weight. Full time job, kids, pets …and, oh, yes… a husband…stress was my friend. Up until now this has been great…I never really had to think much about size beyond moderation of intake.
This new body of mine is clearly receiving its messages from the underworld. If I even look at something edible, the scale in my bathroom berates me the following morning where I learn I gained another half pound even though I skipped dinner. Even changed scales…sadly that did not help.
Running with the crowd I do, I am not exactly languishing around in the prone position more than perhaps 4. 5 hours per day (and that would be in the name of a night’s rest). Sure my 9-5 job is somewhat sedentary, but I have always made up for that with the Olympian effort required in housework staying on top of the brood I am raising. (Never one or two trips upstairs in a day…more like 20 trips). Not to mention the bath and bedtime hours in which I haul, lift, drag and carry a medley of toddlers, young kids and preteens to the bathtub with herculean force in the interests of household hygiene.
A while back, when my body first started to give indications that a revolt was on the horizon (as evidenced by a seemingly substantial matter accumulating under my skin from my neck down), I decided to take immediate action. I quickly registered at the local gym in the hopes that using those implements of torture would stave off my body’s sinister motives. Alas, not so easy especially when I became the poster child for EPIC treadmill FAIL.
(see post from April 19, 2012 https://gardengoatquote.wordpress.com/2012/04/19/cool-not-mom-versus-the-treadmill/)
In testing out what works for me, I have come to the conclusion that there are some demon foods that I just cannot eat. I have also discovered that I cannot hope to live to see tomorrow on a planet where chocolate is deemed contraband.
In my youth, if I skipped the odd meal, my efforts were rewarded by drastic weight loss…a few pounds in a day or two. Now the demon scale reads either the same number or adds a half pound. Forget weighing my food by the ounce (an old Weight-Watchers’ trick) I need an instrument that weighs me by the ounce so that I can appreciate and arrest the transformation before another “Fluffy” molecule is added to my carcass.
Husband is very supportive as he tells me to give away the clothes that are too small, get in the game and get some outfits in the “right size.” I quickly tell him that I do not want to reach my seventies with a closet that is out of “Goldilocks and The Three Bears” … containing sizing in small, medium and large.
I am now out of denial (first stage of fluffy) and hoping that 2014 will be the year I take charge of the subversive creep and stem the tide of “Fluffy.”
While others bravely struggle to keep their New Years’ Resolutions of weight loss and healthy eating I stubbornly continue to deny being on a diet while I try to secretly defeat and deflate “Fluffy.” Perhaps I should chronicle these non-diet adventures and force my subconscious into reality. An appropriate title for such scribbles might be “Enough of Fluff” or maybe “Fluff vs Buff” or better yet “Get tough on Fluff”…no doubt best sellers all of them.
My battle with “fluffy” still continues as I am sure it will until it is either augmented or replaced by the next chapter in my life …“Baggy” …oh.. I can hardly wait.
“Fluffy” (I hope NOT for too much longer!)
The Garden Goat