Nobody’s fault (but mine) …

Six months ago I weighed 5kg less than I do today, and I was fat then. I’ve noticed recently that tying my shoelaces makes me quite breathless – I think my engorged, swollen belly is so severely cramped in the downward-facing-lace-tying position that I restrict the oxygen supply to half my body. Tying laces has become hazardous business.

Six months ago I also had a resting heart rate of 59, whereas today it is 72. My heart is having to work harder to pump blood presumably because it’s getting weaker – a pump of my old ticker is like the trickle of wee from my old todger – pitiful and a shadow of its former self; two of my favourite organs, underperforming.

I’m getting a hairy back too, I know that because I can see them when I look in the mirror. It’s as though the hair follicles on my head are upping sticks and relocating further south – same amount of hair, just a different location. And as a relocating follicle you are not restricted to the back region by the way, you could also opt for my ears or my nostrils – all comers apparently welcome.

The first two (paragraphs) reflect something rather more serious, the third less so. My hair I can do little about, and other than vanity is of little consequence. Yes, I could maybe evict the migrant pubic travellers periodically with a waxy potion – their southerly migration will proceed unabated, of that I’m sure, but their progress can at least be curtailed. But to what end?

Whereas my heart health, well, I can do something about that should I choose, my weight too, these two are not unrelated of course. And of course I should do something. These darker miscreants are very much under my control, manifestations of my behaviour, self inflicted wounds and sure signs of a life lived non-too wisely for far too long.

Tomorrow, like you, I shall have a choice. I can either choose to continue my covidisolation (day 8) cloaked in familiar excuses, or I can face my challenges head on with a renewed vigour and focus. Getting old is shit, but getting old and fat is shitter. Time to disrobe from my excuses – Achilles’ tendons tear, loved ones die, viruses strike and hair heads south.

But organs don’t have to exponentially decay. Hearts can get stronger, diets can be controlled and drinks can be drunk responsibly. Life can be made better through careful and considered choice. It’s not like watching a football team where you watch and hope, of course bad luck can always strike anyone, but you can stack the health odds somewhat in your favour. And that’s achieved through participation, by actively doing, not by passively watching and hoping.