I was READY to be proud of my four decades on the face of the earth as well as the way my face and body still made me proud. I gladly shared my age with anyone and almost joyously renewed my driver’s license to reflect my new standing as one of the, “40 is the new 30” crowd.

Within five months, I was on five prescriptions and fit to be tied. Why, I ask, if I am willing to embrace this new decade, to celebrate it even, am I to be punished with new and weird afflictions, weird bodily changes and an EXTRA FORTY POUNDS in two years? Not fair. Not fair at all. I gave up for a year or so and now that I’ve finally decided to fight the good fight, I also have to fight the damage accrued during my, “giving up,” stage.

My bestest friend has a pretty decent theory. She says that she spent most of her life wishing she was the size she was 5 years ago, wishing she had smaller thighs, a midsection that was a bit flatter, etc. Now, she says, she plans to embrace whatever she is because in five years she’ll be high-wishin’ she had it. I think she’s on to something. What I wouldn’t give for the days when I could pull anything over my slim hips and HATE IT just because. To have to buy larger sized swimsuits because of my long torso rather than look for larger sized swimsuits because that’s all I can wrestle with and they have friggin’ skirts. Notice there are no pictures on this blog? I keep telling myself it’s because I’m a technological newbie. Truth is, if I posted pictures, you’d expect to see me in there somewhere.

I plan to keep battling this war I hadn’t planned on and I’m willing to accept small victories. But I think I’m going to place most of my concentration on being glad for the forty pounds I’m trying to lose rather than the fifty I’ll need to lose next year. In other words, I’m going to enjoy this fat yet wrinkly sickly body. The hell!!??