The weight world war

May 20, 2004

I read somewhere that the older you get, the tougher it is to lose weight because by then, your body and your fat are really good friends.

By Sanyu Kyagulanyi

I read somewhere that the older you get, the tougher it is to lose weight because by then, your body and your fat are really good friends.

That got me thinking. I am not alone out there. I have been on the dieting bandwagon ever since I can remember, approximately twenty years ago. My battle with weight loss should be listed as one of the world wars.

Just once, in my lifetime, I would like to be the slim, svelte, elegant babe sweeping down a grand staircase all eyes on my lithe form in a glamourous black designer gown. I will glide into a salon down below where I will delicately sip my cocktail while a maestro tinkles at the grand piano.

Reality check... not gonna happen. I am one of those people who have a pleasingly round rump, a beguiling plump shoulder and a stuffed breast.

I always have charming roll of flesh around my middle and any more such descriptions, I will start sounding like I should be trussed up and put in the oven at Gas mark 4 for one-and-a-half hours.

Serves me right! I was not always this way. But I have to think way back to conjure those memories way back in a time interspersed with one too many Bon Apetit chips to go, Sheraton club sandwiches.

Too many home cooked meals at my parents’ house with my mum standing over me with a wooden ladle lovingly spooning more luwombo mushroom-flavoured ground nut stew over my matooke, yams and cassava-laden plate.

Hey, a girl’s gotta do as her mum tells her to do. But the truth is I was damned if I was going to let all that lovely African food go to waste at my parents table.

Once upon a time, I was skinny, curvy, leggy chic with a human hair weave to die for. I had lovely clear skin and did not need to cleanse, tone and moisturise religiously every single night. I had no darkening shadows below my eyes and I certainly did not have any ounce of spare anything on my body, well apart from the weave.

Fast forward a couple of decades on and the swift passage of time has elicited a plump, pleasant body that is so high maintenance, I have single handedly kept Clinique and Clearasil in business for the last few years.

Not to mention the numerous diet book gurus that has become my daily companions. I have not touched a morsel of food in the last five years without mentally castigating myself and calculating its calorific value.

There I was sitting in my favourite saloon perusing the eight-month-old magazines on the waiting table when my eye caught an article about celebrities and what they do to lose weight. Aha, it was my turn to see how actors seem to gain and lose weight at a whim.

Take Renee Zellweger (Bridgette Jones’ diary) she put on several kilos to become a size 14 and acquired a British accent to steal the part on the movie.

At the movie premiere a few months later there she was, all trim and a shapely size eight. Now you must be into some serious dieting nirvana to pull this one off.

Catherine Zeta Joes, the young Mrs. Michael Douglas, had just pushed out her baby when she showed up for the Oscars, in shape. I couldn’t help feeling there was a conspiracy.

Am I destined to be on a yo-yo diet wagon for the rest of my life? Has science not yet invented a sleep-but-lose-weight program?

It does not matter how many aerobics classes I attend. I will huff and puff and shake the floor down but still coming out looking sweaty and fat.

I will walk up the stairs to my office, I will walk to the post office instead of driving from the Sheraton. I will only buy low fat food alternatives and skimmed milk, all in the name of weight loss.

I will eat fruits for snacks and fill my fridge with healthy snacks. I will only have diet drinks and sugar free decaffeinated tea and coffee, all for what?

Does this mean I would probably have been an amorphous woman who last saw her feet in 1983 had I not been doing all this?

What is the stars’ secret? They attend numerous parties and eat out more but come off looking like skinny bats. Where am I going wrong?

The last time I fantasised about being a Hollywood star was when I hit the stage at the Makerere Main Hall at a Lumbox show and strutted my stuff to the adoring campus hooligans? I was 20 and loving every second of the adulation.

Well, hello! I now have my very own fan club. All the kids that call me Mum and Auntie. They love being cuddled among my plump folds and I will not even get started on baby-daddy. This strikes me as a very comfortable balance. That will do for me right now.

I will hold on to the fruits and veggies. I will fry them in a little olive oil and I will stay away from the fizzy, sugary drinks.

I will go to the gym as soon as the kids get their holidays. I will turn my eyes away from the marinated porks chops. I will pack my lunch to work and abstain from ordering in a Salim rice pilau special.

Maybe, I will one day be back to that leggy curvy beauty but in the meantime, I will hold on to the my plump folds and ensure I do not turn into the Michelin man.

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