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Diet. No other word can bring to mind visions of carrot sticks, self-deprivation, and chocolate-less sadness.

Unfortunately, I’ve been a chubbette pretty much since birth. My mother gets a kick out of telling the story of how the pediatrician recommended I be taken off whole milk when I was an infant, because I was just that chunky. Geez, babies are supposed to be roly-poly, aren’t they? How fat does a newborn have to be for someone to put it on a diet? This inauspicious start was just the beginning of a lifelong struggle with weight.

I’ve lost and gained a stupid number of pounds over the years, and the older I get, the more disgruntled I feel about it. In the words of the ever-amusing Bridget Jones, aka author Helen Fielding:

“Why are bodies so difficult to manage? Why? ‘Oh, oh, look at me, I’m a body, I’m going to splurge fat unless you, like, STARVE yourself and go to undignified TORTURE CENTRES and don’t eat anything nice or get drunk.’ Hate diet. Is all fault of SOCIETY. Am just going to be old and fat and eat whatever I like and WHEEL MY FAT AROUND ON A TROLLEY.”

I’m right there with her, other than the wheeling fat around on a trolley part. That just sounds uncomfortable and inconvenient.

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