There is a ritual tied into my basketball games. At the conclusion of play I take a moment to wipe the sweat off of my brow and then I head into the weight room for a brief workout.
My lifting is not what it used to be. In part that is because I don’t have enough time to play ball and lift weights. So as a compromise I have an abbreviated workout. Each day is ended with a stop in the steam room and some time in the jacuzzi. These stops are often punctuated with conversations with some of the boys about various topics.
This past week one of the conversations was with a gentleman who railed on and on how to eat right. He is 45 and determined to get into better shape. It is an admirable goal and one that I very much appreciate, yet I don’t think that I am going to have this conversation with him again.
See, I like to eat. I appreciate the joy and pleasure of a fine meal. A good steak, great sushi, some nice scotch or a fine bottle of wine are things that are pleasurable for me. But speaking to this fellow reminds me that there are some developments that are taking the joy out of eating.
I don’t like labels on food. I don’t want to know how many calories, how much fat or how many preservatives are in my food. I don’t want to turn my meals into events in which I need a slide rule and a compass to eat. I don’t want to use the quadratic equation to determine that I am eating too many calories.
The days in which I worried about these things are gone. I don’t need a mirror to see that I am thicker around the middle than I used to be. I don’t need a tape measure or a scale. I know what I need to do and more importantly I know how I feel. And I feel good.
It is time to enjoy eating again. And that is what I am going to do. As long as I continue to feel this way I see no reason to act otherwise. Life is too short to spend worrying about what could happen.