Let me start by putting my podgy little hand up – the one not ferreting fervently through a big box of Belgian chocs, that is. Starting out positively sylph-like, I’ve reached a size 18 at the age of 56 solely through lack of discipline and love of pleasure.
I have no time for people (except those with proven medical conditions) who pretend that it is generally otherwise. Nevertheless, I’m not attached to my flab in any way but the most obvious. I despise the Righteous Fat. (The Righteous Thin are bad enough, all that running around, sweating and smelling, and somehow believing that it means something.) Though I could afford any amount of liposuction and gastric bands, I cling to my fat, impervious to the medically proven reasons why I should lose it through physical jerks and/or cosmetic works. I suspect that the (big) bottom line is that I’m just not convinced that a life with less fat would be more fun.
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