The word ‘paunch’ started ricocheting in my cranium like a lethal pinball. Unlike in a Stephen King novel however, it did not lead to my demise through radical dieting or going for a walk until my feet became stumps. Instead, I began a fierce shock-and-awe campaign of wearing looser shirts and sucking in my stomach. Oh, and some exercise.
I began a regime of crunches and core exercises that might have served as punishment in the Marine corps. For two weeks. Deep beneath the flabby surface, I knew there were abs straining to come out. I could literally feel them struggling to surface, like a hapless skier who has found that he is six feet under after triggering an avalanche.
I increased my running regime, which had been sagging of late. The usual reasons, too much content to catch up with on Netflix et al. And that most handy of excuses: birthday parties. Our family goes to a lot of them, many nephews and nieces with the audacity to celebrate their birthdays.
I then turned my discouraged eyes to my diet. (saved that for last, because being the least fun to deal with) I already have eradicated soft drinks from my diet. This gave me the notion that, with such a noble sacrifice, I might fill the gap with foods from the crunchy spectrum of the food triangle.
I am maintaining the running, which is my passion. Like an unwanted guest, the paunch is here to stay, despite my efforts to get it to leave. (putting on pyjamas is a great way to signify that the party is over, please leave)
Moral: Leave it to your mother, or little children, to give you the unalloyed truth. Accepting it? Another story.