Officially overweight

Here it is.  News flash:  I am officially overweight.   Though it is not pounds that indicate the fact.  It is my BMI.  As of last year, I had no idea what that was.   But as of last week I knew enough to be aware that 26 can be a sobering, persuasive number.  After 7 days of alternating starvation and muscle fatigue, I’ve budged the scale three whole pounds, but the chart says BMI has remained constant.  I’m one square away from “normal” in both axis directions —x and y—weight and height. 

The value of each block is either 10 pounds or an inch; and though only one inch of vertical growth would nudge me into compliance, at my age the only viable option is to lose 10 pounds.

So, my only Black Friday purchase, the morning after a Thanksgiving feast rich in cranberry sauce and extravagant desserts, was a reduced price gym membership.   Walking forward, with my eyes straight ahead, I don’t usually have a good view of my body.  And this is a good thing.  It allows me to have self-esteem.   But in a gym the walls of the giant room with all the strengthening and reducing apparatus are made of glass.  You know, the kind of glass that has a coating on one side and reflects everything on the other side.  So BMI is in your face no matter where you look; and self-esteem belongs only to the women who are not wearing baggy t-shirts over their sports bras.

Monday night ski races begin next month and while I do believe that a few extra pounds might actually add propulsion to my downhill acceleration, I am willing to concede that right now, me in an aerodynamic, spandex race suit is not something anyone needs to see.  So, I’m back to the squats, the push-ups, the lunges and the treadmill.  The rollerblades have been dusted off and the dog is relishing longer walks at a zippier pace.  BMI be banished—Ski Season is approaching!