I miss my metabolism. It's still there, I suppose, but you wouldn't know it. Not from the efforts I make each day to remember what I'm having for dinner before I have lunch.
Back in the day I was a legend. Friends and countrymen used to gather to watch me feed my elastic, bottomless gut. Many nights I would inhale an entire pizza at midnight, top it off with a smidgen of Jamoca Almond Fudge and fall asleep within the hour.
Today that combination would give me night sweats and bed spins.
I was a fat kid until age ten or so. Then I grew (7 inches in two years) and proceeded to munch on those who picked on me. By eighth grade I towered over my classmates. They caught up just as I hit my caloric prime.
In high school I was an athlete so, you know, I needed massive amounts of grub. I was active so I wasn't fat, plus I had this supersonic metabolism and would snatch food like a Venus Fly Trap. I plowed my way into my 20's and early 30's without a care about my weight. I remember going to lunch with a colleague and heading to the bathroom only to have a bus boy bring an extra chair out for our imaginary, hungry friend. "I thought you were expecting another," he said with a sheepish grin. No that extra entree is for me, thank you very much.
But those days are gone. The day I turned 40 my metabolism came to a screeching halt. It's gone, along with some hair (which I'm convinced jumped from the crown of my head to my ears) and the ability to consume anything after 5 p.m. Mind you I don't go to sleep early. Somehow aging means I eat less and sleep less. These days I sit down with my low fat, low carb munchies, stare at the kids and realize I'm this close to strained prunes and a round of canasta.
Oh ye metabolism, where have you gone? I yearn for the good old days.
This post is part of the ChicagoNow Blogapalooz hour, where bloggers are given a topic with one hour to complete and publish. You can read the entire collection of posts by clicking here.
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