Ageing Sucks - Part 1

I stood on our weighing scales and they groaned in pain.

“Great,” I thought. “Even the scales think I’m a fat bugger.”

I went downstairs with a heavy heart and according to the scales, a heavy body.

“I’ve put weight on, love.”

Mary looked up and gave me a suspicious look.

“There’s nothing wrong with you. Why are you weighing yourself?”

“I feel fat.”

She gave me the look reserved for children who’ve had too many Haribos.

“You’re fine. Stop worrying.”

But I do worry. It’s one of the things about ageing. Everything else starts to creak, wobble and break down. But my weight? I walked past Greggs yesterday and put on half a stone.

“I only have to look at a biscuit and I’ll put weight on.”

“We will go for a walk in a bit. You’ll feel better. Stop panicking about your weight. There’s more to life than that!”

So, I roamed around the house. Looking wistfully at my trainers. Dreaming of the time I used to be able to run. Every day. 

Mary caught me.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said. 

See, one of the other delights of ageing is: you start developing ailments. I’ve got something going on where my body’s upper management decides it’s time for me to have a lie-down. Whether I like it or not. Usually in inconvenient places, like the middle of Tesco.

I’m seeing a medical professional about it soon. 
But still, I wish I could get my trainers on. 

I stood back on the scales. They moaned again. Of course they did. 

“Get off those bloody scales!” I heard Mary shout. 

I got off. They probably sighed with relief.