The Battle Of The Wobbly Bulge

There is no doubt that ageing has its benefits. Unfortunately, I’ve yet to discover the one where staying slim becomes easier.

I’ve reached the ripe young age of 61. I say “reached”, but it’s more like turning up somewhere unexpectedly and thinking, I don’t remember travelling here. Then you catch sight of yourself in the mirror and wonder, Who on earth is that lardy chap? Before realising, with a sigh, that it’s you.

People tell you plenty about getting older. They talk about wisdom, perspective and not caring what other people think. What they don’t mention is that one morning your body quietly decides it’s had enough of being cooperative and begins refusing to do all the things it managed perfectly well for decades.

I’m not one for moaning, but can someone explain why we suddenly start making strange noises every time we stand up? Or why reading anything smaller than a motorway sign now involves muttering, “Hang on… where are my glasses?”

Then there’s sleep. Or rather, the increasingly theoretical concept of sleep.

I still go to bed every night. Whether I actually sleep is another matter. If jerking and twitching like an electrified haddock counts as restful slumber, then I’m doing splendidly. Otherwise, daytime often feels like a lengthy wait until I can go back upstairs and try again.

But all of those are minor inconveniences. Let’s get to the really big one. Unfortunately, that’s exactly the problem.

Weight.

Everything else seems to sag, loosen or weaken with age. Knees complain. Shoulders grumble. Hair quietly packs its bags and leaves. Yet the midriff apparently receives entirely different instructions. It ignores gravity altogether and expands with the cheerful enthusiasm of a hot-air balloon.

There doesn’t seem to be any logic to it. Eat fruit? Doesn’t matter. Eat salad? Makes no difference.

Merely glance in the general direction of a slice of cake? Congratulations. You’ve somehow acquired another half a stone.

Ah yes, I hear you say.

Exercise, mate.

That’s the answer. Indeed it is. The only slight complication is that my body now seems to believe that anything faster than a brisk walk is against its union rules.

Curious, I decided to find out whether any of this was actually real or simply an elaborate conspiracy being conducted by my waistband.

It turns out there is some science behind it.

Apparently, we don’t age in one long, gentle decline. We do it in two rather dramatic bursts. The first arrives somewhere around our mid-forties, when our metabolism quietly hands in its notice and starts taking the occasional afternoon off. The second arrives around sixty and begins interfering with everything from our immune system to the way we process carbohydrates.

Which is a rather scientific way of saying that our bodies become spectacularly efficient at turning almost anything edible into decorative insulation.

For a while, I found that a little depressing. Then I realised I was looking at the wrong scoreboard.

Cancer. Done that. Still here.

Pulmonary embolisms caused by the cancer. Done those too. Still here.

A hereditary heart condition? Got one of those. Still upright. Still walking. Still laughing.

The more I thought about it, the more I realised this isn’t really about what I can’t do anymore. It’s about what I still can. So I’ve started jogging again. Very slowly.

Very, very slowly.

Years ago I ran half marathons, marathons and even ultramarathons. Those days have probably gone, and that’s perfectly alright. I’m not trying to become the man I was at forty. I’m simply trying to become a slightly healthier version of the man I am at sixty-one.

Tomorrow I’ll head out for another walk, interrupted every so often by something that vaguely resembles jogging. That’s how these things begin. One reluctant step at a time, while negotiating patiently with my body’s union representative.

And if you happen to see an out-of-breath, grey-haired bloke shuffling determinedly along the pavement, do give him a friendly wave.

It’ll almost certainly be me. After all, the Universe has spent the last 13.8 billion years expanding.

Mine, with a bit of luck, is about to start shrinking.