A Calorie for Every Word

I sit here and am still surprised at the blob that is my stomach. No living creature there, at least none that I know of. I continue to deny the simple thought that maybe I have grown fatter because of my age. Surely I am not eating more now than when I was leaner—well, except these past few days.

A month ago, I had been doings jumps for maybe more than two weeks, then my routine got disturbed, and here I am trying hard to get the urge back. The weather, visitors, travel, changes, many factors. And I would have been okay had I been able to resist the urge to look at recent pictures of myself at a friend's camera. Have I always looked so . . . big?

I have my angles, I console myself, but I am running out of those. I mean, a sphere is a sphere regardless of from which side you're looking on.

I then tell myself, perhaps, really, there's just more food around the circumstances I'm thrown into. I did say I like living in the city because of pizza delivery. Maybe I chose this. Did I know my choice would have led into me looking round-the-clock full?

Am I procrastinating again? I have new ten-day old running shoes. It, the right shoe, is not calling out to me. I will not give you images as bright as those. Immaculate, white mostly and blue, while the rain goes on outside with its almost-inconspicuous, steady pitter-patter (it actually sounds different, but it is widely known how arduous the task of accurately "wording" sounds is).

I might continue my jumps later, with the new shoes. I am looking forward to a promise of a feast come dinnertime, after all. (A) No food, no exercise. (B) With food, with exercise. I am an eater. I will have to be a B. Let me know when this comes up: (C) With food, no exercise. I'm almost catching my breath with just the thought—or maybe this is my body telling me I really need to get my ass moving again.