It’s the only thing on my mind and I have only myself to blame.
“You look so thin!” My friends and acquaintances say.
However, my family’s consensus is that “It seems to be all you talk about now”. And they aren’t wrong. So I am keeping it under control. Under wraps. Keeping it cool.
At first, it was a rallying cry. I would relish the chance to tell people how I did it. To the point where I had a script in my head of what I would tell people when they asked.
“No carbs, no sugar, no salt and thirty minutes of exercise every day,” is the short answer. “It’s simple, really. Change every single aspect of your life and the weight just melts off.”
I think I am doing good. I mean, I haven’t got any complaints and I am conscious of bringing it up. And because I am so aware, it’s a word I’m on the lookout for it, like some strange phonetic hunter waiting to kill it with a spear hurled with pinpoint accuracy.
Problem is, when they stopped asking, I missed the attention. And I found myself talking about it when no one had even brought it up. As if I should be the topic of every conversation. Very selfish of me, I know, but it’s true.
Suddenly, I see myself in a loincloth, face painted with letters written with a mixture of charcoal and mud in a comic sans font, brushing aside a long, hanging branch made from newsprint, in a jungle of books, magazines and novels of all shapes and sizes, holding a sharpened spear at the ready. My head snaps around in the direction of the word ‘thin’ and I hurl the spear before I can even see what I am aiming for. The word fades away and I tread carefully across the jungle floor, in search of my fallen prey.
“Thin gone,” my primitive self says, holding it by the ‘T’, the rest of the word hanging down like stacked text on the X axis of an Excel chart.
I shake it hard enough to ensure it’s dead.
Then, I hold it up to an imaginary camera with a big, toothy grin and say. “You want talk more about it?”
Yeah. I can get dramatic that way. So much for keeping it cool, eh?