Today we went to breakfast with friends. I’d never been to this restaurant, and like to be reachable by my hubby on such occasions, so I took along my love handles.
According to my doctor (and she should know), before we get subcutaneous fat (under the skin) we already have visceral fat (in-between organs) and intramuscular fat.
The vote is in: I’m a whitey—inside and out. [Confidential to “Doctor Who” fans: the clinical name for body fat is …adipose!]
Wiki says the cause for my spare tire is a “net energy imbalance…related to the excessive consumption of fructose.” The nerve of these people: let’s leave the Fritos out of it, shall we?
[If you’re getting irritated at this blog, you only have yourself to blame: the title gave full disclosure.]
I don’t do enough square dancing to remove this muffin top, and cutting down on what’s causing this carb-gut isn’t doing the trick either. So I printed off a map depicting a 45-minute walk encompassing historical sites in my town. My plan is—every time I take this walk—to stop at one of the sites along the way. One of them is a candy store, MOO-haha!
As a caregiver to a loony old lady, the next part of the obesity article struck a chord: “…higher volumes of visceral fat…associated with…increased risk of dementia.” Heck with diabetes and heart disease; I’ve had enough crazy for one lifetime, thank you.
I’m brushing the dust off the treadmill, and—be warned, Mr. So-and-so House—built in 1822: Candy or not, here I come.