Being happy makes me fat

When I was slim and single I was also miserable.  Depression, my closest friend, urged me to seek out projects in which I could immerse myself.  Bathed in denial, at least I felt unmistakably needed.

Meals and snacks were forsaken.   Unwanted pounds were zapped away like flies against a taser.  Self-esteem increased as clothing sizes decreased.  Confidence blossomed with every compliment on my figure.  I became a person who was easy to like because I liked myself.

Now that I’m happily married the pounds return like stink-bugs in autumn.

And it’s depressing.

Being happy means I don’t work late.  So I’m less physically active.  Being happy means I don’t worry about wearing contacts, doing my hair and putting on makeup every day.  So I’m less physically attractive.  Being happy means I don’t have to dine alone, but sharing a bottle of wine and a three-course meal comes at a high-caloric price.  So I gain weight.  And that makes me unhappy.

There must be a point of mathematical stability wherein happiness and weight peacefully coexist.

If H*75%=W*1.25 then…

Roughly translated, this means I can avoid becoming excessively overweight as long as I am somewhat less than perfectly happy.

I won’t say it’s an ideal equation, but it’s cheaper than a gym membership and psychotherapy.

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5 thoughts on “Being happy makes me fat

  1. Pingback: Being happy makes me fat | adistractedwriter

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