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.