Moobs, Identity, and a Quest for Fitness, not Fatness

The other morning, I had a wake-up call that was more shocking than my alarm clock. As I stepped out of the shower, I went through my usual routine of drying off, and usually, I'd glance at myself in the mirror. Now, let me clarify that I wasn't in the habit of admiring my reflection too often, because, well, I wasn't exactly thrilled with what I usually saw. But this particular morning, I got more than I bargained for.

Instead of seeing my familiar face, I was met with the unmistakable visage of Shrek staring back at me. I mean, come on! What on earth had happened? Where did I go wrong? This was utterly unacceptable. I had to wonder, what happened to the Adonis I used to imagine myself to be?

Okay, perhaps "Adonis" is a bit of a stretch, more like a distant cousin of Adonis, but you get the idea. I always thought of myself as average, certainly not overweight, and definitely not obese. Yet, there I was, looking like I had been hanging out in Shrek's swamp.

And then, to my horror, I noticed that I had moobs. Yes, moobs – those pesky man boobs. Questions flooded my mind. Was I devoid of testosterone in my dotage? What on earth was going on? This was not a good look, to say the least. Did I need to join the woke crowd and, in the name of diversity, insist on a new pronoun to fit with who I might have to identify with from this point on? You may call me they/them.

And where's the belly coming from? I'm not a beer drinker, after all.

I couldn't live with this. It was just last year that I embarked on that calorie-controlled diet. I was strict, meticulously counting my calories, and keeping them well under 1000 a day. I managed to shed 15 kilograms during that time. Considering I started at a hefty 107 kg, that was quite an accomplishment.

My clothes were fitting better, and I was even squeezing into XL-sized shirts on my way to sporting an L. I thought I had reached a comfortable point and eased up on my dietary discipline. I began to indulge in the occasional cake with my coffee, apple crumble with custard, and those sinful, yet delicious, chocolate digestive biscuits. The weight was sneaking back, but since my jeans were low-cut, I didn't notice any difference there.

Little did I realise that while the jeans were still cooperating, my belly above them was staging a silent coup. It was expanding, and I hadn't paid it much attention. That is, until I attempted to put on a pair of higher-cut pants and fasten the belt. There was no overlap – it simply couldn't be done.

So, there I was, staring at Shrek in the mirror, noticing my newfound moobs, and wondering about the mysterious belly that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. I realised it was time to revisit my trusty calorie control diet. It wasn't just about looking better; it was about feeling better too. I knew from experience that shedding those extra pounds meant more energy, less fatigue, and better overall health. It was an investment in my well-being and an attempt to add a few more years to my life.

I reminded myself that I could do it. It was time to get back on track, count those calories, and bid farewell to my unexpected Shrek transformation and those moobs. After all, I had no intentions of becoming a permanent resident of the swamp or redefining my pronouns just yet.