Weapon of Choice

So, I did it.  I went to a diet doctor - a fatty foe, a calorie crusher.  And guess what?  I was impressed with her, her staff, and her state of the art facility.  I spilled the high fat, refried beans about my life long struggle with genetics (Dad thin/Mom fat), and how I longed to take a shower with the light on.  She nodded, having heard all this before, then whipped out a glossy white sheet reflecting my fat stats.  Earlier in the meeting, she had poked, prodded, and penetrated me (with a needle, of course), and voila, the results of my life of excess emblazoned right there in Times New Roman.  The stats, mostly, were good - low blood pressure, optimal cholesterol, no diabetes, etc.  However, I couldn't take my eyes off of two numbers.  My BMI was 27.5 and my weight, a staggering 187lbs.  Equidistant between being overweight and obesity.  On the highway to Heifer Hell.   And to think I used to weight 135lbs and comfortably wore size 8 clothes.  I looked down at the roll of flab partially hidden by the oversized pullover I've worn 1000 times in the last 1000 days, and made a decision.  Stay tuned.....