Forty the New Thirty?

I had the thrill of turning 40 a couple weekends ago and I am here to say that 40 is the number after 39. I don’t feel any different or any younger that is for damn sure. The knees still ache and the ass is still heading south. When did my jaw line start to resemble a basset hound? Isn’t there a law that you are supposed to receive a memo or something when you start to sag? You know the guys from Extreme Ass Makeover show up at your door like Publishers Clearing House and say, “Darling, you are not defying gravity. You must get it together before you look like Jabba the Hut, honey.”
Yes, I have seen myself in a mirror. Wonderful thing about a delusional mind is that you see what you want to see. I know that I am storing extra pounds in most available compartments. I know that my hormones are making hair where it shouldn’t and graying hair where it needn’t but one word for you, denial. Pluck and Deny.
China will be the new weight loss gold mine. I assure you. The food is not so great most of the time – when it is good you don’t eat as much because your stomach has shrunk and you wonder how your body is going to react in several hours. You take it easy and don’t eat like you do in the US. You get an extra heaping of exercise. I have no car, just my little scooter. You park and you walk, a lot. Up and down stairs, you carry everything you buy or need like a pack mule going through the Grand Canyon. So stretch, bend, lift and walk. Walk, walk, walk.

My goal is to stay like the Basset and not end up looking like a Shar Pei.