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Roger Rabbits with |
I’m living in fear of sarcopenia. Sounds like a Sicilian Mafioso hitman. Scarface Sarcopenia: “You dirty rat, you killed my bruddda!” kind of guy. It’s worse than that.
Sarcopenia is an age-related condition, the gradual and progressive loss of skeletal muscle mass, strength and function. A general shift in body shape. That’s a nice clinical take on it. Some might call it festoons of flab, loose and saggy skin.
And unless I confront my “shifting body shape”, do some resistance training, I will not be seen on Mount Main Beach this summer.
As a youngster, I was always a bit sniffy about older blokes shoehorning big bellies and other assorted saggy and dangly bits into board shorts, baring it on the beach and ignoring the stares and cruel comments from fat shamers, the sarcopenia shamers.
Like, “Who ate all the pies?”, “If there’s a famine, he will have caused it” and “more dangly bits than a Christmas tree”. How hurtful.
That brat El Niño
It was the first of the new month, September 1. “Rabbits!” More significantly, the first day of spring. The calendar tells us winter is done. But unfortunately a few daffs and jonquils do not a spring make.
New Zealand’s spring is notoriously volatile – and already that precocious brat El Niño – Spanish for little boy – is playing up. We’re in for hotter, drier, windier and stormier. Lovely. A weather salad. Who gave an extreme, chaotic, disruptive climate pattern a cute boy’s name? El Niño. Why not Vlad, Darth, Olaf or Cruella? A mean, nasty, disruptive name would be more appropriate.
Anyhow, every year, at this exact same time, spring time, I smugly resolve to get into shape, some sort of shape, for summer. I have four months. And I will need every one of them because there is work to be done. Like five excess winter kilograms. Maybe 15. Lots of weight, not so much commitment. It’s easy to resolve, hard to follow through.
For example. I’m sitting in a Chapel St cafe for a lazy weekend breakfast.
That’s how we build big bellies, fuller figures. We treat ourselves. It’s all about what we shove into our gobs.
Granola or burger?
I’m sitting gazing over Waikareao Estuary – “sparkling waters of the new day” – and she’s shimmering and sparkling exactly according to legend. I love her moods – yesterday dark and brooding, today just gorgeous. And because of my new season resolve, I’m thinking of ordering the homemade granola with seasonal fruits, yoghurt and milk of choice. Holier than thou. And I might have the prune juice instead of my usual 600 calories of Frappuccino. What discipline.
Then a young athlete runs into my gaze from left of frame. A long, fluid, effortless, rhythmical stride. Almost in slow motion. It’s not running but gliding, floating. It’s something to behold. If Pele thought soccer was “beautiful”, it’s not a patch on the purity of this true runner’s stride.
The runner inspired me. Yep, this is going to be my summer, my time in the sun, my time on the beach. Dust off the road shoes, renew the gym subscription.
Then as the runner shimmies out of shot, yes, I order.
“Hold the granola waiter. I might have the double-stacked beef burger please. Does that come with fried eggs? Side of fries too? And a mocha please.” Mocha with the 500 calories from the sugar, the fat from the syrup and whole milk, and the whipped cream.
So, all told, my new season health resolve lasted through about two and a half minutes of reverie before my stomach took control again. Hamburger for breakfast? Forget it’s only 9.30am. Let’s call it lunch.
Best ever
My new friend “AI Overview” tells me what I want to hear. Anything that validates must be okay. It says it’s completely okay to have a hamburger for breakfast – the idea some foods don’t belong at breakfast is “a habit and not a rule”. A 100% beef patty gives a blast of protein that’s better than sugary cereals or a Danish. I feel validated. And full. Why do I sense the nutritionists will want to batter me like a piece of hoki at the local chippy?
Which reminds me of the best breakfast. Our business house league cricket team used to ”chow down” every Saturday morning before the game at a greasy spoon on the Auckland waterfront. Pan-fried flounder, fries and fried eggs, one New Zealand Herald cannibalised for six readers, and a few ill-informed arguments over coffee. Bliss.
‘Zap!’
If I do embrace svelte rather than slob this summer, there’s another procedure I should seriously consider. An acquaintance said he was having a chest wax because he understood a deforested chest could be a lifesaver. If he had a heart attack on the beach, those operating the defibrillator don’t need to be ploughing through undergrowth as impenetrable as the darkest depths of the Amazon. They need a nice, denuded spot on the chest for the electrodes to work effectively.
Perhaps I will start my regime on October 1. Perhaps.