The manner in which a midriff (among others) can trim itself without one’s overly bending over backwards


Why this article? To plead its cause and, in the bargain, grab some eyeballs

THE first point one might raise on spotting the title of this light take on an issue of some gravitas is: does it merit precious space in the hallowed columns of a national newspaper?

My response, if so buttonholed, would be: but of course it does; and not entirely, may I say further, from the skewed point of view of a writer’s ego, which, by common knowledge, is huge by any yardstick.

No, if truth be told, the subject is both topical and weighty — nice touch, that pun, though I do say so myself — given the rising incidence of LSD, which, I hasten to add, is nothing quite so exotic as lysergic acid diethylamide or Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, but is merely the mundane lifestyle diseases, aka non-communicable ones, like Alzheimer’s, arteriosclerosis, cancer, cirrhosis, diabetes, hypertension, and stroke; and the ugly fact that obesity (body mass index gone ballistic) is arguably their single largest contributory factor.

They are mostly found in developed nations — though the rest of the world is fast catching up — among people inclined to eat unhealthy foods, with a sedentary lifestyle and unhealthy habits like smoking and drinking alcohol.

So, with that rambling, if informative, preamble of a raison-détre for this essay behind us, put to bed, as is said, let’s get straight to the nitty-gritty.

Weight gain as a fallout – call it collateral damage, if you like – from nixing the nicotine

YOU must have heard the urban legend of how one takes on ballast right from the moment one sets sail from smokes. Well, guess what – it’s true – leastways as far as yours truly was concerned, and from first hand experience at that.

Now, as to why this happens – what’s the metabolic basis to the bloating – I’m afraid I haven’t a clue. Perhaps, if I may be so bold as to hazard a guess, it’s the over-compensatory snacking (and on junk food, no less) that comes in the cold turkey wake – sugar and spice in place of nicotine-not-nice – whatever, the upshot (euphemistically called middle-age spread) is there for all to see: spare tyres round a vanished waistline and neck, the latter being chunky enough to offset the double chin in front, plus lots of flab on a big gut and a bigger butt.

My own obese problem, though, was not much to write home about. I wasn’t in all that bad shape — but then they all say that, don’t they — seeing as I could see my toes when I looked down but not my junk – a term of slang that must be followed by the expression: “Y’know what I’m saying!”

And though my potbelly didn’t jut out like the prow of a ship as I waddled down the street, the times I did catch an inadvertent glimpse of my unadorned self in the bathroom mirror, I would wince at the sight of all those unwanted pounds I’d put on in all the wrong places.

Not that there are any right spots for them, now that one comes to think of it.

So, you see, I had reason enough to go on a crash diet-watch course or the latest in-vogue weight loss program, but the thing is – and this is the crux of the matter – I didn’t do either, per se — I’m not that into fads, ‘cause you can’t teach an old dog new tricks — and yet I shed kilos galore. To the extent that it caused some alarm among those who know me well and watched my own personal ‘downsize’ take place before their very eyes.

On a more prosaic note: my pants no longer fit; they swim about my hips.

Two causes I ascribe my own scale down to (with a statutory warning not to try the second of them at home)

TAKE what is to follow next with the proverbial pinch of salt. It’s kind of tongue-in-cheeky, yet at its kernel, as is the case with most whimsy, there is a whole grain of truth. Now I’m no dietician or weight trainer but I have a sort of apt gut feeling that the roots to those lost keys of mine can be traced to this pair of causes about to be spelt out – triggers, I think, is the au fait term for it.

The first source, of which I’m cocksure— the logic to back up my choice looks rock solid to me — is the plain and simple fact that I moved into an attic flat, four floors off the ground.

The bad side of lofts, as we all know or have heard tell, is their raw exposure to the elements. They swelter in summer, or so the gripes go, and chill to the bone in winter; the ceilings are low, the wind is high, and one can’t hear oneself think with the racket the rain makes on a too-close-for-comfort roof.

I began to take Phentermine in February 2015. After the first reception I felt good, easily refused food and lost the desire to eat. On the 7th day of the appointment I got a headache. But I knew about it as it was shown in the drug instruction at I was losing weight easily. I lost 10 kg after a month. Later I noticed that I stopped eating. I lost appetite at all. I forced myself to eat and it helped to decrease migraines.

But, in my own humble opinion, the worst thing about them is that, in the event of an earthquake, a real big bad one, there’s no way you’re going to get it out of the flat, down the stairs, and off the premises. By the time you grab what’s near and dear, plus some warm clothes, say — only diehard pessimists keep emergency kits handy — the place will come crashing down about your ears.

Next Week: There’s nothing like a pair of kick-starts to set one on the right track

Contributed by

John M Chiramal