Necessary Mutilation

What happened to my protective system of denial and apathy, like “but I have a good life” or “we’re all gonna die form global warming soon anyway!”?  How has this New Year, my 47th,  brought me such crisp awareness that obesity = sickness = feel bad = soul-sucking, energy-depleting, ego-crunching, mind-fogging half-a-life.  No longer can I excuse it, compensate for it, or rationalize it with beliefs like,  “but I work and get around OK.”    No, I really don’t (any more).  I’m often too f’ing tired (physically and emotionally) to be nearly as focused in both work and play, and I dare not push myself because I’ve learned my body will rebel if too much is asked of it any more.  As my husband says so eloquently, ”You’re only 47!” - yet I feel 87.  Hobbled, achy, out of breath, slow-moving.  Lack of exercise has atrophied muscles and I now have poor balance and struggle with steps and simple maneuvers like getting in and out of high car seats.  Sometimes I watch my thin contemporaries squatting, walking, taking steps (especially with things like laundry loads in their arms), and crossing their legs - and such simple movements amaze and perplex me.  I can barely remember ever doing such things (especially the crossing-of-the-legs thing) and have trouble fathoming how different from them I am.  Only when I let myself see and feel, that is.  Like now.  Mixed blessing, I guess.  Sigh.