Each day brings a new malady, depending on what I eat, how I exercise, how much sleep I get, or if I have one too many glasses of wine.
Without any changes to what I eat or how I exercise, I suddenly have abs, and lean muscle mass now contours across my body in areas previously dominated by flab. .
For 315 days straight, I logged into a Web site or popped out my phone and confessed what I ate, how much I exercised and what I weighed.
Plus, I was sick and tired of organizing my life around what I ate or didn't eat, how much I exercised and what I weighed.
Yet most profiles of me run in the last few weeks have focused almost exclusively on what I eat, how often I eat, when I eat, how much I exercise, what kind of exercise I do, and exactly how many repetitions of those exercises I perform – in comparison to which the occasional diversions into how often I turn on the central heating qualify as merciful excursions into the profound.
How will I exercise without my foot?
How do I exercise my political voice in a system rigged for the rich?
When I see these numbers, I become more attentive to what I eat and how much I exercise.
No matter what I weigh or eat or how much I exercise, I will still have Type 1 diabetes.
And he won't care that I still bite my nails or that I can recite verbatim Sally Bowles' entire monologue that proceeds "Perfectly Marvelous" in Cabaret, or that, no matter how hard I exercise -- which, let's face it, isn't very hard at all -- I will always have a small roll of fat where my lower abs should be.
