The actual nitty-gritty for figuring out one’s healthiest weight relative to an individual’s height is known as the Body Mass Index, or BMI for short. The science behind the measurement is very concise, where BMI signifies whether one is at an ultimate weight, overweight, or obese. The latter is not a pretty word, in my estimation, almost like an epithet; yet obesity has reached at least 30 percent of all adults in 20 US states studied, according to the latest research findings published earlier this month.
Worse yet, on a national scale, obesity affects 1/3 of the adult population, while 2/3 of the rest are overweight. Not many folks are left with that ideal BMI benchmark of 24.9.
Over 30 is considered obese; 25-29.9 equals overweight; 18.5 to 24.9 is time to sing Halleluiah, no more dieting for me; and for less than an 18, one’s bones are sticking out and it’s time to pack on some pounds. Man, wouldn’t that be fun, pounding all those wonderful, weight-inducing delicacies down the esophagus, straight to the gut for the body’s ebullient absorption to manufacture adipose tissue all over again?
I considered myself to be overweight by quite a few pounds, but not as bad as it turns out. When the floors in my flat started creaking in spots where they never creaked before, and the lid of my loo clinked against the wall tiles behind it whenever I stood before the commode, something was amiss, causing me to buy a scale to see exactly how much weight I had gained since the last time weighed, which had to have been at least two years prior at a rest-area’s bathroom scale on the Atlantic City Expressway.
The quarter-fed machine indicated I had lost 15 pounds since stepping on the scale at the doctor’s office, a good spell before that, making me feel like I had really accomplished something in my quest to lose weight. Too many apple and cherry pies eaten in the resulting celebrations, many chocolate cupcakes and pastries later, a plethora of pizzas with everything on it; ice cream and cookies, anything fattening, etc., had not only put all the weight back on, but added 10 more pounds to boot.
Considering the excessive weight-gain was an express ticket for acquiring diabetes, dementia, or a quicker death sentence—this writer is no spring chicken anymore—I started that horrendous green-coffee-bean diet, which I hope you’ve been following its progress in my many tirades about it in this journal.
My total weight-loss so far totals 20lb/1st 6.0000lb/9.7kg, having obtained my illustrious goal, for which I celebrated the joyous event at a restaurant on the night of the happy weigh-in, eating a sirloin-steak dinner with all the fixings, drinking a couple of bottles of craft ale, and buying a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia Ice Cream on the way home, eating it in moderation: the carton has still another two servings left, and has been available in my freezer for pigging-out since last Saturday.
Maintaining a disciplined food-consumption regimen, I’ve remained at that 20-pound loss for a week, and now am considering another attempt for losing an additional 20 pounds, thus prompting my research about BMI and what my ideal weight should be. Talk about shock and awe, the calculated index for me at 20 pounds heavier was at a startling 35—well into the next category—at which one falls into the unfathomable realm of being excessively obese, not a nice place to inhabit.
Presently 20 pounds lighter puts me 1.5 points onto the obese side of the equation, where another 12lb/5.4kg/0st 12lb loss would put me at a BMI of 29: at the high side of being overweight. Big f**king deal, I dare say. To put me at the threshold of a healthy weight, a 24.9, I would have to shed 45lb/3st 3lb/20.4kg. For that to happen is very unlikely.
Today, I bought another month’s supply of green coffee-bean extract, having finished the last batch several days ago. A twenty-pound loss is my next goal, which will probably be like living in hell, waiting for its infernal flames to melt off more unsavory fat.
Science Project Update
There appears to be no chance this petrified grapefruit will rot in the refrigerator, but we’ll keep it in there for at least a year to test that theory. If this heavy orb were to fall unexpectedly on my foot, I’d be hopping around the kitchen on the other leg, holding my throbbing extremity while muttering expletives that should be blurted out only in private. The fruit would have to be placed outside of the fridge in order to begin its eventual decomposition. Until then the lethal grapefruit is compacting its mass like a collapsing star, making it hard as a rock in the meantime. Could this once-delicious, once-edible object become like a fossil, never to decompose but remain solid for eternity? We’ll see.