Pushing

Odd things happen when you turn my age, which is 70.  For some reason, at 69 you can tell people you go out to walk and run, or that you ride a horse, and although they may be somewhat surprised, as soon as you turn 70 they are appalled. 

By sheer chance, I came across a book of scientific journalism on the history of the development of our current nutritional guidelines.  It is called "The Big Fat Surprise", by Nina Teicholz, who also wandered into the field almost by accident due to her own experiences.  Deciding to experiment on myself, and encouraged by the author's own discoveries, I stopped eating "healthy" and proceeded to lose five kilos, my hair has become thicker and darker, and even my fibro has reduced somewhat.  I did that when I was 69, a month ago, but now that I'm 70, you'd think it was a suicidal act.

Let me make clear that my mind is only 30 and will probably never get past that age.  As a result of my former life as an aerobics teacher, the impulse to push myself past certain limits still remains in place.  Yeah, yeah, I went to the cardiologist and the sports medicine doctor, just to make sure I wasn't going to push myself into an open grave or drop dead on the running path, but in spite of these prudent steps, people who find out I go out and run at this age think I'm nuts.

They could be right.  One must always leave some room for doubt when others disagree, a precept that people involved in religion or politics have forgotten in their desperate struggle for certainty.  So, if I'm nuts, well, then I fulfill my own definition of happiness: the person who is content with his/her own brand of insanity. 

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, it's bacon and eggs for me.