Three boxes of Pot ‘o Gold in my pants and there is nothing to do but wait it out. It’s a stand-off between me and my flesh. Science is on the side of my flesh, but this year I’m going to simply carry on and let the fat do what it pleases. It will, regardless of the miles I storm through, or the calories I pretend-not-to-count (420 so far today). Fat and weight are less noticeable when grey hairs starting creeping into the mix and the crinkles at the edges of your eyes hang around long after you’ve stopped smiling.
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