Getting to the Heart of the Problem
I know a Good Story / June 24, 2016

At one point of my life I thought DNA made me fat.  I was very young then and it seemed to me my extra pounds were the result of a random inheritance, like green eyes or height.  My father was big, both my grandmothers were heavy and one of my uncles could be described as “comfortably cuddly”. Of course that meant my sister, my mother, and my other relations had been gifted with the “skinny” gene, so I figured I had no choice in the matter.  Mama got rid of those illusions.  Fat happened when more calories went in than energy went out, she said, and pointed out that my svelte little sister was one of those children that never stood still.  Once I started eating less and moving more, my days as a fatty would be over. Well, they weren’t.  I started a multitude of diets, upped my exercise and periodically lost hundreds of pounds through the years, all of which returned with interest each time my newest reduction plan stopped. It got so I  was miserable while I was losing weight, obsessed by every calorie and scale-revealing ounce and I was even more miserable fat. My eating habits…