One of the great joys of getting older, at least for most folks, is that they begin to increase in circumference at an alarming rate. In this regard, I am no different. Although my eating and exercise habits have been reasonably constant over the years, my body decided that it did not particularly care for the status quo, the equilibrium that we had tacitly decided upon, and abruptly changed the rules. Of course, carrying around extra weight does wonders for one's overall health and quality of life. It leads to heart problems, hypertension, arthritis, aches and pains, and fatigue, among others.
As a result of increased girth syndrome, I have been forced to do something that I never thought that I would have to do. I am compelled now to actually read the nutrition labels on the food-type products that I am considering for purchase. Man is this depressing. In my younger, pre-Geritol days, I used to be able to wheel my shopping buggy about the market in a carefree and gleeful manner, tossing in whatever I wanted to eat. Cakes and pies and goodies of every shape and size. Now, I am forced to prowl around the healthy food section of the store, keeping company with the granola-munching hippies and other subversives, with their tie-dyed t-shirts and Birkenstocks.
One complaint that I have with tracking quantities like grams of fat or total calories of Hecubus per serving, is that the food companies make their products seem healthier than they really are by defining a serving size to such a mirthful extent that a mouse would walk away from a meal saying, "You know, I still feel a bit peckish". Consistent with this line of hilarity, I recently bought a canister of assorted nuts and actually made audible grunting noises after reading their definition of "serving size". Look closely at the above photograph. ... You're welcome.