The first words I spoke, according to the normally unreliable source of my parents, were ‘my ice cream’. I am not sure if this story has been embellished over the years, but it was certainly true that food was a central part of my childhood. Whereas other parents complained about the struggles they faced in getting their fussy toddlers to eat beyond the rigid diets they had established, mine were trying to stop me eating everything I came across.
They tell me that in my very early years, at a time before I found the words to express myself, the fixing of a bib around my neck would elicit a giggle of delight. A round of clapping would follow as milk, baby food, rice, or any early offerings were delivered towards my expectant mouth. With the smile remaining until the last morsel had been finished. At which point the disappointment of another meal ending promoted the kind of blood curdling scream that every parent dreads.
I would not suggest that I was a particularly advanced child, average seems kind, but I was a younger user of cutlery than most and could name every sweet in the pick and mix counter of our local shop before I could remember my name. This, I have always felt, demonstrates that all children are capable of learning, the challenge is finding a subject they are interested in.
However, my relationship with food was not consistent across the ages and within time it moved from treasured friend to tormentor. I remember this change becoming particularly noticeable during my thirties. I am not going to pretend I was ever waif like, but up until some point in my fourth decade, it seemed as if I could eat a lot and see little resulting change. I recall during those late teen years and even into my twenties, how my friends and I would live off big breakfasts, between meal snacks, sugar filled soda, takeaways, ready meals, copious drinking and late dinners with little influence on our waistlines, chest size, or hip circumference.
Then, rather sadly, my thirties arrived. It was almost as if overnight my body went from being able to handle all the rubbish I was throwing into it without change, to suddenly paying the price for the years of abuse. How depressing it is to recall nights working my way through whole ice cream tubs and entire biscuit packs at a time at which a cursory glance at a piece of toast resulted in a tightening of the trousers. Whereas once food was relished and welcome, it now was tempter or temptress, to be resisted. I had reached a point at which I needed a constant reminder that the extra slice of bacon, the afternoon cookie, evening glass of wine, or chocolate chunk was now efficiently translated by my body to produce the extras I have since been trying to lose.
The only positive thing to come from the memory of having lived through the change from blast furnace to storage unit, is that when I see teens and twenties guzzling and devouring anything edible that passes within arm’s reach. I can alleviate my jealously slightly, by reminding myself that it will catch up with them up at some point. That they too will suffer the agony that time bestows on us all.
However, it would not be fair to lay all of the blame on time's door, for time is not independent. It may not get affected by much, save our perception of it, but it does not change alone. People, places, planets all change with time. Friendships come and go and careers progress, regress, or stagnate. Lives and circumstances evolve and though we may not be able to slow time or change its unrelenting progression, we may be able to influence some of these other factors. Look out for my up coming blogs to learn more.
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