More Heaviness

Just lately I've been noticing quite a few people in this Far Place who are, sadly, carrying a good deal more weight than is good for them. I suppose this sounds unpleasantly critical and self-righteous of me, but what I feel when I observe such folk doesn't feel that way. I hope I observe them with some degree of compassion, understanding and genuine concern. The problem is, of course, that there's nothing I can do to help them, though I'd like to.

What I'd like to say to them directly - but, of course, cannot - is that there is something that can be done when you're overweight and that it's not the natural way of things. Indeed, it can give a life real direction and purpose when you do something about the excess poundage; the feeling of being in control when you do take control is worth the effort of ignoring the promptings of appetite, no matter how impossibly urgent those promptings seem.

I noticed a couple of ladies the other day at the Ya Kun outlet at Clementi Mall. They looked like mother & daughter, with the elder being around 60, at a guess. The daughter possibly some 25 years or so younger. Both were carrying a lot of weight and in the mother's case she was having problems walking, needing the younger's one's assistance. It looked painful for her just to stand and move off from their table and I was struck by just how much intense effort simply walking around the mall required from her. In contrast the daughter looked sprightly, but I'm afraid the signs were there. The physical resemblance was striking but seemed to worryingly foretell more painful times ahead. Yet I felt sure that if the younger one recognised the problem then plenty could still be done to avoid a difficult few years in the future - and that if the elder were to shed some weight in the here and now her difficulties would be considerably eased.

In another time, before the age of the consumer, the quality of life of the two would have been so much better, I suspect. The price paid for the growth of consumerism (as so resonantly outlined by Andrew Marr in his book about my own country) is much higher than its victims suspect.