The last kiwi

The last kiwi

Fruit and more fruit. The mainstay of the over 40 dad diet. Those ever decreasing waistlines need trimming folks. Also, lots of energy is vastly needed to keep up with the energizer bunny type toddler that lives with us now. Not just fruit mind you, all sorts of good stuff. Bran flakes, wholemeal pasta, brown rice, salmon, no meat (of course), and finally washed down with gallons and gallons of water. Now, the only drawback to eating healthy is the copious amount of fiber that seems to go with the territory. And with all this water, comes gas. Loads of gas. I mean I can feel the food transport itself around my colon like the commuters hitching a subway ride to work. I mean gas pops, little mini-explosions of combustible food working it’s away along the gut. It’s a whole smorgasbord of food noise going on in there and can be followed by the symphony number nine of bottom canons shooting off before I drift to sleep. Oh, my poor wife.

With that all being said, I’m sure the health benefits will reap the rewards when I’m the only 80-year old that looks forward to his morning sabbatical on the loo. Paper in hand and air freshener no more than an arm’s length away, off I’ll shuffle to my porcelain god with all the relish of a hungry farm labourer returning from work to his dinner table.

I don’t know. I suppose a lot of it is psychological and therefore bears more fruit in the long-term unlike the nonchalant debauchery of my twenties drinking the cheapest of beers, and eating the stodgiest pizzas night after night without a care for my little colon in the world. Sense has finally kicked in and sense makes a lot of digestive noise.  I even found myself lusting after only the products in the supermarket high in fiber these days. This is my life now and I am ok with it. Jokes aside, I do reserve weekends for salty snacks and a couple of beers. I’m only human after all.

Life.

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