Healthy Lifestyle

So, you're enjoying the golden years, finally reaping the rewards of all that hard work, right? That was our plan too! But as retirement loomed, my wife, Cecelia, and I got a friendly little nudge – okay, maybe more of a gentle shove – from an unlikely source: Instagram.

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Picture this: One minute, you see a spry 70-something bicycling through life; the next, they're being pushed in a wheelchair. Then, they're happily dining out, followed by a not-so-appetizing scene of being spoon-fed by a nurse. Yeah, we got the message loud and clear. It was a stark reminder that staying active wasn't just about looking good in a swimsuit (though that's a bonus!); it was about living life on our own terms.

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Now, Cecelia's always been the healthier half of our dynamic duo, but my "bad habits" (let's call them "enthusiastic eating" and "masterful snacking") had rubbed off a bit. We'd both managed to pack on a few extra pounds. Funny how that happens, isn't it? You gain it together, and neither of you seems to notice the other's weight gain. As Cecelia lovingly puts it, "You still look like Luke to me!" (And for those wondering, Luke is very handsome.)

 

The Scale Speaks (and Oh, Did It Have an Opinion!)

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Then came the moment of truth: 258 pounds. The scale, bless its honest heart, laid it all out there. I was in a delightful state of denial. How did all this extra weight sneak up on me? I've never been a beanpole, but "overweight" wasn't exactly in my personal dictionary. My long-standing mantra was always, "I don't want to be on a daily cocktail of meds just to survive."

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Yet, there I was at 63, popping high blood pressure pills daily, and now my doctor was adding "prediabetic" to my list, with another daily regimen on the horizon. Talk about a reality check!

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I dragged my feet, of course. Who wants to add more pills to their morning routine? I finally resigned myself to my fate and headed to CVS with the new prescription. But then, a beacon of hope appeared in the form of our local pharmacist, a long-time community member. "You know," she said kindly, "prediabetic means you have an option. Get active, lose some weight, and you can most likely avoid taking this medicine."

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The 90-Day Challenge (and How I Befriended My Block)

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A lifeline! I immediately called my doctor, begging for a 90-day grace period to lose some weight. He agreed, with the firm caveat: "If you can't do it, you're starting the medicine." The gauntlet was thrown!

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First order of business: figure out what I was actually putting into my body. I downloaded MyFitnessPal, and let me tell you, plugging in my food intake was an eye-opener. I was comfortably cruising at close to 3,000 calories a day. Yikes! Especially when paired with my "physical activity" (zero, for those keeping score at home).

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So, I slashed my calories to 2,000. I've never been a runner – my knees appreciate a more dignified pace. But walking? I could definitely walk. My grand plan for week one? A majestic journey around my block. In Chicago, a block is a quarter-mile, so I was clocking a solid half-mile. It felt like scaling Mount Everest initially, but I powered through. Then, I doubled it to a mile. Nothing too strenuous, just a friendly stroll, always close enough to home for a quick retreat if needed.

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And wouldn't you know it, Cecelia soon joined in. The rest, as they say, is history! The weight started to come off. I didn't even completely overhaul my eating habits – just the quantity, combined with my newfound love for walking. Ninety days later, I met my doctor. I was down to 245 pounds, and my A1C was back in the normal range! Take that, prediabetes!

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This journey is about making conscious choices for a vibrant future. It's about showing up for yourself, one step (or one less cookie) at a time.

 

And if I can do it, you absolutely can too.