Shame on me

Nothing says shame than having the orthopedic surgeon who spent two-and-a-half hours in your knee tell you you’re fat.
OK, he didn’t come out and say it, but...
“How’s the knee?” he said as he looked at the boy’s wrist x-rays. “You need to loose a little weight.”
Yes, I am carrying waaaaaay too much weight on a knee that basically has no meniscus left (meniscus is the soft, spongy stuff that acts like a shock absorber). Yes, if I do not fix the situation, I’ll be looking at a total replacement. Soon (rather than later; it is inevitable).
I’m going to be 43 in like two months. You can have two replacements in your lifetime (and I plan on living a way long time).
Like I don’t have enough to worry about.
I know exactly what to do. I know, from years of triathlon training/races, how to eat efficiently, exercise proficiently. Damn if I can get it done.
When I was a triathlete, my day – my life – centered around working out. Now, it had many, many centers. And they all need immediate attention.
But he’s right. I need to loose some weight.
I like to daydream of my retirement years, walking hand-in-hand with my wife, across a white-sand beach (or any number of international locations).
Shame is a terrific motivational tool.