When one cannot embark on a fitness regime, as I found for three months pre- and post-hysterectomy, one acquires a layer or two of very much unwanted flesh. Well, perhaps fat is a more honest word. And once these layers are firmly (or flabbily) in situ, a woman of a certain age will struggle to return to the slender version of herself she enjoyed for most of her life.
Middle aged women are prone to a few extra lbs and accepting this is fundamental to staying happy as I have found in recent months. My size 8-10 former self has acquired some additional upholstery and I don’t like it; if it wobbles, there’s too much of it.
My post-hysterectomy “shelf” will, I am told, take up to two years to disappear entirely. This is a sold roll of flesh that sits above the curved 9” scar. My abdomen has taken on the face of a chubby, smiling fella with a goatee beard; the temptation to mark eyes above my navel is becoming irresistible.
At the recommended three months post-surgery I returned to Reformer Pilates at Humankind, Brighton’s finest studio. Starting with gentle beginner classes I have risen to intermediate and there I will stay for a while for this, combined with an active exercise regime to raise metabolism is making me firmer and fitter, but disappointingly no slimmer.
Slim is supposed to be what we all want and I have tried – Oh! I have tried. I have used apps, logged every calorie, tried and failed with various diets: low carb, low fat, high protein and good heavens … low alcohol. This latter I confess, probably not for long enough.
Consulting a young, male GP a while ago he said I looked fine. I lifted my top to reveal a woefully squidgy middle, the alarm on his face confirming my worst fears. In a heartbeat he recommended the rather dramatic 8/16 diet, which rendered me catatonic within three days. Indeed, all of the fasting combinations failed … you name it, I’ve done it and to absolutely no avail. Three months of counting under 1,000 calories a day resulted in several additional lbs. How?
The apps have a lot to answer for too, insisting you log every calorie, every movement, every step, committing one to more screen time than is healthy, on top of which the bollocking that follows you around is incredibly stressful. In addition to three modest, diligently recorded meals a day they insist you snack morning and afternoon:
10:30hrs: It’s time for your snack [ignored]
10:40hrs: It’s time for your snack [ignored]
10:45hrs: You haven’t had your snack [ignored]
11:00hrs YOU HAVEN’T HAD YOUR SNACK!
… reprise around 15:00hrs … Oh, for heavens’ sake … GO AWAY!
A “wellness” business I met through a women’s networking organisation recommended two thousand steps before breakfast; starting the day with my best foot forward – well, both actually, one after the other – was incredibly rewarding. I reported to the women concerned, pleased that I had met expectation. The response?
Oh, we do 4,000 steps and don’t DO breakfast.
That told me, then.
Most days I will walk before breakfast, a favoured circuit taking me down the cliff steps to the prom, along the boardwalk on the beach where I stop for 40 star-jumps, some ab work and stretches, then across to Black Rock, up the cliff path and home. A life-giving start to the day that I embrace with joy. Oh, and it IS almost 4,000 steps, so there.
My routine now features CardioTramp on Monday, swimming Tuesday and Friday, gym Wednesday and weekend, about 12,000 steps on Thursday and stretch class on Friday, the latter coaxing my limbs into positions I had no idea they could achieve. Although this keeps me fit and happy, the weight is not shifting.
My diet is very healthy and mainly organic. The day starts with a smoothie: banana, blueberries, spinach, protein powder, pineapple, ginger. Plates for lunch and dinner are modest. Maybe a small piece of chocolate mid-afternoon. Last meal by 7pm. What’s going on?
Is it time to come to terms with my middle-aged self? Whilst HH has always fancied tall slender women, these days he finds himself married to one who is short and round.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
So perhaps I shouldn’t either.
© Giovanna Forte 2026.
