‘I’m the same size I was in my 20s – here’s how it’s done’
At 69, Maureen Paton has stayed svelte for five decades (but lost some friends along the way)
As Boris Johnson this week launched his new anti-obesity campaign – said to be propelled by the added risk of excess weight to those suffering from coronavirus – I could almost hear the collective groans around the country. All very well losing weight with a rigid calorie-counting plan that works for a while, but how do you stop piling it back on afterwards?
Maintaining a healthy weight is a marathon, not a sprint. Yet I’ve found a simple, easy and commonsense way that doesn’t involve tedious calculations with restaurant menus or insanely complicated regimes run by bossy so-called experts. As a result, I’m the same weight at 69 as I was back in my 20s. Since I’m a touch under 5ft 9in and weigh just over nine stone, this means my BMI is healthy.
All around me, women friends have yo-yo dieted, put on weight after getting married, shed it after having children, then put it on again, especially during the menopause. Yet I’ve dodged the weight-gain bullet.
What intrigues some people is how I’ve done it. One friend got so obsessed and sometimes downright annoyed at the contrast between us that eventually we stopped seeing each other. She had once tried to shove some of her food into my mouth because she saw my averagely full plate as some kind of insulting reproach. Others look wistfully at me, and say they assume I can eat anything without putting on weight. Not true. There are some lucky people like that, but not me.
I, too, succumbed to middle-aged spread, but 14 years ago I lost two stone as a result of bereavement and I’ve kept it off ever since. When my husband Liam was diagnosed with advanced prostate cancer, it was a huge shock. He died in 2006. In those final months, he didn’t eat much, so I couldn’t, either.
I realised three months after his death that I’d lost two stone, and was back to the size 10 I’d been three decades prior. This left me at least feeling healthier and stronger at a time of great vulnerability; and I’ve managed to keep the extra pounds off ever since. How? There is no magic bullet. I avoid what I call the “stupid foods”: I don’t eat cake, sweets, puddings or chocolate. Ever. I never buy chips or crisps or fast-food takeaways, and I go easy on the booze.
Other than that, I eat normally – including potatoes, pasta and all kinds of artisan breads. For a sugar hit, I eat fruit and yogurt; I still have a sweet tooth, but don’t indulge it. Cut out the bad guys, and I’ve found your body will take care of itself.
I also go easy on the portion size – which is where I’ve realised that the core exercises of Pilates help: strong tummy muscles are nature’s way of performing bariatric surgery. When I feel full, I stop eating – which was certainly not the case in my 30s and 40s. The more food you pack in, the more the stomach demands.
Nick Timothy recently wrote in The Telegraph about people’s refusal to take personal responsibility for our obesity crisis, and that used to be me.
I ate what I wanted, I never thought of the risks. I fed my late husband’s sugar habit by joining in and baking up a storm, never thinking it might affect his health, too. I remember buying him a jokey Cake Monster birthday card once; I cringe at the memory now.
But a lot of us don’t want to give up our treats, especially when we are surrounded by temptation in a world urging us to consume. But it’s up to us to resist those dark forces; no government can do it all for us. When I suggested to one diet-fixated lawyer friend that she just cut out cake, she snapped back in her best courtroom voice: “That’s non-negotiable.”
As a tall, slim child, I had always enjoyed being active; in my 20s, I was the ideal size for the kind of willowy frocks I liked (and had cheekbones). Then I got married and, slowly but surely, the weight started to pile on, and the cheekbones disappeared. As my husband and I encouraged each other in our devotion to the sweet stuff, we became plump mirror images of each other. I never exercised, and neither did he; eventually I could no longer fit into slinky dresses, while he acquired a pot-belly.
Yet it’s not just a question of vanity, but of health. What slightly haunts me even now is that being overweight may have contributed to Liam’s cancer, because – as with coronavirus and many other illnesses – fat can be fatal. I’m going to make sure that at least I stay slim.
Covid-19 has forced us to reassess, and live in a simpler way. Everything in moderation is a key part of that.