A few days ago on Yahoo I read that by the year 2030 more than 50% of the population will be clinically obese. Lord help us all if a Big Mac and fries becomes the meal of choice.  Specifically the health of black women  has been on my mind. I often wonder if women of color take their health seriously? Do we spend as much time as we should maintaining a decent body weight for our heights? As black women are we an intricate part of the obesity epidemic? Have we gone past babyphat to just plain, fat, fat?

This is relevant to me because yesterday I ate a whole box of chocolate by myself: Toffifay for those of you who are wondering about my special brand of chocolate crack. I ate it joyfully but felt awful afterwards when I thought about what damage that 600-calorie snack was going to do to my waistline and to my BMI.

I’m sorry to bring this weight issue up again as I promised my readers in a moment of weakness that I would refrain from discussing my obsession with my body and all its moving parts. But in this post it’s not my body I’m focusing on, it’s everyone else’s health.

In my upcoming book I ask the question, are black women’s weight issues the reason for their dating challenges? Some say yes. Others say no. The jury is still out.

Weigh in on the weight issue and tell me if you think that black women have moved past babyphat to something else.

Recently, I casually asked my dermatologist about one day getting Botox. He laughed in my face. “Go spend your money on something you need” he said and sent me on my way. Is he blind? Doesn’t he see the lines I see?

Every year I write a birthday post (See Old Dog, New Tale) because sadly, the Super is getting old. Grey hair EVERYWHERE old. Retirees tell me that I’m still young.  I’ve determined that this is what old people say to console each other. As yet another birthday blasts by, I realize that Jennifer Lopez notwithstanding, I will never be able to wear a super high mini skirt again without self-consciousness. Gone are the days where I chat with the drugstore clerk about anything other than anti-aging cream. Goodbye makeup free face maintained by moisturizer and four hours sleep. It’s time to get used to cashiers calling me ma’am, bitches, and little boys young enough to be my son trying to make a Cougar out of me.  To maintain muscle, I’ll have to up my workouts and…horror of all horrors… watch what I eat. Yeah, yeah, Father Time and I are enemies. I can complain for days, weeks if you give me some drinks, but the Super is all about encouragement, even if the encouragement is for me. So here is what age has taught me:

• I’ve learned tact. If a friend asks me if I think her daughter is a lesbian, age has taught me to say, “I’m not sure, but I’m here if you want to talk to me.”
• I’ve learned that “Karma is only a Bitch if you are” and “it’s none of my business what other people think about me.” (Stolen quotes but they’re all me)
• I’ve learned that if my boyfriend doesn’t like what he sees when I’m naked then he can take his d*ck elsewhere.
• I accept that I’m pretty enough. If I want to look like Halle Berry I have to have her parents.
• I now know that a thousand squats a day will not give me a Kim Kardashian booty.
• I realize that I’m not half as stupid now as I was in my twenties.
• I’ve learned that delay does not mean denial and everyday that I expect a miracle the closer the miracle is to me.

I won’t lie to you, getting older kinda sucks.  The gift of wisdom and foresight is rarely given to the young. Aging is inevitable so I’ve decided to be grateful that my heart is still beating, my body is still functioning and my mind is still sharp. In 40 years I’m looking forward to being a Super G, that’s Super Granny. Happy Birthday to me and all the other Aries.

Should we be able to freeze time like we can freeze our faces? Do we wish we could give our birthday some Botox?

It was dead.  Lifeless.  It couldn’t have survived a fall from such a height and it hadn’t.  It lay there inert, crushed and broken. I looked down on its crumbled form and resisted the urge to drop to my knees and scoop its broken contents into my hands. Cupcake can you hear me? The red velvet cupcake with its butter cream icing from the hot new bakery Crumbs didn’t answer. I considered the 5 second rule of eating things off the ground and instantly realized that I had hit rock bottom.  It was official.  I had a problem. How could I coach and counsel women towards success when I couldn’t even master myself? I had an addiction to sugar like Eric Benet had an addiction to sex. We both needed help. The urge to eat the dusty snack from the ground was my sub-conscious crying out for help.

AA was for alcoholics.  Rehab for those with an affinity for the pipe. Weight Watchers was for chubby chicks with severe addictions to tasty snacks? The latter was me. I fit the profile.  I’d never met a cake, cream puff or pie I didn’t like and my obsession had finally driven me around the bend.  I’d always liked dessert a little too much which guaranteed that I’d always had an intimate relationship with the white stuff, sugar that is, I’m not Charlie Sheen.  If I didn’t want to be the size of Two and Half Men then I had to stop trying to commit sugar suicide. As it was my metabolism was staging a protest. My body was already making its displeasure known.  In the fitness classes I took as an antidote to over-consumption, my body couldn’t keep up. In my Zumba class my feet were like lead.  In kickboxing class the bag was beating the hell out of me. Two chocolate bars minus one workout didn’t compute. I was out of shape and my addiction to the sweeter side of life was to blame.  No one, least of all me, wanted to see a Super hero with a pot belly. My love affair with sugary snacks had to end. I couldn’t let the cupcake beat me. My hands trembled as it grasped the mutilated body of my sweet snack that had jumped to its death to avoid me.  One second.  Two.  Poof. The cupcake was gone. What happened? I suspect foul play.

My lips show evidence of crumbs. Did I kiss my cupcake goodbye before introducing it to the circular file-waste paper bin or did it meet with a more shameful digestible end? No one knows for sure and I’ll never tell.

Do your lips crave the taste and texture of the sweet stuff? Have you committed Sugar Suicide?

I went to the gym today. Push, pull, heave, run and lift. I’m glistening and I’m hot. Muy caliente— hot. ¡Ay, caramba— hot. Missy Elliot rapping the lyrics of her song called: