Mike sighed as he finished drying off from his morning shower, cinching the towel around his waist. His breakfast (scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, sausage, gravy, and homemade donuts) sat heavy in his stomach, and with a quick, contented pat to his belly Mike stepped up onto the scale. The digital display flashed up a weight of 195 pounds, a fifteen pound gain since Mike had retired.
'Well, part of that's from breakfast,' he thought as he stepped down, examining his reflection in the mirror hanging on the door. 'But not all of it.'
There was no denying that he had put on weight; it was only a few pounds or so, but it was visible in the blurring of his abs (he was one of the only sixty+ age guys he knew who still had those), in the faint softening of his powerful chest muscles, and in the slight rounding of his face.
He stood there, continuing to contemplate his reflection as he idly scratched at his silver chest hair.
'Well, Mike, there's a couple of ways this can go from here. One: you find something as active as the factory.' The idea was distasteful to him; Mike had begun work at a very early age in life, and worked hard for over four decades. Careful money management had given him more than enough money to support himself and his wife for the rest of their lives, and it was time for him to relax and enjoy life more.
'Option two: you cut back on Georgia's cooking.' Even more distasteful, as Georgia was an absolutely fabulous cook, and Mike could never bring himself to leave the table without at least seconds, and often with thirds.
'Or, option three: you accept that you're gaining weight, and just don't worry about. Maybe you won't look so trim and fit anymore, but Georgia's always moaned about how nothin'll stick to your ribs anyway; she likes a man with some meat on his bones.
Which option do you take?