Alright, let’s tackle this beast of a topic – “Heeding Healthy Habits.” It is a phrase that, quite frankly, often conjures images of extraordinarily fit health gurus, smoothies the color of swamp water, and the kind of relentless self-flagellation that makes me yearn for a bourbon, a greasy burger, and a super-sized bag of fries.

But fear not, for I am not here to preach the gospel of unwavering dietary asceticism, but rather to muse on the more sensible path that I am currently on.

The world, as we’ve all noticed, is awash with longevity experts. Each is armed with peer-reviewed papers, bespoke supplement regimes, and the conviction that they alone have cracked the code to eternal youth – or, at the very least, figured out how to become a highly functional centenarian.

My own journey through this labyrinth of nutritional advice and exercise dogma has led me to a simple, yet profoundly liberating conclusion: heeding healthy habits does not demand the complete annihilation of joy. Instead, it’s a delicate dance between discipline and – dare I say – a generous amount of indulgence. At least on the weekends. Especially on the weekends. 

I am currently living by the venerable 80/20 rule, a principle so elegant in its simplicity that even the most fervent zealot might concede its utility. Eighty percent of my food can be considered a form of nutritional prudence.

The remaining twenty percent? Ah, that precious aliquot is reserved for the glorious, the unrepentantly unhealthy – the dishes that whisper sweet nothings of butter, sugar, and deep-fried delights.

Then there is the ritual of the gym, that temple of clanking weights and the rhythmic thump of feet upon the treadmill. An hour, every other day. Thirty minutes of cardio followed by thirty minutes of resistance training – defying the gravitational pull of my body’s slow decline. I don’t see it so much as an obsession; it is a commitment, a non-negotiable appointment, and a challenge that I feel a certain quiet triumph in conquering.

For ten days now, alcohol has been banished, and the mind sharpened. To complete this home-brewed regimen, the curious practice of intermittent fasting has taken hold of me again. In my case, this means no breakfast.

Unless, of course, I find myself in a hotel. For then, dear reader, all bets are off. The buffet, in its glorious abundance, demands a certain… participation. One must, after all, allow for exceptions for the sake of sheer civilized pleasure.

I think I’ve stumbled upon a rather compelling recipe. It balances indulgence with restraint, effort with ease, and sanity with the occasional, utterly necessary, culinary transgression. For what good is a long life if it is devoid of pleasure? I must simply learn to measure it out, to pace it – much like a carefully curated photograph – capturing the light and the shadow in equal, exquisite measure.

This tray is from a restaurant I’ve been to a few times in Bangkok, where they serve a terrific array of food from Chennai (formerly Madras).