This race, which will have a winner one way or the other, is not one I've been looking forward to with any great anticipation. At almost 46, my body has now decided it needs a vacation from pants, belts, and, it seems, haircuts.

Then again, I haven't treated it with much love over the years. A comedian once said something along the lines of: "They say your body is a temple. Well, I rent mine out for parties."

Yes, my friend, I feel your pain.

As a noted longtime rascal (no details – this is a family publication), it just may be time to turn the late nights and all illegal, immoral and fattening things over to the younger generation. But I do this with a heavy heart, my friends, because some of my favourite memory lapses (notably 1997-2003 and every Grey Cup) have occurred thanks to one or all of the above.

But now I'm being deserted. The hair leaping to its death (hairocide, I think it's called) is one thing, but my waist has expanded, my feet are hardening, and I seem to be turning into the Thing from the Fantastic Four in all possible ways, crabby mood included.

So what can I do about this other than clean out the shower drain twice a week and ban all mirrors from the house? Is there hope for the hapless? The “Moo” sound my wife installed on the fridge door for when it opens only makes me want a hamburger. I bought a brush with no bristles to save wear and tear on my hair. And what the hell is that growing out of my ears?

Basically, my body is becoming a Chia Pet as the spiral towards 50-plus continues and my head could be a stand-in for Jupiter on Google Space.

What happened? I used to box! I used to play hockey, football, rugby, and the field! I was swift like a gazelle and strong like a gorilla. Now I look like one and couldn’t catch the other if I had a Corvette and a guided missile.

In short, I do not go gentle into that good night, but I do go often into the cookie aisle.

Maybe I should embrace my convictions and try one of the many fad diets. But I've been down that road before. There’s always Atkins, which caused the editor of this publication to buy me a canned ham the last time I tried it and I was so hungry that I ate it uncooked from the can. There's also South Beach, Scarsdale, and the Subway Diet, among many others.

Maybe I could invent the "Banned Internet Site and Vodka" Diet? What about the "Tell Her She Looks Fat In That and Run" Diet? Maybe the Dr. Seuss Diet, in which you eat three-week old green eggs and ham until you look like “The Cat in the Hospital.”

Sure, there’s always salad, but that’s nothing more than food that food eats. Or as the great John Pinette says, salad is not food. Salad is a promissory note that food is on the way!

But, really, is Dom DeLuise an appropriate role model? Does anyone truly want to look like the “before” guy? Is the best I can hope for is a starring role in Moby Dick: The Revenge? I think change is on the horizon.

I’ll tell you what: You send me your best diet advice or hair tonic, regardless of health risks, at sbtaylor44@gmail.com and I’ll choose a winner for two tickets to the AMC Kanata movie theatre. Just remember, if it includes canned ham, I’ve already tried it.

Written by Scott Taylor