Unlike many midlifers, I’ve never resented my birthdays. I’m not in denial about getting older – it’s better than the alternative. For me, the day has always been a cheerful celebration.
Ever since my 20s, when we could all just about afford it, I’ve organised a birthday meal with my oldest and dearest friends, usually at one of the well-loved neighbourhood restaurants, where we can indulge in good food and wine.
Until this year. For the first time in more than 30 years, I’ve decided not to organise a dinner for my 55th in late August.
I’m still as close as ever to my old friends, despite the increasing demands on our time from work, ageing parents and grown-up children.
So why the cancelled plans?
Well, a few months ago, Mounjaro, known as the ‘King Kong’ of weight-loss jabs, subtly drifted into my social circle like an enchanted mist – and its impact on my social life has been seismic.
The first hint of the change to come was back in January, when I met up with James, who I’ve known since we were 16, for a drink. Normally, when we meet we go for a curry and enjoy a bottle of wine (or two).
‘I won’t have more than a pint,’ he said, explaining, slightly awkwardly, that he had decided to give Mounjaro a go.
That’s one reason I look forward to my birthday dinners so much – because all ten of my social group love good food
Since taking it, he told me, he hadn’t been able to stomach alcohol and found the fizz of beer uncomfortable to digest.
Then, I was all for it. I seldom drink to excess these days after five years of not drinking at all and was happy to drink mocktail mojitos in support.
And, I admit, when I first heard about Mounjaro from colleagues last year, I was intrigued, though sceptical.
As a post-menopausal size 12 to 14, I don’t qualify for it on the NHS. While I’d quite like to lose a stone, I don’t want to spend my hard-earned cash on a private supply, which can cost as much as £299 a month.
Instead, I’m trying to eat more healthily. Over the past couple of months, I’ve cut out my daily cake habit and generally aim to scoff one small bag of Mini Cheddars rather than three. Meanwhile, my husband Andy, 54, is following an intermittent fasting diet, which he’s navigating annoyingly well. He’s lost half a stone so far.
But both of us love food, eating out and the conviviality of a few cocktails. And we’re very happy to set our good behaviour aside occasionally to enjoy a great meal with accompanying wine. That’s one reason I look forward to my birthday dinners so much – because all ten of my social group love good food.
We have a long history of dinner parties, WhatsApp each other recipes, and choose where to meet based entirely on the menu choices.
Or, at least, we did. After James’s admission, it transpired that other friends had leapt on board the Mounjaro bus, too – many of them couples who had started taking it together and are losing weight fast.
Recently, I went to my friend Siobhan’s for dinner. She’s a great cook, as is her husband Ian. But this time, there were none of the usual pre-dinner nibbles. ‘They just fill us up too much,’ she explained.
They served me a normal, delicious portion of paella but took three prawns and a tablespoon of rice for themselves, which they struggled to finish.
I felt sad that we could no longer experience the shared pleasure of enjoying a meal together and I couldn’t help wondering if they missed the joy of eating – that wicked thrill of going back for more.
When I asked Siobhan about it, she said of the delicious food: ‘It’s nice, but I don’t really feel anything about it. I don’t feel the need to eat more when I’ve had what I need.’
Ian added: ‘I don’t think about food at all.’
Everyone I know who’s committed to Mounjaro says it’s the best thing they’ve ever done for themselves.
The famous ‘food noise’ has gone, they don’t eat for comfort or through boredom any more and they save a fortune on snacks and booze.
Best of all, they’re now back at a healthy weight, exercising again, feeling younger and happier. It is indeed a miracle – and I’m genuinely pleased for all of them.
But it means that, to be frank, there’s no longer any point to my birthday meal.
Unless the restaurant offers Borrower-sized portions and thimbles of wine, asking my friends to fork out for food they won’t fork up seems selfish.
I’d feel I was wasting everyone’s time insisting on doing something that I find fun, but they no longer do.
As for me, I suspect I’d feel sad – and, once the wine kicked in, a little resentful that I’ve lost my party pals.
I’ve told my friends the truth about why we won’t be gathering for dinner this year and, perhaps sadly, they understood. I’ll drop round and see them individually instead. And while I’m truly glad they’re happy, I’ll miss our old, indulgent get-togethers.
Come my birthday, I’ll go out for dinner with just my husband to celebrate. And while I’ll wish they were there, I’ll greatly enjoy eating and drinking all the things my slimline Mounjaro mates can no longer stomach.
Names have been changed.
