Fat

I am fat. More appropriately, I am getting fatter. Before I went off to Iraq, I was a trim 150 pounds. Now I am a regular hog tipping the scales at 175. For years, I wore 32 waist size pants. Now I struggle to get into 36s. My God, what a blob! I can feel how fat I am. It is like I am carrying around a Mini-Me. My gut hangs over my pants, I can’t contain it. Fat, blubber, repugnant and disgusting lard, hanging off me. What happened? I work harder now that I have in years. I sweat like a whore in church practically every day. I don’t eat junk food. True, I do consume a fair amount of alcohol. How could something so beneficial be the problem? It is true that I quit smoking a few years ago and that might have contributed to my ballooning. But, this much? At one point in my adult life, I weighed in at 133. I was told once that I looked like something out of a concentration camp. Strangely, that appealed to me. During those days, I could eat anything without fear of gaining an ounce. Now, if I look at a doughnut, I gain pounds by osmosis. I cannot remember the last time I ate a doughnut. And, remember, this is the South, home of Krispy Kreme, the original fat pills. Now, if I eat a single Hersey Kiss, I will gain a couple of pounds AND get zits on my chin. True. Chocolate goes directly to my chin and erupts with a gross looking pimple. Image, a man my age with pimples? If I ever get hauled into court for eating chocolate, all the prosecution will have to do is point to my chin for the evidence. The complexion never lies. I do not like being a hog. I feel cumbersome, bloated, awkward. Since I believe we are what we eat, my weight has nothing to do with my physical labors. I have cut back on bread and pastas. I eat lots of vegetables and fruits. I avoid sweets and snacks. I try to eat a good breakfast and a modest lunch. I usually drink dinner. But when I do have an evening meal, it is usually something grilled with lots of vegetables. It hardly seems fair that I should enter my golden years as a fat pig. All those years as a slim chap now are memories. I wonder if the stores have husky jeans for old farts? Mostly, my weight is an assault on my self-image. I still see myself as a strapping blade, trim and comfortable in his skin. But, in reality, I am a hulking ogre, close to breaking into profuse sweating and grunting. In the profound words of Cosmo Kramer, “look away, look away, I am hideous…”