I’m getting fat. Not like obese or disgusting-big. More like “doughy.” A little flabby and plump. I just look lazy, I think. You know, I used to look active, even when I wasn’t. Now? Not so much.
I’m 36 years old, and I look like a sixty-two-year-old truck driver when I’m shirtless. There’s hair now where there used to be “shine.” I now have boobs. I used to have pectoral muscles you could see bustling under my t-shirt. Now, it looks like I have dollops up something drooping from my man-breasts.
Gross, right? Don’t I know it.
My wife just sort of glances over and smirks when I’m getting dressed in the mornings. Arms crossed. Hand to the side of her face. Mouth gaping. There she goes again with the combo: exhale-head shake. It makes me want to throw a shoe at her.
But I’m not mad at her, really. I’m frustrated at myself. With myself.
It’s hard, though, to eat right, exercise and not drink beer. My wife says all I need to do is practice a little more self-control and I’d probably lose 10 or 12 pounds.
She likes to smock baby clothes and “scrapbook.” I like to Tap the Rockies and dip Nilla Wafers in peanut butter.
To each his own.
I guess I could start getting up early and jogging. I could stop watching re-runs of The West Wing at Midnight; stop playing Mario Kart at 2 AM… hit the sack an hour early, get up and get outside and run. I could also dress up like a gorilla and prounce about my office every day, but it ain’t happenin’. My filter tells me where to draw the line.
How’s that for self control, sweetheart!
I really do need to do something about my waistline and He-teats, though. I want my kids to be proud of their dad. I want them to want me to be the guy who takes them to the swimming pool and who plays with them on the beach. I want to not feel obligated to put on a shirt before walking into my kitchen for a glass of water. I want for my 2-year-old to not feel compelled to stick his pointer finger in my belly button because it’s fun to watch it “disappear.”
I want to be able to see my whole… you know… my feet when I look straight down. I want my wife to sleep facing me and not turned, clinging to the edge of her side of the bed for fear I might get a “big idea.”
I want to be healthy and vibrant and less… doughy.
I also want a heaping scoop of Jiff, chocolate chip cookies and a bag of Twizzlers for lunch.
You know what? I’ve seen tonight’s West Wing rerun no fewer than three times. Maybe I’ll go to bed early and start over in the morning.