I pulled on my favorite summer shorts the other day. When I finally let out my breath, several buttons at the waist exploded, shattering the fish tank, wounding three joggers outside, and nicely pruning my rose bushes.
Faulty buttons aside, it seems I have become a man of some caliber. I have grown from a svelte, debonair and athletic person to a “Please do not sit on that antique chair, sir…SIR!!” person.
Medical authorities now say I have ‘girth’, meaning they’ll need a special crane to remove me from my bedroom when I need medical attention, or wish to take up bungee jumping.
I have been thinking of shedding some of this excess weight for about fifteen years now.
Most recently the urge came upon me while lying on the couch eating raw cookie dough and checking my extremities for circulation. Poking my ankle with a stick, I glanced up at the laundry rack (excuse me – treadmill) and started thinking about my health.
Clearly my problem was too much thinking, so I stopped doing that altogether and enjoyed a bowl of cereal instead.
To be completely frank, the source of my weight issue, I’ll admit right here, is my wife. She is a wonderful cook, and not eating her victuals might be construed as disrespect. It might also weaken me to the point where I am unable to raise a fork past my chins. I can’t have that.
According to the latest articles
from women’s magazines, thoughtfully brought to my attention by my wife who glued
several of them to my bathroom mirror, I should get some exercise. Apparently what
I need is ‘motivation.’
What she doesn’t realize is that I’m beginning to feel motivation building inside me already. Mind you, it could just be gas from lunch.
If motivation is the cause of my bloating, it could be the same force I used to quit smoking years ago (I was on fire at the time). I could channel this willpower to my physique and trim off a few pounds, but I suspect the exertion will cause my muscles to start burning again, so I’ll proceed with appropriate caution.
Mark my words though: I am going to lose weight and start getting fit. Right after dinner. Cold turkey, in fact. Please pass the gravy.