It was a sad day indeed.
I remember it vividly: the angst, the
sorrow, the disappointment.
It was a day where I sat back and took
stock of my life: the decisions I made to get me to this point; the
paths I should have taken; the paths I did take.
Yup, it was the day I could no longer
suck in my gut to make it look like I didn't really have a gut.
Like I said, it was a dark day indeed.
I knew my gut was getting bigger.
Hell, it was right there in front of
me, so how could I miss it?
It seemed like every day my middle
section became more prominent.
For a while, I could clench my
abdominal muscles and make it look like I had a flat belly.
However, this could only be done for a
short period of time before my face turned red and I passed out from
lack of oxygen.
A small price to pay for beauty,
though.
However, as Father Time continued to
slap me around, sucking in the flab became harder to do until one day
I woke up, looked in the mirror and realized no matter how hard I
tried, my gut would remain out there for the world to see.
So I did the only logical thing: I
bought larger shirts that would seem baggy on me and make me
look thinner.
And it worked great – in my mind
anyway, but at the end of the day, my abdominal shame was on display
for all to see.
I had a shirt full of belly and I knew
it.
And the stupid mirror knew it too.
Every time I would walk past the
blasted device, my shame was there for me to see — protruding
like some sort of carnival side show freak.
Well, maybe not quite that bad, but it
was noticeable.
I was hardly Gutzilla; that would
be my neighbour who looks like he is 18 months pregnant with
triplets, but I was hardly the svelte lad of yesteryear.
But then again, neither are my friends.
When I go a period of time without
seeing them, the first thing I do is compare abdominal regions
to see if they have outpaced me in the getting flabby competition.
Some of my friends have, some haven't.
Now, I just spend more time with the
ones who are more abdominally enhanced than I am. Not
necessarily because they are better friends, but because it makes me
feel better about myself.
This works at the beach as well. The
key is not to find the best spot with the best view, but to find the
fattest person or people.
By dropping your towel next to a
weight-enhanced individual, you automatically take a couple steps
down the flab-o-metre.
The problem is when someone does the
same thing to you to make themselves look good. Eventually, there is
a line of people from XXL to XL to L to M. all in a row along the
beach.
But packing on the protruding pounds is
part of getting older I suppose.
There are a few exceptions to the rule.
I worked with one gentleman who was several years older than I was
who was in fantastic shape. Flat belly, outstanding cardio – the
guy was as fit as someone half, or even a third his age.
Yup, I really hated that guy.
There was a day when I could eat
whatever I wanted and not have to worry about gaining so much as a
pound.
Scrumming down a bacon cheeseburger
with fries, gravy and Coke at 3 a.m.after a hard night of
clubbing was not unheard of.
And I would not gain an ounce of flab.
Now, just writing about the
mouth-watering, late-night treat I put on three pounds.
So, if you will excuse me, I have some
really baggy shirts to buy.
Copyright 2017, Darren Handschuh
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