This is the best picture of me that has ever been taken, bar none.
“The problem is I don’t want one drink. I want 10 drinks.†— Leo McGarry.
I wasn’t fat until someone told me I was. I just finished what was on my plate and went and fiddled with my Mighty Max playset.
I remember the first time it happened. I can’t, however, remember the last time. A boy in my class, let’s call him “Douchebag,†came up to me and stuck his index finger nearly into my belly button. Rather than elicit the standard Pilsbury “hoo-hoo†and grin like a banshee, I elected a more direct approach: I grabbed his wrist and pushed him to the ground. Douchebag didn’t like this and inquired, “Why did you do that, fat-boy?â€
Fat boy. Blubber-nuts. Tons-of-fun. Fancy Feaster. Harpoon-proof. Rosie O’Donnell’s left cankle. I’ve heard them all, ladies and gentleman. They don’t faze me now, but back when I traded piggyback rides for packs of Soda-licious they were the be-all-endall my existence. Tell your kids to leave tubby alone because while I think most of us would thank them for it now, back then it required the constant treatment of cry-abetes.
That said, I can’t remember the last time someone called me fat, even from a place of mirth. Maybe it’s just me?
It sneaks up on you. It’s not like a lard baptism or anything — all of the sudden bathed in the fatness of generations before you. It is a gradual process. At some point, you accept it and either change yourself or make it a part of your life. While the calorie-counters are calculating the cost of their candied cranberries at Christmas, I’m cracking the crust off another crostini. Sure, there have been Thanksgivings where I have taken my third helpings in my room, silently weeping in the dark and supplementing the lack of a salt shaker with my pickled tears, but that wasn’t this Thanksgiving.
What it comes down to is that habits like those are self destructive with any substance. I don’t understand people who leave half the bun on the plate. I don’t understand people who like taking the stairs. I don’t understand why people don’t take a second helping. No, I don’t want one Fudgesicle. I want 10. Why would you want this feeling to go away?
In a society where the vast majority of our food supply is created to fulfill evolutionary tendencies toward unsavory savories (sweet and salty are rare in nature, and abundant in a host of delicious things made these days), these are dangerous habits to have. People have thrown away portions of their lives on worse things than food, but none so culturally acceptable. The biggest hurdle for a wannabe fat-man ex-pat is what has proven to be the fattest part of the fattest people: their brains.
I am going to continue to call us fat people. Tubby people. I am going to call us every word that makes us different. If you are offended, if you would like me to say “overweight†or “differently insulated,†or some other such nonsense, the ghost of Mr. George Carlin would like a word with you. I’m taking them back. Because the first step to no longer being fat, or being fat and happy, is to get our minds and habits in line with our waistlines.
And brothers and sisters, I hope you join me.
Bonus content: I now fear skate bowls.