Weight

I have a friend I used to work with. I won't say his name, but if you're reading this motherfucker, you know who you are.

This skinny piece of shit would eat all the time, everyday, non-stop. His idea of a mid-morning snack was what amounted to a school of salmon piled on some cream cheese with a bagel poking out. Then he would complain about how fat he was getting while pinching about a centimeter of flesh under his skin-tight, hipster, thrift store t-shirt. Oh, how I loved that. Maybe because if I let myself eat like that, in a month I'd have to call in a road crew to knock down a fucking wall to get my 2000 pound frame out of the apartment for my emergency angioplasty.

I love to eat. Especially starchy foods. Pizza, pasta etc. I love beer. I love beer with pizza and pasta. I was also blessed with the metabolism of a manatee. Which is nice because if I'm not constantly food conscious I end up looking more and more like one.

Now that I'm in my thirties I realize any kind of caloric grace I was under has long since vanished. I was never skinny, but for some reason I have recently acquired the power to gain weight at an almost superhuman rate. My days of pizza, pasta and beer are over, unless I want to stick my fingers down my throat like a teenage girl after every meal.

This realization came to me after trying on clothes for a friend's wedding. There is probably nothing more humbling - after shuffling back from the changing room and placing your first choice back on the shelf - then walking over to the "Big Guys" section of Target and grabbing a pair of pants two sizes higher. Jesus Christ, has it come to this?

It has, Fatso. Deal with it.

This was last Summer and thankfully, with diligence, I have been able to whittle myself down to something resembling a human being. It's a fucking pain in the ass. I hate it. But unless I want to go on the supermodel diet, I have to chalk it up as a necessary evil.