My partner Sara says I’m not, but she’s biased–or maybe blind–but either way we can’t trust her assessment of the situation.
To give you a sense of how bad it is–how big the bulge has gotten–I should share that Saturday night, when Sara and I walked to the Mary
Chafin’ Chapin Carpenter concert five or six blocks away, I had to wear shorts under my dress to minimize the chafing of my upper thighs.
Don’t laugh. Please. I know it’s bad.
I’m not brave enough to weigh myself yet–to quantify my size–but I am at least motivated, or maybe desperate enough, to know I need to start exercising again and watching what I eat.
It reminds me of a time, more than two years ago, before we went to Vietnam, when I knew I needed to lose weight. I was dreading my close encounter with the scale, but decided I was willing to put a number on the situation.
It was winter–the middle of the night, when I woke up, intending to take the dogs for a pee. Then, at two the morning, my fat ass bravery kicked in, motivating me to bring the scale into the bedroom for my moment of reckoning with pure poundage.
Having emptied my own bladder, I proceeded to strip naked, because God forbid I weigh that extra ounce of urine or flannel from my nightgown. I even removed my glasses and seriously considered doing without a barrette but decided it unwise to try reading the numbers both blind and with hair falling in my face.
Stepping on the scale like the most over-sized contestant on the “Biggest Loser,” I was told I weighed a mere 75 somethings or other. While I may not have had a completely realistic sense of what I weighed, I did feel fairly certain I hadn’t been 75 pounds since I was seven.
But unable to get the offending scale to stop reading in kilograms and begin weighing in pounds, I stood shivering and blind in our drafty 100-year-old house. Not following through with the decision to weigh, once I’d gotten up the guts to do so, didn’t sit well with me.
So Sara, who had woken up for the spectacle of my weigh-in and was herself sitting warm and fully PJ-ed under the covers of our bed–decided to intervene. After playing with the thing for a few long and chilly minutes and asking me where I had put the manual–when, in fact, she is the manual-keeping half of this relationship–Sara got the apparatus reading in pounds again.
I won’t share what I weighed.
That’s not the point of this post. That’s not what matters.
What matters is that the fat has caught up with me again.
What matters is that, although Men’s Health Magazine has ranked Lexington America’s most sedentary city and Stephen Colbert has awarded my home town the “golden reacher grabber award,” I’ll be damned if this city of sloth will get the best of my lazy ass.
I’ve accepted the fact of my fat.
I’m officially on my way from flab to even flabbier.
Now if only Sara will hand me the phone, so I can order that pizza.