AND THAT'S WHEN IT HAPPENED ...
[Despite it All
(and With Profuse Apolgies to Jen Lancaster)
Sometimes Pie IS the Answer]
Benjamin Kissell
My best friend Nate always says ... "Real men have curves"
If Literature is food for the mind and Art is food for the soul what should be food for the body? Well, in my case, it's been microwave pizzas, Old Bay-Crab potato chips, McDonald's and Wawa subs; which explains a lot.
I mean, it really explains a LOT.
As in, I've gained ... some weight.
I've known I'm not the svelte 154 lbs it says on my driver's license for a goodly while [the last time they updated my height/weight on there I was 5'8" and still sporting an unbridled sense of Only In Your Early 20s Entitlement and early 2000's hair]. A big "PAY ATTENTION" clue came when I had foot-surgery two years ago and the amount of local-anesthesia they gave me for my supposed 154 lbs had ALMOST NO FREAKING EFFECT ON ME.
I've grown as a person in recent years and that has gone on to include my waistline (and apparently my ass).
I could go on and on about my occasionally-sugar-heavy diet, my incredibly visceral hate for all-things-exercise and my stress-eating-inducing job ... but, let's face it: whining? Is not funny.
Instead...
DISCLAIMER / WARNING:
THE FOLLOWING ARTICLE IS NOT ME CALLING MYSELF FAT OR ATTEMPTING TO MAKE YOU FEEL PITY FOR ME
(OR BAD ABOUT YOURSELF) ...
IT'S SIMPLY AN ARTICLE ABOUT MY STILL-RATHER-RAMPANT NARCISSISM AND NOW MILDLY RAMPANT BACKSIDE AND WAISTLINE.
................................................................
"Oh gawdd - not another whining-about-being-chunkier article. How creative ..."
Picture it; Sicily, 1914 ... wait. I'm not that old. Nor - discounting family-by-marriage - am I anything even remotely close to Sicilillian [I'm about as Sicillian as Wallace Shawn in The Princess Bride ... which is to say, not at all] ...
Picture it; Fredericksburg, 2014 ... After yet another oh-so-ridiculously-long day at work sans break [Hello OSHA! *waves*] I'm homeward bound. Instead of coming home to our still-bare-from-prepping-for-vacation pantry and coercing my loving boyfriend fiance into magicking another culinary masterpiece [the man channels The Food Network and I? Shan't gainsay that], we've agreed that I should pick up dinner. Having spent the last several hours at work fighting hunger pangs and the urge to punch people coming in with delicious-smelling food I realize that dinner is a must-get-fast deed tonight.
Let's face it, there's only so much of my bitter, bitter black coffee I can drink that will curb the beast that is my stomach.
By the time I've clocked out, my stomach is practically threatening to hire scary guido-types to kneecap me if I don't get some damn dinner already. I know I could walk the half-block from our building to McDonald's [don't judge], but as 1) it's cold and raining, 2) I intend to get a decent amount of food and 3) I don't want to carry our hot dinner back to my car through the cold rain [and my aforementioned loathing of exercise] I opt to drive.
Of course my driver's side window once again doesn't work so walking into the lobby is my only option [well, cooking some random assortment of pantry-items is another ... but, no]. So, it is with a smile on my lips and a song in my heart (and possibly my stomach, too) that I pull up, park and begin to get out of my car.
And that's when it happened ...
I heard it as if it were in one of those Riddley Scott/Crouching-Tiger-Hidden-Drag-Queen-style slow-mo scenes.
The sound I hadn't heard since I was a child in the late 80's when I would climb trees in sweatpants.
The sound every grown adult with any awareness of their expanding ass fears:
*SHRRIIIIPPPPPP!*
As I extend my left leg out of the car my pants decided that they've had enough: the fabric slicing cleanly apart mid-thigh in what looks like a run-in with Freddie Kreuger. I've gained enough weight that my thighs have decided to slasher-flick (literally) my pants - this is awful.
I'm embarrassed.
I'm chagrined.
I'm devastated [these are adorable American Eagle slacks from 2007 which make my legs look long and lean].
I'm ... still hungry and there is zilch chance I'm gonna be able to go through the drive-thru.
Gathering my dignity (and my pants-leg), I boldly step out of the car and into the lobby; I queue up and wait through the annoying hipster teenagers [Kids: it's 11:30 on a Thursday night - there has GOT to be somewhere more interesting than a McDonald's to hang out at] vacillate between McFrappy-crappy drinks and "I don't know - what do you think?" vapidity as I stand there and weigh [heh] whether to try pseudo-healthy or our tasty stand-by ...
All of this - from the awareness of my stomach's hold over me to my standing-in-public-with-shredded-pants - makes me pause and ask:
*Am I happy and comfortable with my weight gain?
*Am I ashamed or dismayed that I am no longer the twig-thin and "size-small t-shirt thank you" person I was from my mid-20's through early-30's?
*Am I happy with myself?
By the time it's my turn [finally] I confidently lean forward and order - who cares if a little bit of leg shows? It's a ruddy McDonald's for crying out loud.
..............................
Also? Yes, I will have apple pie to go with our double quarter pounder meals, thank you. Because pie? Is never wrong. And I am okay with me.
[ For an awesome update on Jen Lancaster, check out the fantastic podcast interview "The Big Questions" from Oct 24th, 2014: INTERVIEW HERE ]
Recent Comments