I realized that I was getting fat the morning I was brushing my teeth with my shirt off and my man boobs were slow clapping for me, demanding an encore.
I was flattered by the gesture because simple things like brushing your teeth rarely get awarded with applause.
I know then it might be a good time to stop the late night feedings in which I would ravage my refrigerator like a rabid, coked out raccoon. It was time for this man boobed raccoon to hit the gym, but where do I begin? What's a treadmill? Wait, what's a gym?
As I'm growing older I'm watching my friends running marathons, doing triathlons, and climbing mountains. I'm running to the bar, doing take out, and climbing to the third shelf for a jar of salsa con queso. Something isn't adding up here. Except for the pounds.
I ran into a friend who I hadn't seen in a year and he said I was looking "rotund." That's a word I normally associate with Santa Claus and cauldrons. Neither of which, I would take much pride in being compared to unless it was time to suit up with a bell in hand or as fixture at Hogwarts in Intro to Potions 101.
Everyone has their own way of saying things whether they are blunt and to the point: "You're fat." Then there is also that backdoor way of saying it: "You look like you've been eating well."
Everyone is a critic, but no harsher critic than that person in the mirror.
The mirror is where it all goes down. Self judgment.
"Oh, look at you fat ass. You are disgusting. You are lucky your lady loves you so much. Boobs all sagging. Stomach almost sittin on the sink. Damn. When did you stop caring? You're not gonna live forever big boy. If you want to spend some time with your lady, lose the boobs and belly, son. Go on naw!"
It sort of happens like that. Results do vary.
Your mirror. Your thoughts.
I guess that being said, you may see me in a gym near you and if you see me struggling with a machine, just lend a hand show me how it works. I promise you, my man boobs will thank you. They might even applaud you.