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Big Bellyman

 

I have given up trying to lose whatever baby fat I have hanging under my ribcage in a pile of unwanted lard. I’m talking about my pot belly. I’m not sure if it’s as big as a potbellied stove. But it’s big enough. It looks unseemly. It just hangs there. Or rather it just rolls over my belt buckle in a pile of flesh. I’m sorry for being so graphic. But you know what I mean.

I’m supposed to do something about it. Eat more steak, less carbs. Less cupcakes at midnight and more celery sticks. I’m supposed to do squats and burn my fat at some ridiculous heart rate achieved only by running on a treadmill in some overcrowded gym open 24 hours (except when they clean the bathrooms with foul smelling bleach).

I’m supposed to do all this and more so I can have tight firm abs and look like some underwear model in some catalog just posing for the cameras and collecting their take-home pay which is probably way too much to offer some buffoon with a six-pack (not beer but belly or lack thereof) so he can go out later after the photo shoot and drink avocado martinis (organic, homegrown) and suck down oysters on the half shell, all the while listening to some horrid electronic dance music.

Oh, to be 23 again.

But no. I will not. I will not attempt to get rid of the little belly fat I have left from my days gorging on pizza and beer as a teenager (or in my 20s, 30s, 40s or 50s.).

It’s there, this pot belly. And there it will stay. I will never leave you, oh glorious pile of worthless fat. I will care for you and feed you. I’m good at feeding you. What do you want today? Three bagels with heaps of cream cheese? More pizza? More grilled cheese? Chocolate cake? What about some ice cream? I love ice cream. Vanilla, you say? I’ll take vanilla and raise you with chocolate and coffee swirl.

And then maybe me and you, my glorious little pot belly, will go down to the mall and bask under the fluorescent gleam with a new t-shirt.

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