I'm fat, I'm fat, ch'mon
DISCLAIMER: Okay, so I’m not actually fat. Let’s just get that out of the way so that I don’t piss off those of you who are actually fat, causing you to send me hate mail and come running after me as far and as fast as your fatness will allow, jiggling hypnotically and clutching Ho-Hos in your pudgy fists, causing small tremors and making children in your wake flee in terror until you collapse in exhaustion. It’s more that I feel gross and generally like hell even though I’m still a sexy motherfucker and got these new weightlifting shoes the other day that are really boss.
So, yeah, every winter I undertake a little contest with myself to see how poorly I can interpret proper nutrition. I really do it up right, eating everything that robs me of energy and makes me feel like throwing up and/or passing out. It’s like I recognize that my mind takes a hit when it’s cold and dark out, and feel compelled to punish my body so that everything is on equal footing.
This winter in particular, I’ve been shoving everything into my mouth that I could think of (except for squirrels), so I’m really looking forward to a return to normality when Spring returns. Because with Spring comes moderation, and a strange compulsion to eat fruit and go outside more.
Now, I don’t want to go off onto an estrogen-filled rant about how fat I’ve gotten, because it hasn’t even been a week since I admitted to doing gymnastics. Whatever manly credibility I ever had has taken a serious hit.
(Of course, if I had no credibility to begin with, then this is all aces. And really that’s where we stand, with me just being a big douchebag and the rest of you throwing tomatoes, or perhaps FedExing tomatoes for me to throw at myself, or perhaps creating and mailing ingenious spring-loaded FedEx envelopes that throw tomatoes out of the flap when someone opens them. I mean, when you think about it, you could probably rig one of the standard boxes with a giant spring and put a tomato on some sort of flinging lever. The only real problem would be getting the tomato to stay in place, because if the FedEx arrived and the tomato had fallen off, you’ve basically just sent me a giant rat trap and a tomato, and I’m going to open it up and gleefully shout, “I CAN USE BOTH OF THESE THINGS!” and then I’ll set the spring/trap thing in the barn with cheese on it and cut up the tomato, and then I’ll send you a thank-you note. And let’s face it, that’s just going to piss you off.)
But yeah, it’s March now, and my birthday is in March, and Spring training for baseball starts in March, and the beginning of Spring is in March, and the return of daylight savings time is in March. So I like March, even though right now it’s being a real whore outside and still doesn’t feel very Springy. (Except out in the barn where I put your tomato trap. That thing is springy as a motherfucker.) And I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, which is way cool.
I don’t like winter. So I keep doing what my dad suggests to make myself feel better, which is to find “small indulgences.” I don’t really drink and don’t do drugs and have very limited access to my harem of young nubiles, so the way in which I choose to destroy myself is junk food.
Filet-o-Fish. Mmmmm. Fries. Mmmmmmmmmmm.
I’m particularly a sucker for chocolate. I’ve gotten in the habit of buying this giant bag chocolate chips from Sam’s Club, and then sitting down on the couch with a cupful of them. I then take a butter knife, dip it into a jar of peanut butter, and dip that into the chips. Eat. Repeat.
Sometimes I do it with M&Ms, which I also buy at Sam’s Club. However, I do this for altruistic reasons because the M&Ms are pink, which means a portion of the proceeds go to fight breast cancer.
Our Sam’s Club trips go something like this:
Robin: “Are you really going to get that giant bag of M&Ms? After getting the giant bag of chocolate chips?”
Me: “But they raise money to fight breast cancer. It’s the perfect cause, combining my hate of cancer with my love of breasts.”
Robin: “Weren’t you trying to start eating better?”
Me: “Do you want breast cancer to win? What if breast cancer wins and we didn’t buy these M&Ms. Then how will you feel?”
Robin: “Don’t you do gymnastics?”
So yeah, I’m gross and fat and probably will start growing my own boobs soon. But that would actually be really neat because then I could combine my love of eating junk with my love of boobs, and when Robin was away, I’d still be set. And just imagine the joys that could come from combining those two indulgences.
Cheer up, everyone. Spring is coming, and boobs are in the air.