I’m one day off from returning to Ottawa, a place where I lived for many years.
I don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous about a trip home in my life. Why, you may ask? Well, after a year of being lame and functionally immobile, I’ve gotten just a wee bit heavy. I’m worried about the narrowing of people’s eyes, the heart to heart “talks” about how concerned they all are about my not being active enough, and worse, Mama’s “loving punishment”.
We all have Mamas, so I don’t think I need to explain how that’s going to go.
How heavy is heavy, one may ask? Well, let’s see. I now have a really beautiful set of man boobs, and my own continental shelf to rest them on. I have an ass so voluminous, it knows not what comfortable pants feel like. And I have a chin. Several, actually. Let’s not even mention the piggy eyes bored into my head, where once deep pools of blue resided.
In short, I’m fit for a spit!
Now, it is true that I can once again walk, and I’m eternally grateful to finally be rid of the crutches. But I’m going to have to start thinking about how far I can walk to whittle off all this Buddha. In my estimation, nothing short of a jog up the mountains of Tibet will suffice. Trust in the burn, keep running past that wall of pain, and do not pass “Go” until you zip past that Great Wall.
And don’t forget the sports bra, lest you sport two blackened eyes.
But, I’m determined to reclaim my body. I know it lives some place, deep, deep inside. I am aware that past the sad truth that is my rotund stummy tum-tum, I have a pair of feet. I know that within lies a man who doesn’t sweat walking to the mailbox, a mere three inches from my front door. There is salvation at hand once I learn to open the right door. Front, not fridge, pig-o-my-heart. It’s all a matter of getting my inner self to start making peace with the protein pile driver running the show.
How many last suppers have I attended. How many chicken legs have marked those innumerable “day before” ceremonies, only to become an eventuality in the kingdoms of landfill and sewage, where that salad and stir fry should have been.
I truly must confess, my trouble isn’t a sweet tooth, It’s a bicuspid with a hankerin’ for starch. If I can stuff it between two slices of bread, it’s lunch. Nothing is sacred when it comes to baked goods and fillings. Spaghetti, mashed potatoes, you name it, if it’s capable of resting comfortably inside a slice, it ends up inside me. And the results speak for themselves.
I suppose I finally saw the light when I watched one too many birthdays roll by, and noted that my waist always seemed to collect as many numbers as my age did. As well, it was also clear that a man approaching fifty should have at least some wrinkles to speak of. I am without one laugh line, one crows foot, one crease. My suspicion is that every time one starts to form, I just stuff in another hoagie, and out it pops, quick and painless.
A poor man’s Botox? I could market this. Would certainly help pay for that trainer and gym I so desperately need. I wonder, honestly, how long he or she would want to continue trying to work my body into shape. Is there enough money in the world to try to haul a potato with limbs off its root-bound asses and up top of an exerbike or elliptical? How many days of trying to motivate a man hell-bent on figuring out new ways to create sammiches made of Alpha Getti and beans could they endure before they cracked.
So, I have two options in front of me. I can make peace with a pant size that sadly boasts a matching number for my next birthday, or I can take my well insulated self out that front door, and energetically march to the strains of Kylie and P!nk on my iPhone. “Put down that fork” I’ll exclaim as I merrily lunch on a carrot. I can sit up instead of sitting down. I can…I just need to start believing in those two words.
“I can’t”. You’ve controlled too many aspects of my life, held me back, and have poisoned my spirit.
I will not resolve to lose the weight. I won’t commit to being a better person. I refuse to promise to write that proverbial opus during the next year. What I will do is banish “I can’t” to the bottom of the Atlantic.
It’s amazing how much power those two little words have. Like cigarettes, I too can control and excise that hateful little addiction by stuffing them in between two rocks, and sending them to their death, never to be heard from again.
Maybe then my long lost inner-self shall once again find his way out of the land of stretch fit and polyester.
The world is my oyster. It doesn’t mean I need to spend my life dining on it!
Dreams do come true, for those that persevere. I choose to dream about a life where self-imposed restriction and recrimination lose their power. Then, and only then will my dream become, well, beautiful.
Pass the low-fat, and I’ll pass on the spuds.