Over the past several weeks, I have been (somewhat successfully) shedding pounds and getting in shape. I have cut down my dinners for 6 to dinners for 3, I have reduced my admiration for carbs by moving them down from god-status to best invention ever-status (hat tip to Hitchens and Dawkins), I have stopped answering my pregnant wife’s requests to get her a glass of water from downstairs by asking, “Why don’t we drive?” I have refrained, for the most part, from taking a few daily shots of Wishbone Italian (although we still play quarters on the weekend). I have shifted the location of the ingredients in my best peanut butter sandwiches from bread to the bowl. And finally, in an effort to calm the munchies, I have become determined never to smoke pot again unless there is a really good reason. Good reasons include: Dealing with unpleasant social situations (yes, that’s a bit redundant), watching the Mclaughlin Group, and reacting to the question, “What constitutes a good reason?”
All was going quite well until my wife and sister-in-law took me to Bloomies for a new pair of jeans – my first since I dropped my baggies in the early nineties (they were so baggy that several of my Brooklyn high school students commented on them approvingly). As part of the celebration of the new me, my shopping guides squeezed me into a pair of jeans one size lower than my current comfort zone (and few sizes higher than my spending comfort zone). So here I am, sitting at my keyboard, feeling a roll of lard hanging over my new, tight jeans. I look decent, I am told. But I feel about five times fatter than I did before I started my training regimen.
I’m through fighting it. I am getting back into my four sizes too big Khakis, getting a few sacks of lunch, taking a bong hit and going back to work on the site that I think, in a very self-help, Oprah watching, self-embracing kind of way, celebrates me. All of me.