I'm getting fat.
Not like obese or disgusting-fat. More like doughy. A little flabby or plump. I look lazy, I think. I used to look active, even when I wasn't. Now? Not so much. I'm 44 years old, and I look like a seventy-three-year-old truck driver when I'm shirtless. There's hair now where there used to be none, and none where there used to be hair. I have moobs. I used to have pectoral muscles you could see bustling under my t-shirt. Now, it looks like I have dollops of something drooping from my he-teats.
Gross, right? Don't I know it.
My wife just sort of glances over and smirks when I'm getting dressed in the mornings. Arms crossed. Hand to the side of her face. Mouth gaping. There she goes again with the not-so-subtle roll-of-the-eyes-exhale-head-shake thing she's gotten so good at. It makes me want to throw a shoe at her.
I'm not mad at her, really. I'm more frustrated at myself. With myself. Both.
But it's hard, though, to eat right, exercise, and not drink beer. Bethany says all I need to do is practice a little more self control and I'd probably lose 10 or 12 pounds. But we all practice self control in our own ways, am I right? She likes to play Candy Crush, do bills, and make lists to relax. I like to Tap the Rockies and dip Nilla Wafers in peanut butter. To each his own.
I guess I could start getting up early and jogging. I could stop trying to break the international Netflix record, hit the sack an hour early, get up in the morning, go outside, and run. I could also dress up like a gorilla and prounce about my office every afternoon singing "Popular" from the broadway hit, Wicked, but it ain't happenin'.
How's that for self control, sweetheart!
I really do need to do something, though. Something more than nothing. I want my kids to be proud of their dad. I want them to want me to be the guy who takes them to the swimming pool and who plays with them on the beach. I want to not feel obligated to put on a shirt before walking into my kitchen for a glass of water. I want for my 8-year-old to not feel compelled to stick his pointer finger in my belly button because it's fun to watch it "disappear." I want to be able to see my whole, you know, my feet when I look straight down. I want my wife to sleep not turned, clinging to the edge of her side of the bed for fear I might get "an idea."
And I want chocolate chip cookies and Twizzlers for lunch. What's a guy to do?
Seriously. I'm asking.
I'm getting fat.