I'm Fat

There’s a rite of summer tied to my birthday that’s full of abundant promise and fascinating self-discovery — the dreaded annual physical. And I don’t dread it only because of the Dr. Jellyfinger prostate check. No, it’s the damn lecture. It’s keeping my gut sucked in for the 20-minute interrogation while gradually slipping off the exam table paper.

I know I’m not fooling anyone. The fucking digital scale made sure of that. So, I sit, ashamed, broken, promising my much smarter quack I’ll be much better. Strangely, as always, my numbers are perfect. 120/80. 98.6. 98%. No murmurs. Nothing to raise any concerns. Just the persistent, pesky, excessive L-Bs. I shift awkwardly back, the paper crinkles under butt, and I take all the abuse like the overgrown man I am. What am I going to do, argue? Bring it. I’m sitting, sweating, sporting only a barely there blue-green gown, open access to the back, listening. I mean, he’s the one with the diplomas taunting me from the wall behind him. I lose. It is decreed. I’m fat.

Talk about using words creatively for effect, though. When I mentioned persistent, moderate back pain, he didn’t say I was fat, or even overweight. More incisively, he deadpanned, “Well, now, you are not underweight,” as he overly dramatically turned and pawed at the circa 1984 Body Mass Index poster, a relic faded under unrelenting fluorescent light. Still, in the 30 years I’ve known him and trusted his counsel, the BMI poster has been his preferred body-shaming tool. Every year, I watch as his left and right index fingers come together slowly and unsurprisingly well within the “OBESE” (!) sector. Here we go again.

But wait. Lucky for me, obese is suddenly no longer something you are. It’s something you have. The good folks at Lilly: A MEDICINE COMPANY — their tag, not mine — say so as they’re pushing the latest needle you plunge into your desperation to crush your appetite, wreck your nutrition, leave you swimming in blankets of overstretched skin, and with regrettable ass jowls.

“Zepbound is for people with obesity.”

Did you catch that? Not for obese people. Or even simply to treat obesity. Nope. Now it seems folks just have it. Like cancer. Like chlamydia. Like the common cold. Because when you have something, someone has what you need for it. If you are something, well, you’re on your own.

Ask your doctor if blowing up your pancreas is right for you.

For what it’s worth, the BMI definition of obese is bullshit. Still, he dwells for effect before sliding to where — at 6’-1” — my weight should be. I crack myself up with the yearly, “See? I’m not overweight. I’m just not tall enough!” He’s never amused. He continues a benign, canned lecture. “Eat better, eat at better times, get moving, keep playing hockey.” Got it. Currently, my right leg itself is close to my total goal weight so, OK, baby steps. But you want me 190? Not happening.

Until such time as I begin to approach that ludicrous recommended emaciation, I am comforted to know that dudes like me can probably leverage the more lenient language that has emerged amongst our XX counterparts in the past decade. Maybe we’re just…curvy. Maybe we have curves.

Because to call me and my bros “fat” or “overweight” or “a house” would constitute the aforementioned body-shaming and we will not abide that. Don’t dare say our size is unhealthy. We cannot suggest it’s anything other than glandular and “just the way we are,” or that we “carry ourselves differently.” Of course, there are some folks who do have weight-increasing medical issues — hypothyroidism, Cushing syndrome, insulin-resistance, hormonal disorders — but that’s nowhere near lying majority who claim one or more to be their thing. So, let’s maybe stop diminishing the real medical struggles that real women and men have by applying them to so many, so recklessly, ‘K? K.

Where does it end? The deceit, the lying, the language cure. At what age? Because as we age, it becomes harder and harder to shed the love-hate handles. We cannot ignore the undeniable fact that if you think about it, you never really see really old, really fat folks.

When you watch the local news celebrating a resident’s 100th birthday or a remaining World War II veteran’s 80th wedding anniversary, how do they look? Look at your own over-80 grandparents and parents. They look great. They’re thin. Sure, they’re wrinkled by the years of lost collagen, their ears are larger, everything hangs lower, and their bingo wings flap in a good breeze but they are alive and thriving as they’ve earned it because they didn’t roll into their 70s “curvy.” We lie to people to not hurt their feelings and all we do, ironically, is hurt.

So here I am outing myself; publicly halting the lies I’ve been telling myself. I welcome the shame almost as much as the honesty of locker room chirps from teammates asking me to bring a bigger towel next week. Assholes.

“Curves” is a stolen word. Until yesterday, it was the gold standard, remember that? Curves referred to the traditional hourglass shape that’s been admired since Mansfield and Monroe, sought-after by Mean Girls and the nice ones, pushed by every female-focused business, and resented by every XX who gives a not-at-all-subtle up and down when another chick walks into a room. See how the language game works? They not only pivot from the issue (obesity), but they also assign a new word that has forever meant the opposite of what is being described. And yeah, I said chicks. No one complained when the Fonz said it. So, zip it, Joanie. I’m taking the Gen X dispensation.

There is no shape-shift equivalent curvy word for guys. We’re just fat. Lardasses. I’m partial to fat bastards. At least oversized pre-pubescent boys are given the benefit of potential and called husky. 1970s Sears had a husky department, for chrissakes. Eric Cartman insists he’s big-boned and we crack up. Because it’s pretty damned funny. Guys are easily amused. And dumb. It’s fun.

If someone tells me I’m out of shape, I agree, then counter with, “Yeah? Well, round is a shape.” Hilarity ensues. But knowing the superficial means nothing and that real, measurable health means everything, I’ve grown to appreciate the annual weight lecture from my doc — even as polite lying society says curves are healthy. I even roll with it (dad-pun intended) when my dear, sweet, filterless mother-in-law makes an innocent, passive comment about my “impressive” calves. Or, as I like to call them, my ground thighs. I chuckled when my smart-ass buddy’s wise-ass son wondered aloud whether I would be able to fit in the seat next to him at a hockey game. Fair question. Punk.

Look, 6-1, 250-something makes a kick-ass NFL linebacker, but I suspect I’m not quite as lean as that 25-year-old in beast mode. My BMI is not a lost cause, but it had been trending in a dangerous direction. Now, I’m on it. I’m aware that as we age, we also shrink and that height:weight ratio gets wonkier. So, I have that going for me. Which is…not nice.

Now, after the annual dressing down, I am a man with a plan. Somewhere in the attic is a still-sealed corrugated time capsule labeled “<210” — the clothes that will fit again when I reverse into that goal weight scribbled in eternal Sharpie shame.

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So, yeah. It’s said that the first step in solving a problem is owning it. That elusive honesty, though, can also be the first casualty of the process. So, the problem persists. Procrastination replaces action. Excuses extend deadlines.

It’s easiest to just follow the old adage, if at first you don’t succeed…re-define success.™

We all know someone. There’s the booze hound who “can quit any time” he wants. The smoker who promises her kids this is her last pack. The FanDuel junkie who’s positive about this thousand-dollar, 4-leg parlay.

But hardly anywhere is the self-defeating dance of deceit more prominent than with weight loss. “Once the weather turns warmer, I’m getting back on my bike.” “Right after Thanksgiving, I’m only eating salads.” Dry January, my ass. Liar. Beer counts.

As you read this, you’ve thought of at least a half-dozen people.

For the love, people, listen to your doctors. Stop taking medical cues and cures from pop stars, insufferable influencers, and their followers. I guarantee you that your doctor has never celebrated your stunning and brave comfort in your own skin. I know mine hasn’t. Thanks, doc.