We don’t usually do dessert in this house, but as a treat tonight Tracey made us all ice-cream cones with sprinkles. I enjoyed mine so much I had a second helping.
Tracey, as always the voice of calm reason, said, “You’ll get fat.”
From one more little bitty ice-cream? Trouble is, trying to tell me what to do is like waving a red flag at a bull. I took another bite of my ice cream. A little name calling wasn’t going to stop me.
“He’s already fat,” chipped in a grinning Master6. Well, that hurts. He’s a cheeky bugger, my youngest son. But at least he’s fair and equitable with his criticism he told Tracey she had a big butt the other day. Naturally, Tracey reigned him; we don’t call it a big butt around here, it’s her J-Lo.
Like my family, big business doesn’t help my big self-image either. Forget all the beautiful people they photograph in magazines, what’s the deal with washing powder these days? A lot of my shirts are shrinking a size after only one season. And in case you’re thinking it must be me, I bought myself a pullover the other day and was shocked to find I needed a XXL instead of a L. When did the sizing criteria change? Is this even legal?
The bugger with weight gain is it really sneaks up on you. We have pictures up on our wall cruel, cruel pictures of when we got married and we look hot. That was only eleven years ago, almost to the day. And in my head that’s still how I see us. It’s only when I see a photo of myself and I have a moment of ‘who’s that?’ that it hits me how far from perfection I’ve strayed.
Of course, Tracey still looks the same to me, although possibly in part due to the benefits of makeup and my decaying eyesight.
Not that I worry about how I look (cough) but it would be nice to have someone take my photo without me having to think ‘chin out!’
I used to watch videos on the telly about liposuction and be shaking my head that people didn’t just diet and exercise. Now I just wonder about the cost and recovery time.
To give myself a small morsel of credit, I’m trying not to deep fry everything and I’ve started riding a bike to work most days. My good wife wacked me on the bum the other day and then complained because it hurt her hand. All this bike riding is really starting to pay off – I have buns of steel. Plus I’m on the light cheese, the light milk and the light beer. The weight will be falling off me. Anytime now.
And all this is good and well to wish for, except that tonight I’m eating ice-cream.
Unlike cheeky Master6, Miss4’s 3 minute rant (would have been longer but I stopped her when I realized she had no intention of letting it go) was nothing but her honest observation of the man she most looks up to and admires. Me.
“Yeah, he’s fat,” she said, looking me up and down critically before agreeing with Master6. “You’re fat dad. You’re not just fat, you’re SUPERfat. You’re fatter than mum. You’re fatter than grandad. You’re fatter than Santa. Superfat you are. You’re really, really, really, really fat dad.”
This is merely a summary of her tirade – there was also the specific naming of my fattiest body parts and comment on the likelihood something is actually growing in my stomach. So thank you, little Miss Observant.
Not that I let it affect me at all. I only fed the rest of my cone to the dog because it had started to leave a bad taste in my mouth 😉