Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Flabbiness

When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for people to discard the hope of successfully dieting and exercising, and to consume the culinary blessings of the earth, the delicious yet fattening array of burgers and fried chicken which the laws of Ronald McDonald and Colonel Sanders entitle us, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that we should declare the causes which impel us to the separation. 

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all chubby men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of flabbiness.

The other night while paying the monthly bills[1] I noticed that I've been throwing away $85 a month on a "fat tax," or as it's more commonly known, a "gym membership."  When we moved into our new home last April, I signed the family up for membership in the local country club, including use of the pool, gym, dining hall, and an assortment of other amenities, all for the very reasonable price of the aforementioned eighty-five bucks.  It seemed like quite a bargain at the time, and it would've been, if not for one minor detail.  I never go.

I shouldn't say "never."  In truth, I've been to the gym exactly three times, and that includes stopping by on my way home from work to get my picture taken for the membership card.  But I can't bring myself to just quit because that would be like, well, quitting.  I cling desperately to my gym membership as a way to convince myself there's still hope, the same way a jilted husband refuses to take off his wedding ring even though his slutty ex-wife dumped him years ago and is currently humping her way through the entire starting lineup of the San Diego Chargers[2].  Time to let go, man, it's over.

My self-delusion can be fairly persuasive, but let's face it, I'm not fooling anybody, least of all myself.  Even if I could work up the motivation to hit the gym two or three times a week, there would still be the other four or five days to contend with.  And, if history tells us anything, those remaining days would be festooned with In-N-Out burgers, stuffed-crust pizza, KFC and Subway (Jared can go screw himself, there's nothing healthy about the foot-long Italian BMT with the works).  There's nothing more frustrating than busting your butt in the gym for two days and then throwing it all away on a Ben and Jerry's binge.  It makes you wonder, "why the hell did I waste all that time working out?"

So here's how I justify all this, in case you were wondering.  I'm forty-five years old, and in a committed, happy relationship, so I don't have to worry about impressing chicks with my chiseled physique.  Which works out just fine because my physique isn't chiseled at all.  It's molded out of Play-doh.  Also, while I'm admittedly overweight, you wouldn't necessarily look at me and think, "damn, look at that fat guy."  "Look at the bald guy," sure.  "Look at that goofy dude over there," absolutely.    But at this point, I don't believe "fat" is my primary defining characteristic.  So I've got some wiggle room here.

Which is why I've decided to stop beating myself up over not exercising as much as I should (how's that for understatement?), and sticking to a diet plan that could best be described as "tasty, enjoyable, and won't kill me for at least fifteen more years."  I mean, seriously, when you enjoy burgers as much as I do, you're not going to get over the bar unless you set it pretty darn low.

But I haven't completely given up just yet.  I'll continue to pay the "fat tax" as long as I have to, and maybe someday I'll find the motivation to start working out and eating right.

Then again, you know how many Double-Doubles you can get for $85 a month?


[1] I mean this literally, it's not a euphemism for "it's my significant other's time of the month."

[2] Offense, defense AND special teams.  Even the kicker, a five foot seven Scandinavian guy whose last name contains no vowels.


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