The holidays are a time of joy and happiness. Where you hang out with your family and eat turkey and dressing, sweet potatoes and marshmellows, pecan and pumpkin pie. It's the most wonderful time.. of the year. That is, unless you're a post-pubescent fat kid like me.
Post-pubescent fat kid: One who was basically born fat, and lived his or her childhood wearing "Husky" jeans only to find out later that "Husky" jeans were the basically the Big and Tall of the children's section. He or she capitalized on the fact that you could buy an entire pack of little debbie cakes for 99 cents in stores and would promptly destroy the whole box. In it's worse case, the post-pubescent fat kid buys a container of cake icing and eats it out the can with a spoon. He or she was told that he would "grow out of that baby-fat phase when he hits puberty," only to never see that day materialize. (Merriam Webster 2010)
The problem with being a PPFK, is that unless you are one, you don't know what it's like to BE one. Sure, everyone likes to have that piece of pie. But do you constantly contemplate "If I don't move now, then someone will eat my share. Therefore, I will eat one piece now, and one piece when it's appropriate to eat dessert."
All I do is wonder in that guilty moment of sneaking in to eat pie, all alone, while I knew everyone was away, who else does this?
But it's the aftermath that frustrates me. Again, back to the jeans. Why do the not make size 35 jeans? They make 32, 33, 34, and 36 jeans. Why not 35? I'm not a 34 or a 36. If I wear 36's I look like I'm thuggin it and lovin' it. If I wear 34's I muffin top like a can of newly opened biscuts. Now I either have to work out heavy or tighten my belt to where the back of my jeans do that socially awkward fold over thingy where the pants are lower then the belt.
Everyone says "just eat in moderation..." There's a better chance of my 9 week old son standing up and reciting the Gettysburg address then me "eating in moderation..." That's not true. I DO eat in moderation. But I eat in moderation TEN TIMES A DAY.
I can't wait until Christmas. I'll get all new work out equipment and clothing (most likely from my wife. Sort of her gentle *push* to get me back to my dating weight) Which is fair, because really, if you looked at a picture of us when we were dating and look at us now, you would think "that was false advertisement."
Course, usually the cliche' fits, and the PPFKs are those that have the "Best personalities," and as such are invited to numerous Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. Causing the vicious cycle to continue........
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 1, 2010
I carried a watermelon...
I didn't carry a watermelon, but I figured it was better then my original title.
This last weekend I was at my brother's house. It was super early in the morning and my son clearly had a diaper in need of changing. After Heather's gentle nudge telling me it was MY turn to change the diaper, I sluggishly got out of bed to fulfil my fatherly duty.
So I placed him on the ground because we obviously didn't bring our changing table. What I SHOULD have done is put down one of those portable plastic changing stations. I didn't. So after the first wet-wipe, my morning took a HUGE turn for the worse.
While I was wiping his little booty, he pooted. I'm OK with that, kinda was just like "aww man, you pooted right at me." But then I could tell... he had that stressed "oh I'm SO about to poop" look. PLEASE, SON, PLEASE NOOOO!
It was too late. It was coming. He was about to drop a bomb on the carpet of my brother's guest bedroom. What was I to do??? I reacted. And CAUGHT IT before it hit the carpet. That's right. in my hand. Then in the still darkness, crap...in...my...hand. Heather only leaned up to say "Paul, watch your language."
THEN, since his diaper was being changed in that cool room where the air could get to his man parts, he began to pee. AS IF this couldn't be worse. So What do I do? React. And catch it in the hand which now holds poo. NOW I have this hand full of newly liquified poop. It was bad enough to where I could POUR into the diaper on the ground next to him. He, being empty, is now asleep again leaving me with this to contemplate alone.
The only thing I could think is "This is now my life. For-ev-er."
So as you see, "I carried a watermelon" is a better then the title "I had poop...in my hands."
This last weekend I was at my brother's house. It was super early in the morning and my son clearly had a diaper in need of changing. After Heather's gentle nudge telling me it was MY turn to change the diaper, I sluggishly got out of bed to fulfil my fatherly duty.
So I placed him on the ground because we obviously didn't bring our changing table. What I SHOULD have done is put down one of those portable plastic changing stations. I didn't. So after the first wet-wipe, my morning took a HUGE turn for the worse.
While I was wiping his little booty, he pooted. I'm OK with that, kinda was just like "aww man, you pooted right at me." But then I could tell... he had that stressed "oh I'm SO about to poop" look. PLEASE, SON, PLEASE NOOOO!
It was too late. It was coming. He was about to drop a bomb on the carpet of my brother's guest bedroom. What was I to do??? I reacted. And CAUGHT IT before it hit the carpet. That's right. in my hand. Then in the still darkness, crap...in...my...hand. Heather only leaned up to say "Paul, watch your language."
THEN, since his diaper was being changed in that cool room where the air could get to his man parts, he began to pee. AS IF this couldn't be worse. So What do I do? React. And catch it in the hand which now holds poo. NOW I have this hand full of newly liquified poop. It was bad enough to where I could POUR into the diaper on the ground next to him. He, being empty, is now asleep again leaving me with this to contemplate alone.
The only thing I could think is "This is now my life. For-ev-er."
So as you see, "I carried a watermelon" is a better then the title "I had poop...in my hands."
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