I’m a fat man. I have been almost all my life.
Like many overweight Americans, I have been a victim of crimes against fatness: mean spirited remarks about my health, dirty looks of amazement at my belly’s girth, being called names like fatty, fat boy and bubble butt.
I’ve tried to lose weight. Earlier this year I was working out, trying to shed the pounds and strained a stomach muscle lifting weights.
Still, I’m fat. I have skinny friends, though.
One of them is Josh. He’s the type that was slightly overweight, exercised and got skinny again. Afterward, like many Americans overly passionate about physical perfection, he wanted the world to tell him how skinny he was and he wanted me to be just like him.
Josh ran sprints so I also had to run them. He did 30 minutes on the step-climbing machine and wanted me to do the same
I’m fat. I probably have put too much emphasis on gaining muscle instead of losing weight.
See, my friend Peter and I were exercising earlier this year: mainly bench press, shoulder muscle and squat drills. It was a great time because between sets we talked about life, politics, girls and philosophy.
I was still fat, though. I was, however, having fun with my workout routines until someone messed it up.
Josh would always interrupt us during our workouts, usually preceded by an annoying laugh:
“Guys, have I lost weight?” asked Josh, looking into the mirrors on the gym walls. “Guys, you spend too much time lifting! You’re not going to lose any weight that way.”
I was fat and Josh had to remind me. Then he led me down the road of destruction.
Josh had me run sprints with him two days after my muscle strain, which strained it even more. As a result, I could barely bend, breath, walk or talk without cramping.
In spite of all this, Josh still needed me to drive him home, which I did while swerving to the side of the road whenever my stomach cramps flared up. After we got to Josh’s house, he wanted to go inside so he didn’t get locked out — leaving me behind!
Luckily, he called my parents who then decided to call an ambulance.
Now I was fat and helpless.
After sliding me out my car’s front seat, the paramedics took me to a hospital. For five days I was home bound and never got my exercise routine going again.
Such is the result of an overly eager health conscious American — full of himself and his ideas on physical fitness — tries to conform a fat man to his concept of perfection.
I’m fat. Thanks for reminding me, Josh.
Brian Cuaron is a junior English major and an assistant city editor for the Daily Forty-Niner.
