I told myself that if I complained about my 171-pound weight in a column, I might seem vain and ridiculous. Then I came to an important realization: I weigh 182 pounds.
This is a crisis. How did this happen? I tried all the weight-loss tricks: Bending my knees so the scale’s dial settles somewhere lighter; stepping off to make sure the red line lines up with zero; getting naked and breathing out really hard.
But it’s official: I’m overweight.
I’ve gained 60 pounds in 10 years, slowly, inexorably, like an ever-encroaching wave of zombies. I might shoot a cheeseburger between the eyes, but there’s an ice cream cone right behind him, heading straight for my mid-section.
What if it doesn’t stop? At this rate, I’ll die weighing 380 pounds. The funeral director will have to refill the embalming fluid — one final time that I’ll be the cause of an empty keg.
I know I’m not fat. I have overweight friends who would eat me whole if I even suggested it. (And if anyone fat finds that offensive, well, try to catch me.)
What can I say? I’m vain. First of all, I’m in Toronto, where there are no fat people. Or at least they all stay inside, ashamed that they can’t fit into our over-packed streetcars.
Second, I’m single. That automatically adds 35 pounds when you look in the mirror. They’re only love handles if there’s somebody to hold them.
And every married person knows the deal is you raise kids, grow gardens, and expand mid-sections. This gives you a nice protective cushion when you don’t eat for the first two months after the divorce.
I need to lose weight and here’s how: Make more money.
No, I’m not paying for a nip and tuck.
My latest 10 pounds were largely due to unemployment. It’s the ultimate testament to our society that poverty and weight gain go hand in hand. Something’s wrong when fruit costs more than fast food.
In the near future, you’ll need a layaway plan to buy raspberries, while promotional cheeseburgers will be handed out at street corners by women in tight shirts. (Their shirts are tight because everybody’s fat.)
But now that I’m employed, I’ll be able to buy all the healthy food I need to counter the Zombie Armageddon.
Or maybe I should eat less and exercise more — speaking of horrific futures.
John Mazerolle is a comic and writer in Toronto. Read more at www.beaverexaminer.ca